Sarah Gabriel (9 page)

And that was one more advantage to this marriage arrangement—she would not have to marry Campbell, and she would not have to explain herself the next morning.

Her heart pounded hard and fast. Glancing at the handsome four-poster bed, she imagined what might happen there with this strong and stunning man. A warm velvet ripple of excitement stirred within her. The wild fairy blood that flowed in her veins began to stir.

Her Highlander looked up at her then, but she looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

She fingered her necklace, the crystal cool and delicate to the touch. The Fairy’s Gift prevalent among the MacCarrans of Duncrieff had blessed Katherine Sophia MacCarran, too.

With her fairy blood came a passionate nature, a touch of natural magic, and a powerful urge to give and receive love in any form. Years ago, when her family had spent a summer at the Scottish court at the Muti Palace in Rome, Sophie had been so eager to find true love that she became infatuated with a boy of her own age. Imagining herself completely in love, she trusted too quickly and delighted too well in kisses and arousing caresses. In the palace garden, she had given herself to her beloved friend with enthusiasm and curiosity.

She had only been disappointed, slightly sore, and in dire trouble once her mother found her slipping away one night. Unaware that the deed was already done, Sophie’s parents had sent Sophie to the convent in Bruges for protection, and to finish her education. Kate had been packed off with her, for the younger girl’s nature promised to be even more troublesome.

Both Sophie and her sister bore the Fairy’s Gift of the Duncrieff MacCarrans, unusual abilities that ran in generations of the family. Both wore around their
necks small crystals that were taken from the Fairy Cup of Duncrieff, a golden goblet studded with a band of semiprecious stones. The cup, and the fairy blood, had been given to the family by a fairy ancestress centuries earlier.

Their eyes were a clue to their power—fairy eyes, as the MacCarrans called them. Some were born with pale eyes of extraordinary clarity, blue or green or silver, like translucent slices of sky or sea or crystal. The gift that came with that marker was natural magic—a gift for healing, for growing things, for evoking feelings of love, a charm of voice or music or beauty. In each generation it took on a new form where it appeared.

The tiny crystal focused the power, and reminded the wearer to seek true love for the sake of the lovers, and for the sake of the clan. Love—true, abiding love—nourished and protected Clan Carran and had helped keep it safe and prosperous over the centuries. This was the protective spell of the fairy ancestor who had left the stones, and the cup, with the early MacCarrans.

But Sophie had tapped her magical nature too early, frightening herself with her passionate urges, inviting chaos rather than harmony. She had the gift of growth, for plants and living things flourished around her. She had learned to channel that magical touch into the flowers and plants she had nurtured in the convent gardens.

But to properly use the gift, she had to find true love. Now fate, and this beautiful rogue of a Highlander, had decided who she would marry. The decision that Connor MacPherson—and her own brother, who knew the legends—had inexplicably
made about her life could alter the nature of the Fairy’s Gift irrevocably.

“Look at me, Katherine Sophia,” MacPherson said quietly. He rose to his feet. “You seem deep in your thoughts. Are you frightened, lass?”

Averting her eyes, she shook her head. What she feared was her own heart and the power of her innermost passions. The nuns had taught her that physical passion was sinful, although other passions were perfectly acceptable—prayer and devotion, poetry, music, art, gardening, cooking, even lacemaking—but the powerful, mysterious urges of the body were to be suppressed.

She looked at Connor MacPherson again. She felt his undeniable power, sensed the river of life that ran through him. It was present in his piercing gaze, in his deep, rich voice, in the tender strength of his hands. He had a natural charisma, a kind of magic. She felt her own body answer the force that came from him, responding with a quickening of heart and loins, a stirring of the soul. Something within her wanted desperately to unleash and experience what had been denied for so long.

In a way she
was
afraid. Oh, she was.

“M
ary left some food for us,” Connor said, glad for a distraction. He lifted the cloth from the pewter plate to reveal cheese and oatcakes. “There’s lemonade if you’d like some. Mary guards her sugar carefully, so this is a treat.” He smiled a little, and poured the drink into a pewter tankard, handing it to his bride.

She drank a bit and set it down. He offered her oatcakes and cheese, which she accepted, and mutton slices, which she refused with a shake of her head. He rolled those up and ate them himself.

The girl ate demurely, he noticed, though with good appetite, before rinsing her hands in the little bowl of rosewater that Mary had included on the tray. Wiping her hands on the linen napkin, she sat back in the tapestry chair, while he continued to
stand. The fire felt hot and good at his back.

He rinsed his fingers, too. “They say,” he began as he dried his hands, “that finger bowls are no longer placed on the king’s banquet table in London.”

She looked up. “Why not?”

“Because,” he told her, lifting the tankard of lemonade to wave it over the water bowl, “when a toast to the king is made, those who are loyal to the Stuart cause will be sure to drink to the king…over the water.” He smiled.

She laughed, the sound like the chiming of silver bells. He laughed, too, more from delight in her pretty laughter than for his own small joke.

“And you drink to the king over the water?”

“Always.” He looked at her, puzzled. Surely Kate MacCarran would know where Connor MacPherson stood on that issue. “Duncrieff may have told you of my staunch Jacobite leanings, madam.”

“He has never mentioned you to me, Mr. MacPherson.”

“Never? Odd,” he murmured. “I thought he would have said something.”

“Not that I recall.” She stood, draping her cloak on the chair, her gown shimmering like flame as she moved.

Connor noted her lush shape, her breasts full above the smoothly contoured bodice that tapered to her small waist. Her graceful fingers brushed sensually over the billows of her gown.

God, he thought, she was a vision, brilliant amber and gold, a dazzling jewel dropped into his life. His body surged, demanding that he take her, match her fire to his own. His nostrils flared. The heat in his blood went beyond whiskey, beyond intense physi
cal lust, toward a less definable urge, as if he starved for something he could not name.

She crossed her arms and shivered. “It’s chill in here. Are you not cold, Mr. MacPherson?”

He shook his head, not about to mention the degree of intimate heat he was feeling. “Cold rarely bothers me. I am accustomed to it in the way of a Highlander, I suppose. Plaids are reliably warm most of the time, and a dram or two of whiskey always helps. But if you are uncomfortable, we can build up the fire. And I’ll go down to the kitchen and see if there’s a tin of tea. I promised you that, after all.” He stepped away.

She whirled. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

Her plaintive tone tugged at his heartstrings. “The ghosts will not come knocking while I’m gone,” he said. “I promise. You’re protected here.”

Her quick blush was rosy in the low light. “Perhaps a bit more whiskey will do to warm me for now,” she nodded toward the crystal decanter. “Just a bit.”

He hesitated, certain she had taken enough already. But he poured a little golden whiskey into each of two glasses beside the decanter and handed one to her.

Swirling the liquid in his own glass, he frowned as he thought of the deed yet to be faced. His bride did not love him, nor he her. A consummation would be awkward at best, yet the marriage must be indisputably sealed. There was only one way to ensure that.

He downed another long gulp, the liquid burn sliding down his throat, and set down the glass. He did not seek false courage so much as a blunting of thought and reason.

His bride sipped demurely, coughed, sipped again, coughed so hard that Connor tapped her on the back. He understood how she felt—both of them were girding themselves, he realized.

“Highland whiskey must be approached with respect, madam,” he murmured.

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s quite wretched at first, isn’t it. But then it gives a most lovely warmth.”

“Aye. This is Mrs. Murray’s Highland brew. She cannot make it fast enough to meet the demand in England and France. Her kinsmen smuggle it out as fast as they can manage.”

“You’re a free trader as well as a brigand?”

“No, Mary’s kinsmen are involved in the trading business. Neill Murray, whom you met tonight, is her husband, but he takes no hand in the whiskey trade.” Rebellion, but not smuggling, he almost said.

She sipped, coughed again, and sat so abruptly that Connor moved forward to shove the chair securely beneath her bottom, swathed in yards of gleaming satin.

“Oh!” She fanned herself. “I do feel much warmer.”

He removed the glass. “Any more of that, lass, and you’ll go down like an oak.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. I needed a little…um, forti-fortifying, I think.” Her words were gently slurred.

He needed some fortifying himself. The whiskey had been just enough to warm his blood and nicely blur the edges of reason, but not enough to diminish passion. The hot stirring inside him craved release. Gazing at her, watching her breasts rise inside the shell of that fetching and fiery gown, he felt himself ripen further.

“We’ve both had enough.” He capped the decanter. “You were sick earlier—you don’t want to repeat it.”

“That was before I had any whiskey. I have a finicky stomach.”

“Then we do not want to agitate it. How are you feeling now?”

“Fine. Very fine. I like Mary Murray’s whiskey.”

“Wait till morning.” He cocked a brow.

She looked away. “How is it that you live…stay at Glendoon?”

“I rent the property from your brother.”

“You’re a tenant of Duncrieff? Do you have your own tenants here on this land?”

“A few. I act as a small laird, renting the castle and the land with it.”

“Why would you rent a ruin?”

She did love to question him. “It’s better than a damp outlaw cave, and I can afford it. Your brother asks almost nothing from me in return.”

“In coin,” she said, sending him a quick, keen look.

“In coin,” he acknowledged.

He knelt as he spoke, needlessly rousing the peat embers with the poker. She stepped closer to the fire, her skirts brushing his shoulder.

“My gown is nearly ruined.” She sounded dismayed as she lifted the soggy hems to peer at her feet. “And my shoes. Had I known I was to spend the night hill-walking, I would have worn sturdier shoes.”

He twisted his mouth to suppress a smile. “If you had known, lass, you would have stayed inside Duncrieff Castle, and I would have had to climb up and come in your window.”

She gasped. “Would you have done that?”

“If I had to. But my comrades saw you ride out with your escort. It was still light then, or we would have snatched you before you went to…see Campbell.”

“I should have accepted Sir Henry’s invitation to stay the night at Kinnoull House. I would have been safe there.”

“No,” he growled. “You would not be safe with him, believe me.”

“And I suppose I am safe with you,” she snapped.

“You are.” With the poker, he worked at the embers, which sparked and gave off more heat. “You may want to borrow some clean garments,” he went on, changing the topic to something more neutral.

“I will want my own things…if I stay here.”

He noted the wording. “You’re my wife, madam, not a prisoner, though we’ll keep you safe at Glendoon for a while, according to your brother’s wishes. The chest over there has women’s things in it, though they may be too large for you.” He glanced at her slender form.

“I refuse to wear things that have been used by…other women you have brought here.”

He fixed her with a stern glare. “They belonged to my mother.”

She blinked. “Oh! Where is she?”

“She died a few years ago. You may use her things. No one else does.”

“Thank you.” She was silent for a moment. “But I will need my own possessions. I do not have many things, but I would feel more comfortable if I had them with me.”

“Certainly. I will fetch your trunk from Duncrieff, but not just yet. The local Highland watch
and your kinsmen will be searching for you, and best to keep clear of them. But I will get word to your kinsmen that you are safe. Allan MacCarran knows me.”

She nodded. “I should see my cousins myself so they will know I am safe. Then I can gather my own things at Duncrieff.”

“Oh ho,” he said, “you will not. I’ll fetch them. Just tell me what you need.”

“I am not going to list my intimate garments for you to steal from my home.”

“I’m not a thief. And I’ve seen some of your intimate garments already. Very pretty,” he said, as he jabbed the peat bricks with the poker.

“You would be caught and arrested if you went to Duncrieff. I should think you’d rather hang for stealing a bride than for stealing her undergarments.”

“Hang for a penny, hang for a pound,” he said lightly.

“A pound of laces,” she said, slurring the sounds.

“Even better,” he said. “I will bring your necessary things back for you.”

“H-How?” She hiccuped.

“I have my ways. You’ll need just one trunk, I hope. It’s a long way up this hill.”

“That will do for now. Oh, and we must do something about my potted bulbs.”

He quirked a brow. “Your what?”

“My tulip bulbs, already started. I planted them in pots during the winter to start them early. The leaves are up, though tight, and they will flower soon. I was going to plant them in the garden at Duncrieff.”

“I’ll find a way to snatch your garments, but I’m not going to plant flowers before I leave Duncrieff.”

“Then bring them here and I’ll put them in your flower beds.”

“Flower beds? There are no fancy gardens here.”

“But Mrs. Evans—my maid—may not remember to water them and plant them. She will be too distraught over my disappearance to think of it.”

“No doubt. Your potted bulbs must take their chances, madam.”

“They’ll die unless I plant them there, or here.”

“They’ll definitely die if you plant them here. Nothing grows at Glendoon.”

“That’s silly. Everything grows. Surely you have a kitchen garden or a flower garden.”

“Do you not know your own family legends?”

She touched the silver pendant at her throat that winked like a star. “Le-legends?”

“They say that Castle Glendoon is cursed, that nothing will survive up here, not a weed, not a flower, nor even the castle’s inhabitants, madam.” He shot her a dark look.

“I remember something—but it’s nonsense. There are grasses and buttercups in the meadow outside the castle. And you live here,” she pointed out. “How long have you survived at Glendoon?”

“A little more than a year.”

“Well, then,” she said.

“Nonetheless, there may be some truth to it. The ground up here is barren—mostly rock covered by poor, thin soil. Nothing grows but the toughest heather and gorse.” He stabbed at the fire and made a shower of sparks. “At any rate, I’ll fetch laces but not tulips. And you may borrow whatever you need in the meantime from that trunk over there.”

She nodded wearily, then stretched her arms to
warm her hands before the fire. Kicking off her shoes, stumbling a bit, she lifted her skirts to expose her feet and ankles to the warmth.

He watched her, heated by the sheer sight of her. Keen excitement coursed through him. If he allowed his body to dictate events, very shortly his marriage to Kate MacCarran would be indisputable.

His bride combed her fingers through her tangled hair and raised her arms to sweep the skein over her shoulder in a shower of gold and honey.

Desire shot through him, crown to root. He wanted to touch her hair, her creamy skin, wanted to remove every stitch of her damp clothing and warm her, body and soul, against him. The very thought of loving her made the blood steam in his veins. But he was not a brute, he told himself, though she felt the need to fortify herself with whiskey.

Studying the lovely slender profile of her waist and bodice, he saw her waver where she stood. The girl had a better head for whiskey than he thought, but she was showing the effects of it now. She was drunk, and no doubt. He wished he was a bit more sodden himself.

“Is this your bedchamber?” she asked. “Will you sleep here…or elsewhere?”

He sighed, then stood. He reached out and took her arm to draw her toward him. She watched him like a lamb regarding a wolf. He brushed back the golden curls that edged her brow.

Turning her around by the shoulders, he began to work the fastenings at the back of her dress. It was time, he told himself. His heart thumped like a drum.

Earlier he had ripped through the back waist with
the tip of his knife, ignoring in the darkness the small hooks that closed the back seams. Now he carefully eased each hook from its tiny loop and pushed the gown off her shoulders. He would give her a few moments, this way, to think. To accept.

She said nothing, made no protest, only ducked her head, resting her hands at her waist. The splendid satiny thing was in one piece, bodice and skirt, he saw, as he slid it down farther, over her slender arms to her waist.

Beneath it she wore boned stays over a long chemise, and over that a quilted petticoat and another of dark embroidered fabric that showed between the front panels of the skirt. With the bodice dropped away, her back and shoulders emerged, the skin like cream and honey in the firelight. Her tousled hair, a mass of waves and golden curls, slipped over one shoulder. Her neck, small and exposed, had a touching vulnerability somehow.

He leaned down to kiss the back of her neck softly, felt the warmth of her beneath his lips, felt her shiver slightly. She wavered again, and he felt her lean a little against the support of his hand on her waist.

Aye, he thought, she was a bit sodden, and it was his doing, for he had given her the whiskey with half the thought in mind that it would not only warm and revive her when she needed it, but lessen the shock of what was to come. Stolen away, wedded and bedded in one night—not easy for any woman, or for her abductor and groom, though he would not let on. A little whiskey in her blood was a good thing just now, though he would not force her if she refused. But her behavior told him that she would allow him to touch her, to do what he would.