Page 1 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 1
Love makes its own magic.
Inscription on the Fairy Cup of Duncrieff
Scotland, Perthshire - Spring, 1728
Connor heard their approach long before they appeared. Thick fog and darkness obscured the glen and the hills, and sounds seemed distorted. But now he heard the jangle of bridles, the creak of leather, the thud of hoof beats on the old drover’s track. The escort party, surely.
His heart thudded, knowing the long wait for this day was nearly over. He clenched the basket hilt of his sheathed sword, breath quickening. Katherine Sophia MacCarran–Kate, they called her–would soon be his bride, snatched without warning, married swiftly. The marriage must be made thus, whether either of them wanted it. The folded paper tucked inside his shirt mentioned her name and his together, the note signed by Kate MacCarran’s brother, laird of Duncrieff, chief of Clan Carran.
He would honor Duncrieff’s request no matter what it was. He had caused Rob MacCarran, his friend, to be captured and imprisoned. Rumor said that the man had died just days ago.
The pain of it cut deeper than Connor MacPherson could even admit.
Striding ahead, silent footsteps crushing brown grass and old heather, he glanced back at his two companions. They followed like graceless bears, their belted plaids, pale shirts, and faces blurred in the shadows and mist. He saw the gleam of pistols and swords. Weapons were illegal for Highlanders to carry now, so said the English, but he and his men carried nonetheless. It had to be this way.
Slipping behind a tall cluster of ancient stones, Connor waited for his comrades. Bending, he picked up the folded plaid he had stored here earlier in this same spot in anticipation of this night’s work. Tucking the tartan cloth into the generous pocket formed by the folds of his plaid, he turned.
“All is set?” he murmured in Gaelic.
“The ropes are in place,” Neill Murray replied. “And the priest is waiting at the old chapel in the hills.”
Connor nodded, watching ghostly veils move over the glen. Poised to spring like a wild cat, he could not even see his prey in this thick. He scowled as he placed a hand on the cool damp stone.
“This is a mere prank,” said Andrew MacPherson. “We can do worse.”
“We are inviting trouble enough,” Connor told his cousin.
“Surely there are other ways to get a bride,” Neill grumbled.
“None so fast as this,” Connor murmured, watching. Listening.
The chink and creak of saddles and the thud of hooves sounded closer now. As the milky veils drifted apart, he glimpsed the rough ribbon of the drover’s track.
He knew the course of the moorland roads and tracks like the lines of his hand, knew the placement of the two streams that crossed this moor. Even in obscuring mist, he could gauge just where those bridges were, and how long it would take the girl’s escort to reach them.
“Horses,” Neill murmured, as the sound grew louder. “There were two Highlanders on foot, and on horseback, two dragoons escorting the lass and another lady when they left the magistrate’s house.”
“Aye, that is what we saw earlier,” Andrew agreed. “Sir Henry sent the lass home toward Duncrieff Castle with a military escort.”
“Courteous of him,” Connor drawled. “Sink the men, but do not kill them. And spare the ladies. Then be off. If I am caught for bride-stealing, I will hang alone.”
“We are at your back as always, Kinnoull,” said Neill.
Connor felt a bitter tug within.Kinnoull.He still held the title, but no longer the property. Sir Henry Campbell inhabited his house, and that seared like fire in his belly.
Motioning to his companions, he strode forward. He would not crouch—he was too tall a man for it, and too proud. Slipping behind another cluster of rocks, he tipped his head to listen, hearing wind, water, and the thud and clink of the approaching escort. He could feel, almost hear, the thudding of his own heart.
He could still walk away, he told himself, and escape this madness. Kate MacCarran was a fine, bold lass—he had seen her but once, but knew she had fire and spite in her. Duncrieff, her brother, had said she was involved in Jacobite espionage. She would make a good match for an outlaw—though some would say that Connor MacPherson, formerly of Kinnoull, was no fit husband for any bride.
What foolishness, he thought. By rights on a night like this, he should be sitting beside the fireside with a dram and his fiddle, alone with his music, his dreams. But that easy dream was gone, and here he stood, ready to do mayhem. The urge to carry out this deed for loyalty, guilt, and his promise to Duncrieff was stronger even than bitter pride.
The escort party came nearer. Peering through the fog, Connor could see the faint shapes of two Highlanders walking, followed by cloaked women riding, and two dragoons on horses behind them.
He did not want a bride, not yet, not this way. But Duncrieff’s note bound him to an ill-omened promise. Connor MacPherson always kept his word—always, though the man who had exacted this promise was dead. All the more reason to owe him, and the clan, this favor. The girl had to be stolen away and married off, Duncrieff had insisted, before others could interfere and harm her.
Easing around the tall stones, Connor narrowed his eyes, watching. Two wide burns crossed the glen ahead, both spanned by old wooden bridges in need of repair. Through the fog, he saw the escort party approaching the first bridge.
