Page 10 of Stealing Sophie
“Where are you taking me?”
He tugged at the rope and moved forward. Sophie had no choice but to follow or fall to her knees. She stumbled along, glaring at his back. The leash was less than a yard long, but as she moved with him, mist drifted between her and the outlaw.
“My kinsmen will find me—if you have not murdered them all.”
“I do not do murder,” he snapped.
“You steal women and drown men. You betray your friends.”
“I never,” he said, “betray friends.”
Did he feel insulted, this brigand? She was too angry to care. “You will have no more chance to betray anyone else. Allan!” she called out. “Donald! Help–I am here! Up here!” Her words rang out clearly.
The Highlander spun, pressed his hand over her mouth, pulled her close in one swift motion. His comrade hurried toward them, speaking Gaelic so rapidly she could not pick a word out of it. Her captor snapped an answer, then drew from his sporran the damp cloth he had earlier used to comfort her. Now he gagged her mouth with it, tying its ends at the back of her neck.
Sophie spewed muffled protests, glaring at him in outrage.
He inclined his head politely and turned away, the leash looped around his wrist.
The other Highlander, Neill, a sinewy older man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a scruffy beard, spoke sharply. Clearly, he disapproved of rope and gag. Her own Highlander—the brigand, the thief—gave a curt reply. The men went on murmuring in Gaelic, while Sophie strained to understand.
“Priest,” the older man said, “waits with Roderick. Ceremony...”
She had grown up around Gaelic speakers, kin and servants in the household at Duncrieff Castle, but had heard it infrequently since her father’s exile from Scotland. She could grasp only some of their rapid speech: they mentioned a priest again.
A frisson of alarm slipped through her. Priests and masses were kept hidden even now in the Highlands, where Catholics like her own family still lived. But this pack of rogues, even if they were of the Roman faith, would not be confessing sins or attending Mass in the middle of the night.Ceremony,the man had said.
Perhaps the Highlander meant to deliver her to a man who schemed to become her husband. Had Sir Henry Campbell ordered this? Her heart pounded with dread and rising anger.
At Kinnoull House earlier that night, she had not dared reveal how much she hated the idea of marrying Sir Henry—she had been so concerned for her brother’s fate that she did not want to risk it. But Campbell might have deduced her feelings from the way she avoiding his glances, his touch. Her clan desperately needed the local magistrate’s cooperation to help their young chief, who had been arrested a fortnight earlier on vague charges. Espionage, Sir Henry had hinted. Treachery of some sort. Although in her heart Sophie did not doubt some form of that behavior in her brother, she knew it was wise to keep her suspicions and fears to herself.
“That priest,” said the tall Highlander in Gaelic. “I know him. Best hurry.”
They were in a rush—that might involve money for this task, she thought. If the magistrate had sensed her reluctance and the repulsion she felt toward him, he might have decided to force the marriage on his terms and hired these thugs.
“Pleezh,” she managed around the gag. “No preesht! No preesht!”
The Highlanders stopped to stare at her. Her captor reached out to tug her gag down. “What?”
“No priest!”
“You have more Gaelic than I thought.”
“Then be careful what you say,” she snapped.
He pulled the gag up again and spoke again to the other man, their discussion too fast for her to follow. She listened for the magistrate’s name—Campbell—but did not hear it. She recalled the man’s cold, fishy hand on hers, his tight smile and gimlet eyes. Surely Campbell had arranged for her abduction when she and her party left Kinnoull House that night.
She could think of no other explanation. Why would the Highland brigand plan this himself? Did he know of her brother? Did he think Duncrieff’s sister would be a wealthy catch, related to a clan chief? That was laughable. Robert MacCarran of Duncrieff had only modest means and currently sat in a Perth jail with a threat of treason on his head. Forfeiture of possessions was the likely result, if not worse.
She gasped as another thought occurred to her. With her free hand, she reached for the small pendant at her throat, a sparkling bit of smoky crystal set in a tiny silver cage on a silver chain. The ancient stone had been given to an ancestor by a fairy, so they said, a very long time ago. It embodied a family legend that claimed that the stone had power and protection, and would bring luck and love to its owner if clan tradition was honored.
The little crystal, along with the supposed touch of fairy blood in her veins, bound her to an unspoken and ancient promise. She could marry only for true love—so said the legend of Duncrieff. Bad fortune would come to her and her clan otherwise. The well-being and future of Clan Carran depended on honoring the old promise and using the fairy stone wisely. Only some had the privilege to wear it. As the eldest daughter in the chief’s family, and as one who had shown the fairy gift as a child, she had been given this one to wear. If she married for love, it was said, the tiny crystal could affect one miracle should that love be in jeopardy. But if the legend was not honored, the fairy power might wreak havoc.
With good reason that she could not explain to others, Sophie knew she could not marry Sir Henry Campbell. Surely he father must have known that when he had promised her hand to Campbell. He must have had a reason for his decision, though he had died too soon—she never had a chance to ask. But she knew true love could never exist with Sir Henry. The stone’s curse would touch them all.
Nor could she marry a Highland stranger who stole her away and dragged her to a priest. That was far from true love. Not knowing which would be worse, a forced marriage to Sir Henry or a brigand, she shuddered.
Touching the cool stone, she sought comfort in its familiarity. It felt different somehow, as if it shimmered like a night star. She glanced down, saw a hint, a glimmer of light, on her fingers. But the stones of Duncrieff only came to life, said the legend, in the presence of real and lasting love. Since that could not be the case, what was it?
