Page 12 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 4
Holding the rope taut, Connor led the girl along the crest of another hill. The way was rough, studded with rock, exposed to wind, steep in places. But it was the safest track to avoid pursuit.
She struggled behind him, fuming at times, but uncomplaining. He admired her spirit. He had removed her gag, worried that it compromised her breathing. For the most part, she had stayed quiet, no doubt with little air to spend on words.
“How are you faring?” He stopped to give them both a moment to rest.
She shot him a sour glance. “On my feet and following. What more do you want?”
“You sicked up earlier. I am concerned. Not heartless, though you may think it.”
“I do think it.”
Connor grunted and turned, tugging on the rope, but more gently.
Here, the mist had nearly dissipated, though it filled the bowl of the glen below. Clouds drifted over the moon, high overhead. Soon there might be rain, Connor thought. He turned to walk backward for a bit, watching over her progress, setting an easy pace.
She looked like a Renaissance angel, dark cloak fanning out like wings, amber gown with its snug bodice and billowy skirts like shots of flame. The pendant at her throat sparkled like a star.
She was delicate, this girl, built slim and pale, her feet small in pointed shoes that must be beastly uncomfortable on this terrain. Flaxen curls haloed her head and framed the perfect oval of her face, her large gray-blue eyes, the plump swell of her lips, and that stubborn chin. He had not expected Katherine MacCarran to be an utter beauty.
To be exact, he had not thought about it. He had never met her in person, though he had seen her from a distance and thought her bonny. Her brother was a handsome lad and no doubt; a sister could eclipse that easily. Connor had seen Kate MacCarran across a market square one afternoon last year—a pretty thing, slight and neatly made, golden-haired. He had avoided meeting her to keep them both safe, as he was involved in clandestine activities—and her brother had hinted she might be too.
But he had not expected such heart-stopping beauty. In that gown, she was like a pure flame. Something about the girl stirred desire in him like an ember’s spark.
He reminded himself rather sternly that he was only here because MacCarran’s sister was a hellion, and her brother wanted her married off for her protection. Against his better judgment, Connor had agreed.
But she was a glittering angel and he was no better than a demon to do this.
At the top of another hill, Connor paused and reached out a hand to help her up. Her breaths sounded rapid and wheezy. Frowning, he considered.
“Take off your stays,” he ordered.
She pressed her free arm over her chest and tried to pull away. “For love of God, at least wait for the priest!”
“He does not care whether or not you wear stays,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding. “Take them off.” He reached out, fingers searching behind her, looking for ties, ribbons, tiny hooks.
“I will not!”
“How do you loosen these damn things,” he muttered, groping at the overlap between the stiffer bodice and wide, soft gathers of the skirt, and finding them joined. He snatched next at the tiny hooks that fastened up the back of the dress, while she writhed and gasped.
“Stop! This is a savage thing to do!”
Cursing himself for frightening her unnecessarily, he blasted out a sigh. “Then take the damned stays off yourself, or loosen them. You cannot breathe, lass. Here,” he said, drawing his dirk from its sheath at his belt.
“No!” She squirmed as he held her by the waist.
“Keep still. I am not threatening your virtue.”
“But you have a knife!”
“Every Highland man has a knife. Be easy. I am only trying to help—there!” He ripped through some lower stitches. A knot broke, lacings loosened. He pulled at them. “Officially, we are only allowed the dull knives that King George permits us to use for eating our peas. Or so the English think,” he added, yanking again.
“Let me do that. You are ruining it.” She reached back with her free hand, still roped to Connor, and worked the seams and lacings free in some mysterious feminine way. A gap opened at the back. She drew a deep breath. Another. “Oh! That is better.”
As she turned, he caught a glimpse of the pale, smooth skin of her back. There was something so sensual, yet so vulnerable, in it that a lightning strike sank through him. Not lust. Something else. A protective and compassionate urge.Stop,he thought.
“There,” he said. “That is better.”
