Page 13 of Stealing Sophie
“Can you fasten the back of my dress?” Under the cloak, she was pulling her sleeves up as they slid down over creamy shoulders. “Please, sir. I cannot manage this beastly climb with my gown hanging off me. Though I am glad you made me loosen it, I admit. But do not have any other thoughts about it,” she added.
“You needed to breathe. That is all,” he muttered, more comfortable with her warning than her gratitude. “Turn around.”
She drew her cloak out of the way so that he could join some of the hooks and eyes in the moonlight, leaving a long gap where the stays were loose.
The sight of her slender curves went through his groin like an arrow this time. He tugged her cloak over her and stepped back, glad for a blast of cool air coming up under his plaid. Tugging on the rope, he turned to move ahead.
“Hurry,” he said gruffly. “We must go faster. There is little time.”
“You are a beast,” she muttered behind him, gratitude forgotten.
“If you are bothered about the dress, I will buy you another.”
“You would have to steal a lot of cows to pay for a French gown.”
“Cattle,” he corrected. “I would have to steal a lot of cattle.”
He led her along the shoulder of the next hill, sparing them both a steeper climb. They walked in silence, while inwardly he steamed.
Beast—aye, he thought. He was the worst of rogues to drag a lass over the hills and force her into marriage. His behavior was savage, his treatment of her inexcusable. And as a husband, he had little to offer a wife and did not want to be reminded of it.
“Where are we going?”
“Not far now.”
Behind him, she stumbled, nearly lost her balance. He reached back to catch her safe, then took her hand with its bracelet of rope slung between them.
She accepted his grasp. “Thank you.”
He scowled. He deserved no thanks for what he’d done, what he planned. “For a hellion, you’re a polite wee thing,” he said.
“Hellion?” She laughed. “Me?”
He huffed and kept her hand snug in his, the rope swinging between them.
His unflagging stamina was annoying. “Slow down,” Sophie said. “My feet hurt.”
“You are doing well. The way is not so bad now.”
“You are not climbing mountains in corsets and skirts and dancing shoes. I wish I had a simple plaid and a pair of leather brogans.”
He glanced at her. “Aye. You would look fine in those. Take off the corsets if you like. The skirt too if you please. You would have more freedom in your shift and underskirt, I think. But leave the dancing shoes. Your feet are not tough enough for these hills.”
“None of me is tough enough for these hills. Slow down,” she said. “Just let me go, and I will find my way home, and we shall forget this ever happened.”
He stopped, turned. “Miss MacCarran,” he said slowly. “I cannot let you go. It is only a bit farther now, I promise. I always keep my promises,” he added.
“Then promise to leave me be.” She was hopeful, but he ignored her plea.
Instead of leading her by the rope now, he set an arm about her shoulders to lend support. At first, she resisted, but his strength buttressed her. He felt like a shield, and the calmness he exuded was strangely reassuring.
Once again, she thought of some dark angel, handsome and compelling, his robust height imposing. He moved with the grace and power of a stag on a rill, at ease with the natural world. He was part and parcel of this place.
And she was tripping along in satins and lace and stays, in little slippers now falling apart at the soles, her feet uncertain on rocks and hills. She was used to gardens and graveled walks, to nicely appointed rooms, to peaceful chapels. But step by step, she was learning. And she felt something freeing in it, something liberating and exhilarating about this night.
She tugged on the rope. He looked at her, smiled quickly. A nice smile, unguarded, then smothered. What sort of beast was he to take her away so roughly and without explanation, yet show hints of kindness? She could not fathom it.
A savage Highlander by appearance, with ruthless behavior, he revealed little hints, intriguing layers in his character. He spoke like an educated man, showed her small courtesies, taking her hand to help her over rocks or runnels of water as if she descended a carriage or climbed a stair. He slipped an arm around her shoulders whenever she tottered on a slope. She was grateful for those moments. For the rest, she was beginning to be more puzzled than frightened.
