Page 20 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 6
His bride hung back on the rope, jerking it to catch his attention. Connor slowed his stride, turned. He had set a hard pace toward Castle Glendoon and she had kept up with him, though now she was likely taxed beyond endurance. He did not feel good about that, but he had to get her to safety quickly.
“I am cold,” she said. “I am tired. My feet hurt, my skirts are damp, I am hungry. And I do not know where you are taking me. I do not even know who you are!” She blurted the last bit in an irritated tone. “And now you take your wife on a leash?”
“I am sorry. But you must stay with me, and I cannot trust—” He stopped, resting his left hand on his dagger hilt, the rope taut in his right. “I suppose we should rest before we go on to our destination.”
“I want to gohome.”
“That cannot be arranged just now.”
“Then take me to your home, so I can rest. Alone,” she added with a quick glare.
“I do not have a home, exactly.” This would be difficult to explain, he realized, and he was reluctant to discuss it. Customarily he kept his life and feelings private. Few needed to know his business, his thoughts, his heart.
“None?” She looked astonished. “Even thieves have homes. Surely you have a house, a cottage. A cave.”
“There is a place where I stay. I do not call it home.”
“If it has walls and a hearth, it will do,” she said peevishly. “I just want somewhere to sleep. Somewhere safe. And I want a cup of tea.”
Tea? It did sound appealing. He could imagine brewing tea for her, rubbing her feet. He sighed, extracted the flask from his plaid. “For now, a sip ofuisge beathawill have to do for both of us.”
She took the flask readily, tipped it to her lips.
“Just a bit,” he warned, then retrieved it to take a long swallow himself, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He resumed walking. She hastened to catch up to him, rope swaying between them.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. MacPherson. I do not like to surrender to my temper.”
“You seem quite at ease with your temper.”
She scowled, her hair slipping from its braiding. Then she smiled at him, quick as that. Connor glanced away, feeling guilty enough without her fey, beautiful gaze on him.
“Nonetheless, please forgive me. You have tried to show a little kindness in this situation, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”
Connor blinked, glanced uncertainly toward her. Her apology seemed sincere. Not sure how to answer, he said nothing, acutely aware of the tether in his hand.
“We do not have far to go now,” he said. “Less than a league.”
She sighed, shoved back her hair, trudged onward. Though spent and bedraggled, she retained an elusive, luminous quality that fascinated him. “Mr. MacPherson, I must rest soon and stop for—some needs. Or will you drag me the rest of the way by this horrid rope? Or carry me like a sack of oats?”
He paused. “If you need to stop, there are bushes over there, see the flowered ones? They will give you some privacy.”
“Oh, very well. But not with this rope. Untie me, please.” She held out her wrist.
He reached out to work at the knots. “For a moment only. If you think to run–”
”I know very well what you would do. Thank you,” she murmured when the rope loosened. “Kind of you.”
He glanced at her warily. “You are quick with thanks when it is unnecessary.”
“I was raised to be polite. My convent education taught me to express my appreciation for all things. It is a habit now.”
“Convent?” he asked curiously.
“My father was exiled from Scotland years ago. My siblings and I were all educated in France and Belgium. My sister and I went to a convent school.”
“Ah.” Kate and Robert MacCarran had returned to Scotland a couple of years ago, he knew. Another sister had stayed in the convent, he remembered. “I spent some time in France myself. Many Scots with Jacobite leanings have found their way there, and even to James Stuart’s court in Rome at one time or another.”
