Page 23 of Stealing Sophie
“We all need backbone in life, and you have your share, lass, believe me.”
She shook her head. “Not me. But I apologize for my impulsive temper. I cannot always control it. Though I still disagree regarding this night’s work.”
“Aye so, we have differing views on that,” he acknowledged.
She could turn with the wind, while he felt hard-pressed keeping up with the changes. Feisty yet grateful, timid yet brave, prim yet passionate...hellion yet angel. Turnabout witch, he thought, as he took her hand.
“Come ahead, madam.”
“Where are we going? To an outlaw’s hideaway? A cave, perhaps? Might we have a fire, and find some food there?”
“Luxuries. Next you will want a bath and a lady’s maid. Or would you rather have a musket and a powder horn of your own to join my outlaw band?” He cocked a brow. “Would that be enough adventure for you?”
“I should not have said that. Truly I have the courage of a midge.”
He looked sideways at her. “Several midges, I would guess.”
“All I want now is a bed. Alone. You will give me that tonight, sir, if you please. That is, should you even own a bed.”
Every part of him tightened with excitement that he tried to ignore. “Just a wee heathery nest for a Highland thief. But you are welcome to share it.”
“No bed, no hearth, no home? You are a true fugitive. A genuine brigand.”
“Fierce as wolves, I am. Now hush it.” He liked the sound of her voice, so lovely upon the night breeze. He even liked her chatter. A little of it, at least.
“I will not stay in a filthy outlaw cave for long, I warn you. I am more content in a house, where I can putter about.”
“Putter as you like later. For now, shhh!” He reached out with his free hand to cover her mouth, not with haste and strength as before, but gently this time. So gently.
Touching her like that was a mistake. Her lips under his fingertips were moist, luscious, felt nearly as good as kissing her had felt.
Not yet, he told himself. Go easy, until he had puzzled out the situation and knew where he stood in it. He lifted his hand.
“You are talking as much as I am,” she pointed out.
He gave her a quelling look.
She did not seem quelled. Then she paused, sneezed delicately, and coughed. Against his better judgment, Connor drew out the flask to offer her a tiny sip of its contents. After she took two or three swallows, he claimed it from her to sip a little of its clean burn himself. Capping it, he shook his head. She had more tolerance than he would have expected, though its effects were beginning to tell on her.
As they resumed walking, his rather merry bride leaped the next runnel without his help. She giggled and threw her arms wide.
“Be silent,” he hissed, drawing her close with one hand, glancing about.
“Or you shall gag me?”
“I shall.”
“Tie me up?” She tipped her head.
“Aye,” he growled. She was enjoying this now. “That whisky did more than warm and restore you, I think.”
“It has relieved my fear of brigands.”
“Your fear of nearly anything.” Grabbing her wrist, he stomped onward.
“A man without a hearth needs no wife.”
“What do you mean?”
