Page 27 of Stealing Sophie
Sitting on a large stone beside the bank, she bent to remove her shoes. The beautiful amber satin gown, all lace and frills, billowed around her. The dress had been a gift from her mother and made in Paris, where Mama now lived, having remarried after her widowing. Sophie feared that the gown and its underskirt were ruined. Frowning, she pulled off her shoes and stockings. As the Highlander came close, she ignored him.
Standing, she crammed her shoes and stockings into the deep pocket in her inner skirt, then lifted the skirts to step onto the first stone. Squealing at the shock of cold water sloshing over her feet, she sought her balance and crossed to the next stone.
“Ah,” MacPherson called. “You have discovered my secret.”
She stepped forward again, wobbling. “That your guests must cross the River Styx before they are permitted to reach your portal, Sir Cerberus?”
“Aye, that.” He sloshed into the burn and strode from rock to rock, sliding past, touching a hand casually to her waist. She felt a quick thrill at his quick, firm support.
Reaching the opposite bank, he extended his hand. “Will you pass into the underworld, Persephone?”
His fingers were long, his palm large and flat. There was strength in that hand, and mysteries. Another thrill shivered through her. The man had some sort of magic over her, she thought. She ought to be angry with him, resentful, eager to escape. Instead, she felt filled with anticipation, body and spirit thrumming. In a way, she was relishing this extraordinary night and what might come of it.
No, she told herself. It was just whisky, exhaustion, and shock. She would feel very differently tomorrow. She gave him a stiff smile. “So long as there is a cup of tea and a place to rest, I will come over to your world, sir.”
Stepping on the bank, she whisked past him, wet skirts dragging. He chuckled and turned to walk with her. Sophie smiled a little to herself, could not help it.
And for a moment, she thought of her sister Kate, who had lately gone to Edinburgh to fight for their brother’s rights in the Court of Sessions. Kate was the hellion in the family, acting with boldness, bravery, and charm. She was very different from Sophie, who kept to herself, preferring to stay in the convent rather than return to Scotland with her siblings after their father’s death and mother’s remarriage. Suddenly she understood a little of Kate’s courage and confidence. To her, it felt like freedom.
Freedom, at least for a moment. Persephone, indeed. She was walking into the unknown with her captor—her new husband, incredible as that seemed—beside her.
Silently, she cut over the grassy slope toward the castle ruins. MacPherson moved ahead with powerful confidence. He seemed tireless after this exhausting night. They had walked countless miles—she would feel the strain of it by morning. But just now, she felt strangely, surprisingly, exhilarated.
Truly, she should not have any more whisky, she thought.
The castle loomed a dark beast, a silent and eerie shell. Seeing the maw of its entrance, she slowed, reluctant to go inside, even with rest and hot tea in the offing. The place housed thieves and ghosts. Her sense of adventure and freedom were fragile dreams. She lacked the courage for this, all of it. She stopped.
Then she heard barking—the low gruffness of an old dog, the yelps of other dogs. She glanced at the Highlander. He extended his hand. It was a protective gesture.
The sound was not ghostly, but comforting. Real and welcoming—she heard delight in the barks, not a threat. In her childhood, dogs barking excitedly at the gates had heralded the return of family. Their dogs had been loyal, friendly sentries, and she had loved them. As the barking continued, she knew they sensed a master they loved.
Yet the man had insisted this was not a home. Ignoring his proffered hand, she walked toward the front gate recessed in the ruinous curtain wall.
He loped ahead of her. The gate was formed by two immense iron-studded wooden doors with a modest door cut into one of them. He pulled at the latch, opened a lock, and the hinges creaked as he shoved. The barking quieted to a few throaty woofs.
“Welcome to Castle Glendoon,” Connor MacPherson said. “Or what is left of it.”
