Page 28 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 8
Shutting and barring the gate behind them, Connor took his bride’s arm and guided her into the shadowy yard. The dogs ran toward him, the two cairn terriers reaching him first. They leaped up, paws waving, tails going like mad. Behind them came the brown and white spaniel, more dignified in his demeanor than the terriers, who were always ecstatic to see him–or anyone, Connor thought wryly. Two sets of small, muddy paws batted at his legs as Connor bent to greet them.
“Hey, Una! Scota! Bonny wee girls.” He rubbed each terrier in turn, then gave his attention to the quieter spaniel. He glanced up to see his bride tentatively greet the terriers when they scampered over to her. The spaniel sniffed her hand, and within moments she was murmuring to his dogs, charmed by them.
The last of the dogs, a shaggy dark wolfhound, hung back, watching with customary wariness. He had spent his bark and waited with dignity for Connor to walk toward him and ruffle his fine old head.
“Hello, old Colla,” Connor murmured, reaching out. Then he looked at Katherine Sophia. “The dogs will not harm you. The wee cairns are Una and Scota,” he explained, as she patted them. “The spaniel is Tam, and this great fellow is Colla.” He stroked the wolfhound’s shoulders. “He is deaf and quite old, but he is still a fine sentinel. He can sound like a hound of hell when he wants. Come ahead, madam.” He reached out and took the girl’s arm, leading her across the yard. The dogs followed.
A crumbling curtain wall encircled the castle grounds, the whole dominated by the massive keep, a four-story tower, partly ruined yet still strong. As they walked, the girl leaned against him a little. Connor sensed her fatigue and something more–a tremor of dread or excitement. His own heart pounded quickly.
“This way.” He led her up several stone steps to the tower entrance. “Easy, the steps are cracked in places,” he warned. The dogs scrambled up to wait by the door.
Connor opened the door. Belatedly remembering that this was their wedding night, he paused to lift her in his arms to carry her over the threshold into the dark foyer. She gasped in surprise and circled her arms around his neck.
He nearly tripped on the terriers as he set down his bride. Crossing the stone floor there, he shoved open a scarred oak door to reveal the great hall.
“Go on, then,” he told the dogs. “Inside, the lot of you. Una, stay with them,” he warned the little dog, who gazed up at him, trusting and hopeful. “You will sleep by the fire tonight.”
When they went inside, he closed the door partway, certain the dogs would set up a reliable ruckus if anyone even came to the gate, let alone got so far as the outer doors.
“This is the hall, though there is not much to see,” he told Duncrieff’s sister. “I believe you are too tired for a tour of the dubious wonders of this ruined castle.”
“I do want to rest,” she admitted.
Taking her hand, he led her up the narrow spiraling steps. Thin moonlight through arrow-slit windows relieved the darkness in the stairwell. Reaching the next level, with its narrow stone landing, Connor opened a door.
The room glowed with a faint light. Connor lifted his bride again, carrying her over that threshold into his private room.
When he set her on her feet, she sagged with weariness. He guided her to a tapestry-covered chair beside the fireplace. In the hearth, peat bricks licked with blue flames gave off the musty, almost chocolatey fragrance that he so loved.
Mary Murray, Neill’s wife, had been here earlier, he realized. She had freshened the fire with peat bricks, had left food and drink on a table near the hearth. Lifting a cloth from a pewter trencher, he saw oatcakes, cheese, a few slices of cold mutton. A crockery pitcher contained lemonade, which he knew would be made from the precious store of lemons and loaf sugar which Mary sometimes bought at the Crieff market.
A wedding gift, he realized. Mary was particular about sharing her loaf sugar.
No one else was in the castle with them. Connor knew the feel of the place, knew it was empty but for the animals out in the byre and the ghostly sense that lingered throughout the place. No one would return until morning.
Connor and his bride were alone.
A powerful sensation stirred deep in his belly. He crossed the room, hands trembling as he removed his sword and pistol and laid them on an oaken table beside the door. Then he went to the window to tug on the velvet drapes and fit them, making sure cold air did not leak in nor light filter out.
The girl leaned her head against the high back of the chair and closed her eyes in silence. She sighed, and he heard weariness in it.
He turned. His four-poster bed dominated the room, its floral-embroidered curtains pulled back. The dark green coverlet, stitched with a scattering of more flowers made by his grandmother’s hand, was folded back to reveal fresh white linens and plumped pillows. Mary’s careful touch again, he thought.
A thick Flemish carpet muted his footsteps as he returned to the fireplace to pull a willow stick from a tall box. Lighting that, he used it to flare the wicks of a few candles stuck in brass and pewter holders.
The room leaped to life, gleaming wood and glittering fabrics. He loved this room for its rich comforts and its privacy. The familiar pieces here were a reminder of the home he had lost, their presence often a comfort, sometimes troubling.
His bride sat upright in the chair. She stared around the room in astonishment. “This is no outlaw’s cave,” she said.
He shrugged. “It is cozy.”
“It is like a jewel box. A treasure room.”
He shrugged again but inwardly agreed. The furnishings were of polished cherry and oak, the handsome bed was imposing, the rugs underfoot were rich with color. The candlelight brought out the glitter of brass, pewter, silver, even the gilt threads in the tapestry chairs. A small black japonaise cabinet gleamed, as did a small tabletop inlaid with mother-of-pearl, where a glass decanter glowed with pale gold whisky.
“Where did you–” She hesitated. “Did you steal these things?”
