Page 29 of Stealing Sophie
Connor gave a rueful laugh. “These belonged to my family.” His mother’s treasures, his father’s pride—things from Kinnoull House filled a few rooms in Glendoon. Connor had removed whatever he could from the house before Sir Henry Campbell had taken it over two years earlier, leaving the rest behind out of necessity. No doubt Campbell now made good use of those things.
What he stored here at Glendoon reminded him of a gracious home, a happy family. His close kin were gone now, some scattered to France, some dead. Of the old, proud line of the MacPhersons of Kinnoull, Connor was the only one left in Scotland.
“What a beautiful vase.” His bride was looking up at a blue and white vase on the mantel. “Chinese?”
“Aye. My mother would fill that one with roses every summer.” Why had he said that? He rarely shared details of his life with anyone, and he had known this girl only a few hours. Although he preferred his secrets, he felt oddly at ease with her—felt strangely tempted to open up his thoughts to her. Perhaps he just felt the guilt of dragging her about earlier.
“It is a lovely home,” she said.
“It is a storage place. That is all.” He fought an urge to tell her something about these things, about his past, what he loved and treasured, what he missed. Her gentle ways, her luminous eyes—he knew she would listen and understand. But then he might reveal too much and risk cracking the shell he had formed around himself.
She gazed thoughtfully at the elegant furnishings and the ruined walls that held them. Then she looked at him and tipped her head. He could guess what she saw: a savage among fine things, a rough Highlandman in a worn plaidie and threadbare shirt surrounded by costly items that did not suit him. That he had probably stolen.
Aye, his plaid was faded, his shirt rumpled, his brogans worn near through, his calves wrapped in tartan stockings and leather thongs. A few days’ growth of whiskers shaded his jaw, and his hair was long, unkempt, thick waves falling from their queue.
Savage, aye, anyone of her like would think so. He waited for the awareness, the disappointment in her eyes. Their color, he now saw, was between sea-green and sky-blue, magical and fairy-like. He kept still, suddenly awkward when he should take charge, the brigand and bride-stealer she thought him to be.
She smiled a little. “Mr. MacPherson, thank you.”
Not expecting that, he narrowed his eyes. “For what?”
“For bringing me here. I thought your outlaw’s lair would be...a nasty, dirty ruin. But your home is beautiful.”
He frowned. “It is a ruin. Most of the rooms are uninhabitable.”
“You seem to live here comfortably.” She waved her hand. “The outlaw life must suit you.”
He bristled. “These things are not stolen. They belonged to my family.”
“Where are your kin now?”
“Gone. Exiled, some of them.” He would not tell her more.
“The same happened to my family. We are both of Jacobite stock, I would guess.”
“We are.” He knew her brother, knew a little about her kin. Not enough.
She stood, stretched, her waist and arms gracefully slim, breasts full. Her hair slipped down in tousled golden knots. Even bedraggled and exhausted, she was lovely. She belonged among beautiful things, he thought. Though raised with privilege, he was rough-edged and somber now.
“Are we—alone?” She looked around.
“But for the mice and the ghosts. Neill’s wife Mary comes now and then to do cooking and laundry. No one is here now.”
“So you live here alone? I thought your band of merry outlaws would be here plotting cattle thievery and more bride stealing.” She slid him a glance.
“There is no merry band. I am alone but for the dogs. Until now.” Bride, he thought. Wife. What the devil had he agreed to? A chill ran through him.
“I expected a group of desperate brigands.”
“They will be here tomorrow,” he drawled.
She smiled. “But it is no jest, this marriage, Mr. MacPherson.”
“I am aware, Mrs. MacPherson.” He gazed at her. “To put your mind at ease, along with Mary Murray, you will see Neill Murray and my cousin, Andrew MacPherson, here with others, tenants of Glendoon. They live nearby, and come and go as they like.”
He dropped to one knee to take up a poker and jab at the embers in the fireplace. The peat did not need much tending, but he needed an excuse to turn away from his bride’s curious and beautiful gaze.
Here they were in his private chamber, with one part of the obligation yet to fulfill. She had handled the shock of her abduction, marriage, and wedding journey admirably. Would she take the rest of the promise so readily? Could he see it through?
