Page 3 of Stealing Sophie
The man at the bridle must be a robber or a scoundrel, and no helpful local. He led her horse further into the mist with apparently no intention of helping her escort.
Heart slamming, Sophie dug in her knees, leaned back. The horse obeyed the man. She screamed, but the sound was thin, hollow. The infernal man ignored it. She glanced over her shoulder wildly, wondering if she should risk jumping from the saddle.
Through the fog, Mrs. Evans was shrieking like a banshee, men were shouting, horses whinnying. Sophie realized that her companions had not seen her abduction.
“Turn back,” she gasped. “Let me go!” Gathering breath, she managed a good sundering scream.
The Highlander whirled, set his foot upon the stirrup, and vaulted into the saddle behind her. He moved so fast she had no chance to shout or even to shove him away, certainly no chance to leap free. He snatched the reins, and with the same arm, pinned her against him. His free hand closed over her mouth.
Hard-muscled and unyielding, his grip trapped her arms against her sides as he leaned to his task. Signaling the horse, he plunged them forward into fog and darkness.
Twisting, she could not get free, her cloak caught beneath the stranger, his powerful legs tight against her hips and thighs. His arms captured her, and his torso pressed against her, unrelenting yet warm, a strange comfort in the chill night air. He urged the horse to a gallop, leaning forward.
Unable to shout, her mouth stopped by his hand, she writhed and freed an arm just enough to elbow him.
“Be still,” he said, voice firm, deep. “You will come with me.” The rich, mellow voice was oddly calming. She tried to shrug him off. His iron-hard arm pulled her tighter, though she gasped, flailed.
He loosened his hand from her mouth. “Can you breathe?”
“Who are you! You stole me away,” she gasped out, “attacked my escort. Why? Leave Mrs. Evans be—she is elderly, you must not harm her! Why are you doing this?”
“Breathing fine, I see.”
He spoke with the proper English of a native Gael, she noticed, a softening in the sounds, a hint of a lilt. The tone of his voice was as if cream and whisky turned to sound.
She gathered her wits. “We must help the others—we cannot leave them—”
“They will do. I came for you, lass. Not them.” His breath warmed her cheek.
“But why?” she asked.
He did not reply, pressing her against him, long fingers wrapped on her arm. When she ought to feel panic, she felt as calm as if he had cast some spell over her. His strength, his very presence, soothed rather than frightened.
Even when he was stealing her off like a thief. “Do not touch me,” she snapped.
He let go abruptly, and Sophie tilted and slid sideways, grabbing his forearm to save herself from falling. Her captor righted her; she was sheepishly glad of his support.
“Where are we going? Why did you take me?” she asked as the horse bounded forward. “How do you know the others are not hurt? What of the men, and my maid? You broke those bridges, but why? Who helped you? What do you want with me?”
“So many questions,” he said, and answered none.
She drew breath again to scream, but a length of plaid descended over her head, swathing her in blackness. His arm encircled her again, pinned her. Wool rasped her cheeks, smelling of smoke, pine, and man. Struggling under the blanket, she felt the man’s chest support her back, his legs trapping hers.
“Be still, now,” he murmured. “All will be well. I promise.”
She rode in stiff silence, tears pricking her eyes. Breaths heaving, she felt anger and indignation stir hot within her, and she tried to think, sought the courage to do something to rescue herself.
Fuming under the plaid, she remembered her Highland cousins mentioning a local Jacobite renegade some called the Highland Ghost. He stole cattle, they said, attacked parties of English soldiers, and particularly sabotaged the new stone roads that English troops were building in the local Highland glens. He went about at night, said to be fierce, clever more than violent, striking without warning. A beast of a man, they said. A savage and a rebel.
And he lurked about the nearby glens. Sophie shuddered. She should have listened to Sir Henry and stayed at Kinnoull House. Her cousins suspected that the Ghost was involved in her brother’s arrest. She ought to ask this rascal about that.
Somehow he had broken those bridges and brought down her cousins and the dragoons. At dinner, Sir Henry had mentioned rebels who ran in these hills and interfered with English troops, sometimes applying black powder explosives to good new roads being constructed by General Wade and his troops. Useful roads, Sir Henry had said, and even rebels should realize that. But if this man was one of those—why would he snatch her? Newly arrived in Scotland after years away, she had nothing to offer, sister to a penniless clan chief. She could think of no reason—
Then thought of one, and found air and strength to scream, though muffled by the plaid. His hand closed over her mouth, wool and heat pressing against her lips.
“Hush now, Miss MacCarran,” he said at her ear.
He knew her name. Her head spun. She felt strange, as if hurtling through thunderclouds, as if riding in the arms of a demon with no sure ground beneath her, and hell awaiting her.
