Page 30 of Stealing Sophie
The marriage was done and he needed to make her his own. If she came with child quickly, the marriage would be irrefutable. Duncrieff had insisted that this must be a real marriage, no sham, Connor recalled. Owing more to MacCarran than he could ever repay, he had to keep his promise. But the price was high.
He was not one to force a woman. Nor had he planned on a wife so soon. He intended to regain his rightful lands and title before considering the future. Otherwise, he had little to offer a bride. No home to speak of. Not a real one. A storage place, as he had told her, a place to lay his head, meet with comrades, keep his animals safe.
As he stabbed at the peat bricks, blue flames licked upward, and the sweet, earthy smell of peat wafted toward him. That fragrance evoked a sense of home, as did the furnishings and family possessions. But those were a reminder that he was not at Kinnoull House, that his family was gone. The things evoked loneliness and memories.
Yet the sweet burning peat gave him a sense of comfort, and he sighed with that.
His bride glided close, bright gown rustling beside him. He glanced up. Amber satin and golden hair, creamy skin and extraordinary eyes. God, he thought, she was beautiful, a blessing in this gloomy place. She glowed like a hearth fire, and the sight of her curving figure made his body surge.
He jabbed at the embers, kept his distance, yearned for something deeper, something missing in his life that he dared not name.
Light illuminedConnor MacPherson’s face as Sophie gazed down at him, feeling as if she saw him clearly for the first time. He worked the fire intently, not looking at her, leaving her free to study him.
He had a good face, a strong face, symmetrical and masculine, with elegant proportion. A face of strength and confidence, intelligence, the face of a leader in its firm, stubborn jawline, the arched nose, the long, powerful throat. Creases framed his mouth as if etched by concern and worry, yet his lips had a sensual line with a sweet quirk at the corner. He could laugh, this man, as well as be fierce. His eyes, especially in the firelight, were simply beautiful, long-lidded and satiny green under straight black brows. A proud face, weathered, tender, wise.
Twisting the poker, his hands were strong and nimble, his forearms supple where muscle shifted beneath the skin. Wide shoulders worked smoothly beneath his shirt, and she knew he was tall, strong, moved with wild strength and power—yet could be gentle, too, in touch. In kiss. An outlaw, perhaps—at the least, a rogue and a rebel, a man who could be fierce, and yet show loyalty and honor. So she wanted to believe.
And a beautiful man despite the unkempt appearance, the scruff of dark beard and long hair, both deep brown. She would guess he was her brother’s age, around thirty years, several years older than her twenty-two.
At a time when some claimed it an age of modern knowledge and scientific discovery, this MacPherson was something timeless, a warrior with courage and heart. Was it just the whisky working on her, she wondered, or pure exhaustion—or did she sense honor and nobility in him? The man had stolen her away, taken her future and her hopes, and yet—she did not hold it against him. She was intrigued. Wanted to know more about him and his secrets. She felt compassion toward him rather than fear.
She glanced away, aware of the burn of her secrets. She was familiar with what a man and woman did together in marriage, knew their bodies could fit like hand and glove, and she knew that passion sometimes ruled.
When she was fifteen, she and her family had spent a summer in Rome at the Scottish court in the Muti Palace, where she had become infatuated with a boy of her own age. Imagining herself completely in love, trusting quickly, she had delighted in kisses and caresses and had given herself enthusiastically, burning with curiosity, to her beloved friend. But the encounter was clumsy, her ideals were sorely disappointed, and trouble came once her mother found out. Sophie did not find love, but disgrace.
Now fate had thrown her into this sudden marriage and strange wedding night. At least, given the circumstances, she need not explain why she was not a virgin. A brigand stealing a bride had no cause to complain, she thought sourly.
The other advantage to this odd marriage—she would not have to marry Sir Henry Campbell. And for that, she was grateful, no matter the rest of it.
What would happen now? Her heart pounded as she glanced at the great four-poster bed in the shadowy room. For a moment, she imagined what could happen there with this strong and stunning man, and a warm velvet ripple of excitement stirred through her. The wild fairy blood that flowed in her veins, that had led her astray as an adolescent, stirred within.
The Highlander looked up at her then. She looked away quickly.
Touching her necklace, she felt the cool, delicate crystal. The fairy gift prevalent among the MacCarrans of Duncrieff had blessed her with a passionate nature, a touch of natural magic, strong compassion, and a desire to love and be loving. To love and feel grateful came naturally to her, and making her surroundings lovely for herself and others brought her joy. But that urge to please and be loved sometimes made her hasty and unwise. After her silly adolescent affair, her parents had sent her to a convent in Bruges to finish her education, packing her sister Kate off with her; the younger girl’s nature promised to be even more troublesome, for Kate had a strong independent urge.
Both Sophie and Kate had been born, it seemed, with the fairy gift of the Duncrieff MacCarrans—unusual abilities that ran through generations of the family. Both girls wore small crystals taken from the Fairy Cup of Duncrieff, a golden goblet studded with a band of semi-precious stones. The cup—and the fairy blood—had come to the family through a fairy ancestress centuries earlier, or so it was said.
Their eyes were a clue to their legacy. Fairy eyes, the MacCarrans called it. Some of them were born with pale eyes of extraordinary clarity, blue or green or silver, like translucent slices of sky, sea, or crystal. The gift, marked by the MacCarran eyes, was that of natural magic—sometimes it was a gift for healing, or a gift with plants and flowers, or a charm in the voice or beauty. In each generation, it was said, the gift took some form, and the tiny crystals in the Fairy Cup of Duncrieff could focus the power.
Those that had the eyes, the gift, were given a crystal to wear for protection. And they were reminded that the fairy legacy of the clan required them to seek true love not just for themselves, but for the sake of the clan. Love, true and abiding, would nourish and protect Clan Carran, and had helped to keep it safe and prosperous over the years. Long ago, the fairy ancestor had given the stones and the cup to the MacCarrans she loved and had placed that protective spell on future generations.
Sophie had tapped her magical nature early, inviting chaos rather than harmony, losing control over her passionate urge to love others. In the convent, she had learned to rein it in, to seek peace, to cultivate. She had discovered a gift for growing things. Plants and flowers flourished around her, and she had loved working in the convent gardens.
The fairy gift demanded that she find true love in marriage to continue the legacy. But fate, and this beautiful rogue Highlander, had decided on her husband. Her brother, who knew the legend, had decided she should marry Connor MacPherson. That was inexplicable to her, and would be the first thing she would ask Rob when she finally saw him again. That day, she thought, could not come soon enough. She worried about him.
Lost in thought, she gazed at the flames, hands folded, standing in silence beside the Highlander. He sighed loudly, set down the poker, and rose to his feet.
“Look at me, Katherine Sophia,” he said. “You have gone quiet. Are you frightened, lass?”
She shook her head. What she feared was the power of her inner passions. The nuns taught the girls that physical passion was sinful, while other passions were acceptable–prayer and devotion, poetry, music, art, gardening, even gathering book knowledge. But the powerful, mysterious urges of the body should be suppressed.
“I am not afraid.” She looked at him directly, sensing the power that he exuded, the river of life that ran through him. She saw it in his piercing gaze, in his deep, rich voice, in the strength and tenderness of his hands, in the force of his being. He had a natural magic, and she sensed her own body aching to answer that draw.
What she feared was opening herself up again, her heart and her hopes; years earlier, she had not found the happiness or love she sought. Instead, she had seen her life wrenched in a new direction.
