Page 31 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 9
“Mary Murray left some food for us,” Connor said, glad for a distraction. He lifted the cloth from the pewter plate to reveal cheese and oatcakes. “There’s lemonade if you’d like some. Mary guards her sugar carefully, so consider yourself privileged.” He poured the drink into a small pewter tankard, handing it to her.
She drank a little and set it down. He offered oatcakes and cheese, which she accepted, and mutton slices, which she refused with a shake of her head. He rolled those up and downed them himself.
The girl ate demurely but with a good appetite, then rinsed her hands in a small bowl of rosewater included on the tray and wiped them on the linen napkin. As she sat back in the tapestry chair, Connor stood. The fire felt hot and comforting at his back.
He rinsed and dried his hands too. “They say,” he ventured, “that finger bowls are no longer placed on the king’s banquet table in London.”
She looked up. “Why not?”
“When a toast to the king is made”—he lifted a tankard of lemonade and waved it over the bowl of water—“those loyal to the Stuart cause will gladly drink to the king—the one over the water. James Stuart. The Old Pretender, as they call him.” He smiled.
She laughed, pure and chiming. He laughed too, delighted that she liked his joke.
“So you drink to the king over the water?”
“Och, always.” He glanced at her, puzzled. Surely Kate MacCarran would know where Connor MacPherson stood on that issue. “Duncrieff must have told you of my staunch Jacobite leanings, madam.”
“He has not mentioned your name, Mr. MacPherson.” She thought back over her brother’s letters and shook her head.
“Never? Odd,” he murmured. “I thought he might have.”
She stood, draping her still-damp cloak on the chair, her gown shimmering like a flame as she moved. Connor took in her lush shape, the contoured bodice supporting full breasts and tapering to a slender waist. Her hands smoothed the billowing gown.
Dear God, she was a vision, he thought, a dazzling jewel dropped into his life. He had not anticipated this, the way his body surged, wanting to match his fire to hers. The heat in his blood went beyond whisky, beyond physical lust toward a less definable urge. The craving was a feeling of wanting, of starving for something. Love?No,he thought.
She crossed her arms, shivered. “It is chilly. Are you not cold, Mr. MacPherson?”
He shook his head, ignoring the degree of intimate heat he was feeling. “I am accustomed to cold in the way of all Highlanders, I suppose. Plaids are reliably warm, and a dram or two of whisky helps. But if you are uncomfortable, lass, we can build up the fire. I will go down to the kitchen to look for a tin of tea. I did promise you that.” He stepped away.
She whirled. “Do not leave me. Please.” Her hand lifted, dropped.
That plaintiveness tugged at his heart. “The ghosts will not come knocking while I am gone, I promise. You are protected here.”
A blush rose into her cheeks. “Perhaps a bit more whisky will warm me for now.” She nodded toward the crystal decanter. “Just a bit.”
He hesitated, sure she had taken enough already. But he poured a little golden whisky into two glasses, handing one to her.
Swirling the liquid in his glass, he frowned, thinking of the deed yet to be faced. His bride did not love him, nor did he love her. Truly, he thought she did not care much for him at all. He could hardly blame her. A consummation now would be awkward, if not outright distressing for her. Yet the marriage must be sealed, and there was only one way to ensure it. He took another gulp, liquid burning his throat, and set down the glass.
His bride sipped, coughed, sipped, coughed, so that Connor tapped her on the back. He understood how she felt. Both were now girding themselves, he realized.
“Highland whisky must be approached with respect, madam,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose. “It is a bit wretched at first. But it gives a lovely warmth.”
“It does. This is Mary Murray’s finest Highland brew—she cannot make it fast enough to meet the demand for it in trade channels that ship to England and France. It is not so unusual for a woman to be the brewer, and she is the best around. Her kinsmen smuggle it out as fast as she can produce it.”
“My father would have enjoyed this very much, I think. I am not used to strong drink,” she added. “But—smuggle? Are you a free trader as well as a brigand?“
“Not I. Even her own husband, Neill Murray, will take no hand in the whisky trade.” Rebellion, aye, but not smuggling, he nearly said.
She coughed again and sat so abruptly that Connor moved forward to shove the chair securely beneath her bottom, swathed in its yards of gleaming satin.
“Oh!” She fanned her hand in front of her face. “I feel much warmer.”
He took the glass. “Any more of this, my lass, and you will go down like an oak.”
