Page 36 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 11
Waking, startled, Connor blinked, saw her lying beside him. He had not dreamed it. Her back half-turned, she slept peacefully, golden hair spilling over the pillows they shared. Reaching out, he stroked her shoulder above the blankets. She was quiet. He played with her hair, twirling its silk around his fingers.
Last night what he had felt had astonished him in its intimate power. He was sure of it. And yet, he realized that he had an indistinct memory—what had happened?
Rolling away, he sat up, sighed, pushed his fingers through his hair. He was not sure at all what had happened. The whisky had done its work too well. His head ached dully, and fresh air might clear it. But the details of the wedding tryst in this bed were just as misty as the glen he and his bride had traveled through last night.
Had he fulfilled the rest of his promise, making sure the marriage was done?
Recalling the gorgeous terrain of her body, he knew they had touched and pleasured—but he was not certain of the outcome. Groaning, he shut his eyes. He felt more a cad now than before. When she woke, he would have to ask, though he did not want to disclose his uncertainty. But he had to know.
He shoved back the covers and sat there, naked. Well, that was a sign that something had happened, he told himself. His bride would know. Women knew these things, and the telltale signs of lost virginity would be obvious enough. If she did not know either—he sighed. If events had not concluded, he would need to mention it. Explain how important it was that the marriage could not be annulled, or Sir Henry could find a way to claim her. So her brother had said, and so he had wanted Connor to ensure could not happen.
Rising, he took up his discarded shirt and plaid, dressed, grabbed his shoes, left the room quietly. He headed up the dark, turning stairs to the door that led to the roof. He needed fresh air. And there, beneath the starry sky, he could think clearly.
The air was chilly and still misted when he stepped out on the roof, where the highest section of the central tower jutted upward. A partial parapet, once walked by sentries, surrounded the perimeter. He headed for a favorite spot where a broken corner wall exposed what had once been a narrow guardroom. Though partly collapsed, the spot provided a convenient lookout position and shelter from the wind.
Here, in daylight or moonlight, the glen and the hills were visible for miles. From here, he could see rumpled slopes, long runnels of water spilling to the valley floor, grassy moorland and drover’s tracks; could see the narrow blue loch at the far end of the glen and the white dots of wandering sheep and the forms of men moving about below. He caught a glimpse of Duncrieff Castle, too, a crenelated tower set on a green hill. Beyond, a river wended through part of the glen between the hills.
Sometimes, if the skies were very clear, he could see through that pass to Kinnoull lands. Glen Carran belonged to Duncrieff. MacPherson’s rightful lands of Kinnoull, long owned by Connor’s ancestors, lay on the other side of the long glen.
This morning, just before the sun appeared, the glen was a bowl filled with mist. Soon it would burn away and he would have a clear view of the road.
General Wade’s crews of soldiers had cut a straight military passageway through Glen Carran, following an old drover’s track. Over several months, the crew had advanced the road, paralleling the river that went through the pass. The road had moved into the glen, following the river—which split into two wide streams, each with an old wooden bridge. Just yesterday, he and his friends had ruined one of those.
Connor and his companions had done all they could to delay the construction of this road and others. As long as he lived in these hills, he would make sure the English did not find it easy to build routes through this part of the Highlands.
But he had not come up here to study the progress of the road. He wanted to clear the fog in his head and sort through the befuddling events of the previous night. Reaching into a niche among the stones, he picked up a flat wooden case, snapped the brass latches, and opened the lid. He had not meant to leave it here for so long, but now was glad that he did, this once. Lifting the gleaming fiddle from its blue velvet wrapping, he took up the horsehair bow tucked beside it. Tightening the bow, tuning the instrument’s strings briefly with a twist and a listen, he stood. Then he set the fiddle to his shoulder, tipped his chin downward, raised the bow. A moment’s thought, and he began.
The first quavering note flowed outward, followed by a smooth chain of sound. Notes rang out as fingers and bow met the strings, patterning a melody so familiar to him he hardly needed to think. The fiddle simply released the music into the air. Truly pitched and gracefully made, crafted by an Edinburgh luthier, the fiddle had been a gift from Connor’s parents years ago. He had been young, and there had been funds for fine things and a loving family that encouraged his interest and talent.
The lament he played now was a weep of a tune, stirring his heart. The sounds resonated in the fiddle and within Connor, too, healing tones, soothing, expressive. His left hand danced patterns over the fingerboard, his bow hand moved loosely without conscious effort. He knew the melody so well that it came naturally from him, from the fiddle as well. As the song emerged, he ceased to think, letting the music cleanse him.
A plaintive,ghostly whisper woke her from her dream. Sophie opened her eyes, found herself curled warm in the big bed. Listening for the ghostly sound, she realized it had vanished. Part of a dream now lost to the early morning.
Rolling over carefully, she moaned. Her head ached, and she winced. After a moment, she realized she was alone. Connor MacPherson was gone. Had he slept the night beside her? Between whisky, the kisses, the sheer exhaustion, she was not sure, only aware that she had slept deeply.
Dear God, she thought, she was not quite certain what had happened last night beyond a delicious blur of kisses and caresses, of lips and hands moving in ways that made her blush to think of it. She remembered touching him—gasping at that, she sat up too quickly, wincing again as her brain slammed inside her head, as her stomach lurched. Groaning, she rubbed her face, hair slipping down in wild tangles.
What had they done last night, what had she allowed? She could not remember, but whatever it was, she was sure it had felt wonderful at the time. But the details were fuzzy, faded altogether after a vague memory of lying back against the pillows.
Moving a little, she groaned again. Her legs and back were stiff and sore from hours of walking and climbing last night. Amid the aches and tenderness, she was just not certain—burying her head in her arms, she moaned softly. She remembered the warmth and strength of his arms around her, remembered deep kisses, rousing touches. The rest had vanished like a dream.
She pushed back the covers, discovering she was completely nude. So it was not a dream. A little sense of guilt, the gift of the nuns’ training, tapped at her mind, but she pushed it away. She could not feel shame in the tender, beautiful things that could happen between lovers.
Lovers. Could she even think of it that way, a forced marriage, and the confusion of where fate was taking her now? Climbing out of the bed, shivering, she found her discarded chemise on the floor and took up her cloak, dry now, from the chair where she had left it. Going to the window, she tugged and pulled on the heavy drapes to look through the crown glass windows. The sky was the pewter color just before dawn.
The ghostly music came again, soft and eerie. Puzzled, she went to the door, opened it to listen, and then stepped into the corridor, increasingly curious. The music was faint and haunting, a violin or a fiddle, far off. She walked toward the stairwell, drawn by a heartbreaking melody that poured from somewhere nearby.
The chilling thought occurred that a castle ghost was luring her onward.
Common sense told her to go back to the bedchamber. The castle was a dangerous ruin in places, and she did not know her way in the dark. Nor did she have any desire to confront a spirit. But the music—that was real, she was sure now. Who else would be out there other than Connor? Neill, or another of his friends?
Seeing a set of curving stone steps, she climbed upward tentatively. Dim light leaked through arrow slits in the rounded exterior wall. Reaching the next level, she saw three doorways with ruined doors, the interiors partly rubble. But the music, she noticed, had stopped. She stood in the shadows waiting, heart pounding.
Cautiously she peeked into the rooms, finding only empty stone chambers with partly broken walls open to chill, mist, and wind. A short steep stairway led to the roof, a common feature in tower houses and castles. But she hesitated. The castle was in poor condition. She would be foolish to explore it on her own.
Turning, she went down and returned to the bedroom. The air was chilled, and she shivered, going to the hearth to add peat bricks from a stack. She took up the poker to move them so that they just touched embers. Wanting to build warmth, not smother it with a fresh peat brick, she did what she could, suddenly appreciating the easy skill of servants who had taken care of such things wherever she had lived before this.
