Page 40 of Stealing Sophie
“Close enough to a nun.” He felt bitter, angry with himself over this colossal error. “Luckily I am halfway to hell already, as I am surely damned for last night.” He blew out a breath. “Saint Sophia...what will I do with you now?”
Her mouth pursed. “Last night, you were willing to act the bridegroom and relieve me of my obligation to marry Sir Henry Campbell.”
“Relieve you of your virginity,” he clarified.
She flared her nostrils. “Do not be crude. I am sorry you got me by mistake instead of my sister. I am sure you are disappointed.”
Hardly, but he would not elaborate. “What I got was a wee convent sister masquerading as a hellcat.” He glared, and she returned it fearlessly.
“I had to play the hellcat to survive,” she snapped. “I was stolen away and mishandled against my will.”
“Not all of it was against your will,” he reminded her. “You rather liked some of that mishandling, as I recall. Adventure, you said.”
“Not the rope.” she reminded him.
“I have apologized for that. It was necessary at the time.” His mind was still whirling. “I understand if you are angry. You were snatched away. You have a rogue for a bridegroom, a ruin for a house, and not much of a future,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “But you will not be mistreated in my keeping.”
“I must thank you for that, at least.”
Inclining his head, he smiled flatly. He had to admire her boldness. And he liked her contrasts, the soft nature, the tough spirit. Saint and sinner, he thought, remembering her in his arms, in his bed—
The hunger stirred in him, grew hot. Kate or Sophie or turnabout witch, he wanted this small golden-haired woman as he had never wanted another. She was divinely desirable, had already matched him for passion. There had been magic there between them, and he wanted more of that.
But he would not touch her again until he understood this situation. He had married the wrong lass, and it needed to be solved.
He bowed his head slightly. “I am a rascal, Sophie MacCarran, and you are a nun, or the closest to one that I shall ever meet. What do we do now?”
“Annul the marriage? Forget what has happened between us?” She frowned. “But then I would be free to marry Sir Henry. I do not want that.”
“Tell him you are a nun. That should discourage him.”
“It is certainly discouraging you,” she said.
“As it should. I would think you would be pleased.”
She glowered but made no reply.
“I need to find out what your brother intended.”
“Did you truly want her? Kate, I mean?”
Connor paused. He had accepted the need to marry Kate, knowing she was in need. Truth was, he wanted Sophie. Wanted to be with her, though she would never accept or believe it. He did not understand it himself. All of it was happening too quickly. He preferred the pragmatic world of cattle, land, his music, his plans. He could grasp those easily. The workings of the heart were not easy to comprehend.
“I had not planned to marry just yet, but I gave my word, and I kept it.”
“Kept it for the girl you thought you were marrying. What now, Mr. MacPherson? Is it possible to annul this?”
He narrowed his gaze. “Do you not know?”
“I...am not certain.”
“Did the nuns teach their students nothing about Adam and Eve?” Spiraling into bitterness as a defense, truly, he had only himself to blame for this dilemma.
“I know perfectly well what happens between a man and a woman.” She raised her chin. Her cheeks colored. “I just do not remember if you and I did that!”
“It must have been a memorable evening indeed, Mrs. MacPherson.” Could a woman truly not know?
“The whisky...the rigors of the evening, since you first appeared on the moor...forgive me if I do not quite recall. Tell me. Please,” she added softly.
