Page 44 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 13
Brushing dried mud from her gown, Sophie frowned over the torn hems. If she could find a needle and thread in this place, she could repair it. Mrs. Evans would have the skill to save the gown if more was needed, if she ever saw the lady again. She sighed.
The gown had been a gift from her mother in celebration and hope of a bright future in Scotland as a magistrate’s wife. But Sophie would not be marrying Campbell. Instead, she was a rogue’s bride. And the man did not even want her now.
She had to get away from here, she thought, and find her way to Duncrieff Castle. Her brother needed his family’s support, and her sister was still far away—she did not know where. Only Sophie was left to fight for Robert MacCarran’s welfare, and she would not be able to count on the magistrate’s help in that. Or MacPherson’s help either.
But perhaps she could walk away, she thought. Connor MacPherson had no reason to hold her here now. She was not the bride he had expected, and that surely changed everything. Hurt and loneliness cut unexpectedly through her at the thought. But she must go home, she told herself. No matter what her foolish heart whispered, she could not stay with a man who did not want her.
Yet if she left, there would be consequences to face, for her and for the man who had taken her away. Thinking of Sir Henry, she shuddered. The hasty wedding with MacPherson did offer protection from marrying the magistrate, providing she stayed. But she would trade that to simply go home again.
She had been away from Scotland and Duncrieff for years, had been home only days before all this had happened. MacPherson was gone for now, and if she explored the castle and grounds, she could slip away and find her way to Duncrieff, just a few miles away. Connor MacPherson might not even make the effort to bring her back.
Wriggling into her stays and petticoats, she dressed, fastening the gown best she could without help. Braiding her hair, she tucked it up with silver pins from her pocket, though she had lost the lace pinner she had worn yesterday to properly cap her head.
A few minutes later, as she headed down the stairs, she stopped. A heavenly smell was wafting up from the kitchens. Her stomach rumbled. Had Mary Murray come in, as Connor said she might? Her last good meal had been at Sir Henry’s table–and she had lost most of it on Connor’s brogans.
Well, he had deserved that, she thought, and went down the stairs.
Entering a shadowy corridor, seeing the wide arch of the kitchen entrance ahead, she entered the large stone-vaulted room. No one was about. An enormous hearth held a blazing fire. A wooden table was piled with wooden bowls, vegetables, a bowl of winter apples. It looked as if someone was working here, for the kettle hanging from an iron chain over the crackling hearth fire simmered and steamed, containing a soup or a stew that smelled delicious. Her stomach growled again.
The large table also held a plate of stacked oatcakes. Sophie gave in, taking an oatcake, biting into it, and sighing with pleasure. It was crisp, buttery, still warm.
Glancing about the room, she saw an assortment of iron pots and utensils and a stout wooden shelf that held wooden dishes and pewter trenchers and cups. There were even a few etched green glasses. An aumbry cupboard, its doors partly open, was stocked with sacks of grain and baskets peeking with carrots, onions, potatoes, and apples, withered from the winter months. There were jars of spices and honey. The supplies were not abundant, b ut this was a busy kitchen.
Contrary to the brigand’s insistence, she realized, this was a home.
Leaving the kitchen, looking about for Mary Murray, she saw an exterior door leading out to a tangled garden. She went through into the rainswept air and heard the dogs barking. She realized, then, that they had not been inside when she had come down the stairs. Now they ran toward her from somewhere in the bailey yard, where a cluster of dilapidated outbuildings leaned against the curtain wall.
The castle was indeed a ruin in many places, with broken walls and stones in heaps, and deep tangles of undergrowth—ivy, briars, and more. Castle Glendoon had once been a proud medieval tower, she knew, though its central keep was crumbling now. But the curtain wall was sound enough to still offer protection, and the front gate was stout as well, overlooking the hills and the gorge. At the castle’s back and sides, forested slopes formed a kind of buttress. It had once been a strong fortress.
The terriers and spaniel ran toward her, and she stooped to greet them. The tall wolfhound ambled quietly to her, and she rubbed his grizzled head, then shared bits of the oatcake with the dogs. They trotted with her as she walked through the courtyard.
The wolfhound gave a loud woof, and she whirled. A young Highlander walked toward her, wearing a plaid of red and dark colors, his long hair black and glossy, flowing over his shoulders. He came forward with an easy stride and a ready smile.
“Good morning, Mistress. I am Roderick Murray, Neill and Mary’s son.” A pink stain, wind or blush, stained his cheeks, and his eyes were sparkling blue, charming and impish. “Roderick Dhu, they call me. My grandfather, you see, is Roderick Ruadh.”
Black and red, she realized. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Murray. I am Sophie MacCarran.” She held out her hand and touched his fingers briefly. “Did Mr. MacPherson send you to watch me?”
“Until he returns.” He grinned sheepishly. “Come away from the gate, Mistress MacCarran.”
“I was only exploring. Where is the laird?”
“Out and about, tending to his business.”
She tipped her head. “What business might that be?”
“He does what he does.” Roderick’s eyes danced. “It is not so fine a day to be walking about the castle yard. There are broken stones and uneven ground, and the rain is making puddles and mud.” He glanced at the sky. “You should stay inside today. Be careful wherever you go at Glendoon, Mistress.”
“I will. It is a bit of a ruin, I agree. I hoped to meet Mrs. Murray, too. Mr. MacPherson said she would be here.”
“My mother was here earlier. I saw her on my way up—she was hurrying to tend to some chores at home and to see to some of the cattle, and will be back soon. She left soup in the kettle for you.”
“Thank you. Do you keep livestock here?” Sophie looked past him toward the back of the bailey, seeing a few chickens scampering in front of what looked like a cattle byre.
“The laird keeps some cattle and goats and chickens. He has a flock of sheep, too, but they stay out in the hills most of the year.”
“Ah.” Likely all the beasts were stolen, Sophie thought.
