Page 45 of Stealing Sophie
The spaniel came toward them, nosing at her until she stooped to pet him. As the terriers bounded over, too, Roderick leaned over to give them his affection as well.
“Here, you dogs,” he said amiably. “Go on, all of you. You are wet and dirty and should be leaving the lady alone. Mistress, more rain will come down any moment. Come inside. You will be spoiling that bonny gown.” He shooed the dogs toward the back courtyard and waved his hand to beckon Sophie along too.
“It is spoiled already. Oh!” Fat raindrops plopped on her head, and she laughed, picking up her skirts to run toward the kitchen door. The terriers raced past, and the wolfhound reached the doorway first, waiting like a sentinel as the others entered.
She glanced to see Roderick Murray running the other way, toward the outbuildings, with the little spaniel at his heels. Whooping in delight as the rain soaked him, he ducked into a ramshackle wooden building and vanished.
Rain spattered over grass and stones as Sophie watched the downpour, standing in the doorway. Then she went toward the kitchen to have some soup, ladling a little into a bowl and eating where she stood, watching the rainfall in the deserted yard and the misted blue hills beyond the castle walls.
She took time then to explore the levels of the castle, making her way carefully from one room to another, most of them empty, some of them with crumbling walls open to the elements. Only four of the rooms had furnishings—the kitchen, a great hall, the bedchamber, and a room that appeared to be a study or library.
Each of the furnished rooms held a few beautiful things. The great hall, huge and drafty, was empty but for a long table, a few odd chairs, and a decorated and painted spinet. Gray light streamed through high, bare windows. Next, she explored the little study, part library and writing room, tucked in an angle of the old keep. Bookshelves were crammed with old volumes and a table and shabby damask armchair took up the center of the room. Delighted to find books—she quite enjoyed reading whenever she could—Sophie hoped to examine the titles later.
If she was to be under guard here and could not leave, if Connor MacPherson meant to keep her for a while, she would need something to fill the hours. In the convent, she had always been busy. She would have to find something to do at Glendoon until she could claim back her freedom.
She looked through the study window over the bailey yard toward the rain-misted hills. Far in the distance, she recognized the slopes of Glen Carran and part of the river that ribboned through the glen. Although she could not see Duncrieff Castle from here, she could imagine it well enough. A stab of homesickness caught her and tears pooled.
Feeling lost and alone, she ached to be home, far away from this old ruin and the mysterious, compelling laird who hid his broken dreams in this lost and broken place.
Her gaze dropped to the yard below and followed the contour of the curtain wall that surrounded part of the castle. One section, curving outward from the rest, held a deep tangle of old growth. From above, it took on a more meaningful shape.
At first, she saw botanical chaos, a mass of bushes, ferns, ivy, and other plants, all overgrown. Trees thrust up at the back, smothered in ivy. She saw traces of a low wall and a collapsed gate enclosing that section of the curtain wall.
A garden. She gasped, delighted to recognize the remnants of what had once been a large garden, now blurred by time and neglect. Surely it had been planted a very long ago, for its shape reminded her of the old-fashioned layout of ahortus conclusus, an enclosed medieval garden.
Curious, she pressed against the glass, looking at the details from her high perspective. Glendoon had once been a proud and beautiful home. With care and effort, with love and attention, it could be again. The laird of Glendoon, thinking it a mere storage chamber, a place to lay his head, did not see that.
But she would not be here long enough to see the place flourish either.
“See,they are laying their road along the river,” Neill said, pointing northward, “and bringing in more stone by the cartload. Padraig and Andrew ran along the drover’s track toward Perth, and saw at least a dozen ox-drawn carts coming this way, filled with stones. There is one now, with those red soldiers, just there.”
Connor nodded as a wagon pulled by a huge ox rumbled along the track that crossed the moor. Three dragoons in red coats and white breeches rode alongside the cart. Beyond, Connor could see the straight stretch of the military road in the distance, like a stone ruler laid upon the moorland.
He lay on his stomach beside Neill, hidden by long grass and old heather on the crest of a low hill overlooking the glen. From that vantage point, he could see the northern end of Glen Carran. Opposite their hill, across the valley, higher mountains rose to meet a glum sky. Fast clouds had scudded overhead all morning, sending rain in spurts and showers, making the ground damp and even boggy in places. Rain spattered over his head and back as he lay there.
Pulling an edge of his plaid over his head like a hood, he watched the activity, while Neill plucked a long strand of wet grass and chewed on it.
“Stone roads,” Neill muttered. “Bah. We do not need these straight roads here.”
“The English need them to transport troops, supplies, and cannon.”
Neill spat in clear commentary. “We should do to this wee road what we did to that road in the Great Glen last year.”
“Blow it up with black powder? Even that did not stop Wade from building his military highway, if you recall.”
“But it delayed him and annoyed the government. And Wade chose another route for the road, away from the places we wanted to protect. We can do that here, too.”
“We have to find some way to discourage them.”
“Aye, unless the Highland Ghost is too distracted by his pretty bride to do his work properly,” Neill drawled.
“He is not the least distracted,” Connor muttered. In truth, he had scarcely had a clear thought all day that did not involve a golden-haired girl.
Neill huffed. “The stone in that cart is dressed fieldstone, did you notice?”
“Aye. What sort of stone was in the other cartloads?”
“Padraig saw three loads of graveled stone, two of smooth cobbles, another of smaller stones,” Neill recounted. “And three or four wagons of the big gray stones, like those down there. With more to come, he said. Near a hundred tons of it expected.”
