Page 52 of Stealing Sophie
“Where will you sleep?” She turned to look at him.
“I doubt I will,” he said, “after so much adventure.”
“But—s” She hesitated.
“If you are worried about ghosts, they will not bother you. If you hear rattling and moaning, just go back to sleep.”
“Connor—”
“Good night.” He touched her cheek briefly, against his will, withdrawing.
“But where will you be, should I need something?” Her eyes were wide and luminous, conveying a different message than her words. He thought those beautiful eyes pleaded for him to stay with her.
Yet he would not do that until he knew his mind with this lady, and she knew hers. Those shared kisses under the pine tree had happened even when he had meant to keep distant in that regard. He felt challenged to resist her natural allure. But he wanted to understand more about this marriage before he waded deeper. He was not sure if Duncrieff had trapped him or given him a gift, and he meant to find out.
He shrugged casually. “I will be about the place.”
“If you sleep somewhere else, you could freeze. It is very cold at night.”
He tilted his head. “Thank you for caring about my welfare.”
She brushed at her skirts. “I care—about anyone going without a bed.”
“Saint Sophia.” He watched her, feeling tenderness rise up in him. “I have slept on many a cold floor or a cold hill. I will be fine. You learned your manners well in your wee convent,” he added.
She lifted her chin; he loved the long, delicate line of her throat. “In the convent, and I learned good behavior in a caring family too. I hope you had that privilege.”
“I vaguely remember lessons in etiquette. Some stayed with me.” The urge to tell her about his family was strong at times. He smothered it. “Good night, madam.”
Reaching out, he brushed her hair back from her face where waves slipped loose from their knotting. He swept his fingers over the side of her cheek to cup her face. Aching to touch her more than that, he would not let himself.
“This is your bedchamber, not mine,” she said. “I do not wish to take it from you. I can sleep elsewhere. There are other places to rest here.”
“Unfurnished, broken rooms open to the elements, but private enough. We can make a pallet of straw and find you a blanket. I might even scare up a brazier for some heat. I would not trust the fireplaces in those rooms. They will be full of nests and debris. But if you do not mind sharing a space with mice and squirrels, then please yourself.”
She gave him a sour glare. “An entire castle, and just one bed, scarcely used?”
“I told you this was not my home.”
“Where is your home, Mr. MacPherson? You never said.”
“Under God’s stars, madam. Anywhere I will, and nowhere at all.”
“You could settle here at Castle Glendoon.” She glanced around. “It was once a grand place, so they say, a strong fortress with kinship and loyalty around its hearth.”
“That was long ago. There was some tragedy here, I understand. The MacCarrans packed up and deserted Glendoon like rats from a ship. They left behind a smashed fortress in the care of ghosts. Tragic lovers, so legend claims. It must be family lore.”
She shivered. “I have heard something—but I have been away a long time, and I do not recall what it was. You mentioned a curse on this place.”
“A woman leaped to her death trying to warn her lover, and he could not save her.” He leaned forward. “Keep to your room at night, madam, and do not wander about. Good night, lass,” he finished. He touched her cheek, tapped her nose. Then turned on his heel for the stairs.
“No harm will come to me,” she said. “Not here at Glendoon.”
He smiled a little to himself as he descended the curving steps.
