Page 62 of Stealing Sophie
Opening to his kiss, feeling the tip of his tongue trace, enter her lips, she moaned a breath and pressed closer. Tartan wool prickled through linen, and she felt the hard shape of him against her. Then he shifted away.
“Sophie–” he whispered.
“Hush, you,” she said, covering the words with her lips, pressing tight to him. A low groan vibrated through him, and for an instant she smiled, feeling a gentle sort of power unlike anything she had ever imagined. He slipped a hand downward over her hip and leg, bunching up the cloth of her chemise, and she sucked in a quick breath as his fingers found her thigh, grazed along, over her belly, upward, pausing. She could scarcely breathe for the anticipation of it. She felt on fire, a splendid, delicate fire. Then he touched her breast, caged it softly, and she sensed herself pearl against his palm. Drawing in a breath, she moved toward him, inviting more, her hands on his shoulders, his back, pulling at linen, at wool, seeking skin, warm and smooth, seeking him.
Kissing her again, he drew away to trace his lips down the curve of her throat, slipping the low neck of her shift aside to trace and caress. She arched her head back, opened herself to more in a way that seemed wanton, delightfully so, for she did not care, did not want to hold back now, for this was wonderful, powerful, the lodestone she had wanted—his touch, his kiss, light and warm, the irresistible and delicate flutterings building to need. Leaning back against the pillows, pushing toward him, she let her body take on a delicious will of its own.
“Connor,” she whispered, sinking her fingers into his thick, silky hair.
He lifted his head to kiss her and drew back. “This is not—what I intended,” he said, and lifted away from her, kisses and hands. “Not until—”
“Stay,” she said, capturing his hand in hers, placing it against her chest, her breast, just where her heart pounded. “But I have to know–”
”What is it?” Just a breath of sound, so close.
“That first night—when I had too much of the brew—I remember very little of what we did.” She shrugged. “And I wanted to know what it was like. I am sorry.”
He half-laughed, brushed back her hair. “Do not apologize. I am the one should do that.”
“And if I...we do this now, we both want to, then no one forces anyone, and you are not...a cad, though you said so. Or a rogue. Though you are still a bride stealer,” she added wryly. He huffed. “And I would not be—a wanton. Do you understand?” Her heart drummed with her boldness in giving permission when she could have stopped this.
“Aye,” he breathed, kissing her again, touching and soothing, as she sighed, arching for him, shivers running through her. Desperate to reap more of that feeling, return it to him, she tugged at his plaid, skimmed her hands over his back, his belly, his strong thigh, all warm skin and hard muscle. But he caught his breath as she slipped over his lower abdomen, and when his fingers caressed downward, cupping there, she caught her own breath with a little mewling gasp, heat building as he kissed her again and slipped his fingers further. She began to melt, felt her breath take on a new rhythm, her body rocking, pleading.
She sought him too, took hold boldly. Warm velvet over steel, he was, and she gloved him, stroked, curious, generous—and when he groaned, deep and earthy, at her ear, the low sound and his warm breath shot through her like the wick of a flame.
“Sophie,” he whispered, “leave me be.” He moved her hand away. “If you keep doing that, I will not be able to stop—hush,” he said, as she began to speak.
He soothed his fingers in delicate, coaxing circles, turning her to flame here, then there, feeling herself go to honey and fire as a rhythm pulsed through her body. He kissed her, held and rocked her, murmured something against her hair as she gave a little cry at his exquisite touch, sinking, lifting, caught fire again.
And she knew, in that instant and what followed, that she trusted him. Not just with her body and its secrets, but her life. Her heart. Perhaps her very soul.
She sank into his arms, tucked her face against his shoulder, reached for him, and he allowed her then, showed her he trusted her as well—implicitly, completely. In his arms after, he kissed her and held her.
“Sleep now, my love,” he whispered. Had she truly heard that? But he said no more, pulling her against his warmth, soon asleep.
She set a hand to the fairy crystal on its finely made chain. And remembered again that the small, bright stone was said to bring love to its wearer—but its owner must find courage for what might come with that gift.
Love makes its own magic.That was the motto on the Fairy Cup of the MacCarrans of Duncrieff. That cup, that blessing of a fairy ancestor—so it was said—touched her family, her own blood, but always with a price. Now she wondered if that force had begun to weave its way into her life.
Connor staredup at the bed canopy and thought about cattle.
Cattle, sheep, fiddles—anything to take his mind off the tantalizing girl beside him. His wife, and she was perilously close to that role now. He had tried to keep his distance, but the searing hunger she aroused in him had been irresistible. He had forgotten his resolve. Forgotten the dilemma.
Whatever this had become, he told himself he was not ready for it. Not yet.
Looking up at the patterned fabric in the gray darkness before dawn, he tried to take his mind off the woman sleeping peacefully beside him. But again, he thought of the pleasure that had come about so unexpectedly, so impulsively between them. No, he told himself. Do not think it. Do not let this continue. He had already waded in too deep.
Best consider what he wanted from life, his own plans. A fine herd to take to market each season, fat sheep grazing on his own hills, a warm hearth, a cozy home. He wanted—intended—to be a good laird for his tenants. He wanted those around him to feel safe. He felt it was his duty—even more, his wish and urge, providing that for others.
But deeper within, he craved someone of his own to love, who loved him equally, a woman to hold on cold nights, to watch the stars with him, listen to his music, talk with him of many things, laugh with him. He had grown solitary these last years, had cut himself off from all but a few friends; he had broken hearts of women who thought themselves in love with the young heir to Kinnoull. But he was no heir after all, and had moved on from his dreams—being a gentleman farmer, a laird, Viscount Kinnoull. Gone.
He was weary of hiding, living in a ruin, having no real home. He was lonely, even among loyal friends. And here and now, he wanted the girl who lay in his bed, his bride. Something within him would give up all else if she could be with him. Yet he could not truly claim her—should not—until he knew more, until the future was clear.
Nor should he have revealed the marriage to Sir Henry Campbell. But he could not let the MacCarran lads suffer for his own actions. And now he must deal with that.
He slid out of bed, stood in the darkness, retucking shirt and plaid. Sophie lay sweetly, quietly, in the curtained bed. Leaning down, he softly stole a kiss from her lips. She sighed, smiled, did not wake. His Sleeping Beauty.
Best leave before he compromised the situation further. An hour of reading might soothe him. He went quietly out the door and down to the small library room where he kept his papers and his father’s too, tucked away like all of his dreams.
All his dreams, that is, until he had stolen Sophie MacCarran away.
