Page 63 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 17
Her heeled shoes stuck in fresh mud as she moved through the castle yard. Last night’s rain had ended and sun filtered through clouds, making the stone of the old keep shine like mother-of-pearl. But the mud underfoot was thick as she crossed the yard.
Once Glendoon had been a stout fortress, easily defensible. Only the hardiest of enemies would dare climb the treacherous slopes that fronted the castle. Now, its best defense lay in crumbled stone and rumors of hauntings. She had not seen its ghosts, but had heard their eerie music. She shivered, pulling her cloak close at the throat.
She was glad to be outside in fresh air, with the sun taking away some of the spring chill. Her hand touched the garden tool tucked in her pocket, a small trowel she had been using that morning to dig and tug weeds out of the kitchen garden. That wilderness of a plot would take a good deal of work, but she knew the little herb and vegetable garden could be brought back to life.
If she was here long enough to see it happen, she thought, glancing around. She was alone at the moment, and it occurred to her that she again had an opportunity to flee to Duncrieff Castle. Yet she felt more and more strongly that she should stay with Connor MacPherson, stay and continue to feel safe in a decidedly odd situation. Stay and savor more nights like the last few. She smiled a little, felt a blush heat her cheeks.
The Highlander was compelling. She found his touch, his very presence, irresistible. She did not want to run now, and that made little sense, given how she had arrived here. But her heart was not following a logical course.
But she would not be so foolish as to believe he was falling in love with her. She thought she could fall in love with him—but if she did, it would be with eyes open. She had succumbed, and so had he, to their marriage roles. Nights in the bedchamber together had become wonderful, sensual, intimate explorations followed by deep, cozy sleep and good dreams. They were husband and wife now; that could not be undone. Yet she would not be disillusioned. He had meant to marry Katie Hell, not Saint Sophia. When Kate returned, he might want to dissolve his mistaken marriage.
Sophie sighed, walking through the muddy yard. She stepped around a pile of broken stones, collapsed from the curtain wall.
Her MacCarran ancestors had deserted the place centuries ago, after some tragedy following a clan feud that had ended fatally for a MacCarran laird and his lady. Their ghosts, others too, were said to inhabit the castle ruins and the old chapel. The MacCarrans had gone on to build Duncrieff Castle, now a prominent lookout in the glen.
Beyond the curtain wall, she could see the hills and mountains on the far side of the glen. Duncrieff Castle was there. Homesickness swamped her, so strong she felt dizzy with it, reached out, steadying herself on cool sandstone.
Turning, she looked about for Roderick Murray, who had been working on some repairs along the posterior wall. The dogs came toward her now, having run off to see how Roderick was faring, returning now to guard her. As she moved through the bailey yard, they followed her every step. Nearly tripping, skirting about them, she bent to pet the terriers, Una and Scota, and glanced about for Coll, the wolfhound. They were more attentive sentinels than young Roderick, she thought with a smile.
Ahead, the gate stood, the bar lifted but the latch bolted. It seemed to beckon, suddenly. Well over a week—perhaps a fortnight by now—she had easily slipped out. The gate stood untended. She paused.
The dogs ran forward, milling about, jumping to paw and thud at the door. Even with the wide yard inside, they wanted to go out. She could not blame them. Sophie listened, heard Roderick’s busy hammer.
“So you want to run, do you?” she asked the eager dogs. “If we do, we cannot go far, and must come right back.” The bolt on the smaller door, cut inside the larger gate, was not difficult to lift and set aside; the iron latch moved easily, creaking only a little. She pulled it open to peek out, blocking the dogs from passing through.
No, she told herself. She could not make more trouble for Connor. If one of the military saw her outside the castle, that news would reach Sir Henry, and he would come for her there. And for Connor. She must stay hidden for now.
Yet she longed for a taste of freedom. Just beyond, early spring flowers were scattered in the grass—golden buttercups, snowdrops quivering beside rocks, a delicate haze of bluebells beginning spreading outward.
If she dug up some of those, she thought, she could plant them in the kitchen plot. They would flourish and, at least next year, make a lovely carpet beside the door. Surely she could walk out as far as the flowers and return quickly to the gate.
Suddenly a rabbit burst out of the meadow and raced through the grass. The dogs barked. One terrier shoved past her feet, then another, shooting through the gap. Ears and tails up, they raced away from the gate silently on the chase. Sophie gasped, reached for them, missed. Behind her, Tam and Colla ran forward, the old hound barking hoarsely. Then the little brown spaniel dashed past her, through the doorway like an arrow from a bow. Colla stayed inside, setting up a loud, monotonous barking.
“Tam!” Sophie cried. “Come back! Una—Scota! No! Come back!” Hearing Roderick shout, she could not wait. She hurried after the dogs as they tore across the sunlit grass and down the hillside. Picking up her skirts, she ran, calling.
Then stopped short, heels skidding a little on wet grass.
A man approached the castle, a kilted Highlander cresting the hill, having already crossed the gorge. Sunlight glinted on his dark hair, poured over his shoulders, brightened his plaid. He stopped. Once again, Connor had encountered her.
Sophie stood still, skirts billowing in the breeze, and waited. The dogs gave up on the rabbit and ran toward their master, leaping, barking ecstatically as he bent to greet them. As he walked forward, they danced eagerly at his heels. Sophie sighed, waited.
“Leaving us, Mrs. MacPherson?” he called.
“The dogs ran through the gate,” she said.
“Lifted the bolt and flipped the latch again, did they? Tam, you rapscallion,” he added, scratching the spaniel’s head. “Such a smart lad!”
“I opened it,” Sophie said tersely.
“Ah.” His eyes, she saw, were stormy green.
“I wanted to pick some flowers.”
“I see.” He watched her for a moment. “And where is Roderick?”
“Repairing the wall at the back of the bailey. The dogs were guarding me.”
