Page 65 of Stealing Sophie
“Fiona is a cow,” Connor said. “She too escapes whenever she finds the chance. Like my wife,” he added wryly.
“I can hardly blame her,” Sophie replied.
He huffed. “Ah, there is the wee lass now.” He pointed, and Sophie turned to see a shaggy red cow loping along. A young man held her head, coming toward them.
“She is a nimble wee thing with an adventurous soul. Also like you.”
Sophie laughed. “How could a cow climb a wall?”
“She learned she could walk up the ramp made by the collapsed stones,” Roderick explained. “We keep repairing it, but the goat strikes it down just as soon as it goes up.”
“Goat?” Sophie asked.
Connor chuckled. “You could have saved yourself the trouble of opening the gate and just followed Fiona over the back wall.” Roderick hooted.
Sophie sent them both a withering look.
As Padraig Murray came closer, Fiona butted her enormous shaggy head into the cluster of people. She shoved at Connor’s arm. Sophie stepped back in surprise to make room for the cow’s massive shoulders.
“Hey, my dear, easy now,” Connor murmured, fondling the cow’s muzzle. Fiona licked his hand with a huge lolling tongue. Astonished, Sophie laughed aloud.
“She is a lovely one! Hey, Fiona.” She patted the wide shoulder, but the turn of Fiona’s head sent her back a step.
“Ah, now, leave the mistress be. Do you love your laird that much, are you jealous now he is wed?” Connor asked the cow. Sophie glanced at him in surprise.
He ran his hands over the cow’s shoulders and the great curve of the ribcage, and Sophie noticed now the shadow of ribs protruding. “She is thin from winter. We will have to fatten her soon for her health. Fiona, meet Sophie MacCarran. Mrs. MacPherson,” Connor added. “Next time you flee, my great lassie, that wee girl may try to go with you,” he whispered to the beast, rubbing her furry head. She ran her tongue out to find his hand again. “Say a greeting to your only rival, my love.”
“Good day,” Sophie said, then realized Connor was speaking to the cow. He laughed, touched her elbow, pressed briefly, returned his hand to pat the cow.
Large brown eyes, gentle and heavily lashed, rolled toward her to look through the thick rusty-red fringe that covered much of Fiona’s enormous head. The cow snuffled, blowing warm air through wide, brownish-pink nostrils. Sophie leaned away.
“Pet her, let her get to know you,” Roderick said. “She will love you too.”
Tentatively, Sophie reached out to pat the tufted spot between Fiona’s ears. She murmured, feeling awkward, but soon warming to the calm, enormous animal.
Padraig’s brother, still holding Fiona’s rope but standing to one side, laughed. “There, see, the lass is not so bad, is she, Fiona,” he said.
Sophie glanced at him over the cow’s broad back and widened her eyes. Padraig had the same black hair, pink-stained cheeks, and bright blue eyes as his brother. “Are you Roderick’s twin?”
“Nah, he is mine,” Padraig answered, while Roderick laughed. “I was born first. Padraig Murray, Mistress. And you are Sophie MacCarran.” He smiled.
While the twins chatted with Connor about the health of the cow and the repairs needed on the back wall, Sophie listened, one hand resting on Fiona’s shoulder. She sensed the camaraderie between the three men as they talked and laughed about Fiona’s escape attempts. She laughed with them—and for the moment, felt more like the laird’s wife than his stolen bride.
Seeing Connor smile so easily, she caught a glimpse of the true man, relaxed and amiable, no renegade or outlaw. She felt even more drawn to him, tipping her head to watch him.
“Aye, Kinnoull, we will head back to the wall,” Roderick said. Padraig handed the cow’s lead to Connor, and the brothers crossed the yard. Standing by the cow’s great head, Connor looked at Sophie.
“Fiona is a shaggy Highland cow, sturdy and hardy, bred for centuries in Scotland,” he said. “You had a fine herd at Duncrieff Castle, as I recall.”
She nodded. “We kept beasts like this, aye. My father had a fair-sized herd on the estate when I was young.”
“Duncrieff’s herds were good stock, the best of their breed. Your father had a brindle bull, a very fine animal. Fiona is his granddaughter.”
“You saw my father’s herds?”
“Oh, aye.” He rubbed Fiona’s muzzle. “I used to sit on the hill outside Duncrieff and watch the herds as they wandered the slopes and moors. They even went as far as the lochan at Kinnoull on hot days. A fine herd, a range of colors—red like Fiona, and some were golden, black, brindled brown, even silver. You may have seen them.”
“I did, but I never went near them. My father did not think it seemly for his daughters to be around livestock. He said his daughters should be educated women and not dairymaids, as we had to make good marriages.”
