Page 67 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 18
With his back to the bailey yard as he brushed Fiona’s heavy coat, Connor felt Sophie’s approach before he heard her footsteps, sensed her presence as if she had touched him. Compassion came with her like gentleness in the air. He did not turn.
“Connor MacPherson,” she said. “I am sorry.”
He nodded, tending to Fiona, who loved to be groomed like a horse, though her coat was hopeless. “Go inside,” he told Sophie. “It will rain soon. Clouds overhead.” He pointed. Sunlight poured gold over the slopes, and distant clouds swept a veil of rain over the far mountains.
Sophie shaded her eyes with a hand. “A storm seems very far off.”
Connor paused, and Fiona shoved his shoulder. He ruffled the fringe over her brow, rubbed her ears. Her rosy tongue protruded, then her head swiveled and she licked Sophie’s hand.
With a little cry of delight to be welcomed, Sophie rubbed Fiona’s ear. Connor watched her—and noticed again the pretty little crystal at her throat, set in silver on a silver chain, winking like a star between her slim collarbones. Fairy magic, he thought, remembering, and for a moment wished fairy magic were real, wished that wee stone could restore what they had all lost from this damnable rebellion. But such was impossible.
“Kinnoull,” she said. “I heard the others call you Kinnoull here. My brother wrote it in his note, too, but scratched it out. I thought it was Campbell.”
He stared at her, silent, and shook his head.
“And then you mentioned being an heir. Your father was MacPherson of Kinnoull. A viscount.”
He nodded. “Lord Kinnoull, aye. He owned the lands on the other side of Glen Carran. But the property was forfeit to the crown when he was sentenced for treason.”
“I am sorry. I did not know. I should have realized.”
He shrugged. “You need not be sorry.”
“For all you have lost, I am sorry, truly. You grew up near the glen, and yet I never knew you. I remember Lord and Lady Kinnoull when I was a girl. They were a handsome couple, and very kind to a shy wee girl. But I do not remember you. I think I would have,” she added.
“You were very small,” he said. “You and your sister.” He smiled a little. In a beam of the late afternoon sun, she glowed as if lit from within like a candle. Beautiful.
She regarded him curiously. “I remember your parents. Your father was tall, such a deep voice. So strong and kind. He came to see my father one day, and Kate and I were crying because our kitten had gone up a tree in the garden. He fetched it down for us.”
Connor smiled at that. “He would have done that, setting his own business aside to help someone. Especially a crying child.” He chuckled.
“And your mother—you look like her.” She tipped her head, studying him. “The dark hair, the green eyes. And I think you have her smile.”
He glanced away, touched more than he could admit that she remembered them so well, so fondly. He had almost no kin left after the ravages of rebellion in the Highlands. For a long while, he had felt alone. Now, suddenly, that cloud began to lift.
“She would have liked you,” he said quietly. “She passed away...of a broken heart, I believe, after my father was executed. Her constitution was not strong, and she failed quickly. She died only two months after he went.”
“Oh, Connor,” she breathed.
He shrugged, a reflex to show he did not need sympathy. But he needed, wanted, what she offered. “I was the heir, but lost the rights when the lands were proscribed.”
“And that is why Sir Henry Campbell owns Kinnoull House now?”
“Rents it,” he corrected. “The English king owns it. But Campbell wasted no time taking over the property. He knew my father. Knew the wealth of the place, the land.”
“The furnishings, the spinet, the books—” She glanced toward the castle.
“The carpets, the plate. The dogs,” he continued. “The kitchen kettle. All of it came from Kinnoull House. I brought whatever I could out of there before Sir Henry took the place over. Castle Glendoon is a ruin, and I am your brother’s tenant”—he nearly saidwas, but caught himself. “And what fills it is rightfully mine.”
She watched him. “Fiona too?”
“Aye, that clever lass too. She was my father’s prize, a perfect one-year-old red Highland with an impeccable breeding line, come out of your father’s herd. My father hoped she would breed new generations of the best cattle in Perthshire.” He smiled bitterly. “I stole her from under Sir Henry’s very nose one night, while he sat in my house, drinking his fill of my father’s wine stores.”
He turned to walk Fiona along, and Sophie turned with him. As he led Fiona toward the byre tucked in the far corner of the bailey, he was glad that Sophie came with him, uncomplaining about the mud and its effect on her bedraggled gown and shoes.
The girl had a true tolerance for poor conditions, and took shocking news and events, too, without complaint or dithering. He glanced down at her in admiration.
