Page 7 of Stealing Sophie
Rising to his feet, Connor helped the lass to hers. Draped in the plaid, she stomped hard on Connor’s foot, then shrieked. He clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Aye, that must be the one,” Neill drawled.
“Hellish, they call her?” Andrew spoke in Gaelic, as had Neill.
“Something like that,” Connor responded, holding fast.
Andrew leaned toward the plaid-wrapped girl. “Do not misbehave, lassie,” he said in English, “or the Highland Ghost will see you pay dear for it. He’s a braw man and a daftie. Best give him no trouble.”
“He is the one giving me trouble,” she snapped.
“Daftie is it,” Connor growled. Andrew and Neill grinned as they watched him wrestle the writhing, stomping girl. “Do you two have anything to report, or are you standing about in the mist for your health?”
“The men came out of the water complaining like bairns, but only soaked,” Neill said in Gaelic. “They are searching for the lass, thinking she fell, for her horse came back to them alone. The other lady is howling like a wounded pig.”
“The priest is waiting,” Andrew said. “We left Roderick and Padraig with him.”
“Those two? The priest would escape if he had but one leg. Sorry, Neill,” he added in afterthought.
“Ach,but it is true, though they are my sons and I love them well. Andrew, go back to the church and guard the priest yourself. I will stay and watch Connor’s back.”
The girl kicked as Connor sidestepped. “He may need guarding,” Andrew said.
Connor grunted. “Send the lads to Castle Glendoon. We will go there once we take care of the matter with the priest.”
“What are you talking about?” The MacCarran girl turned under the plaid.
“She does not have the Gaelic,” Connor said.
“I do have the Gaelic,” she said in that language. “A little. You said priest!”
“Enough,” Connor barked. He hoisted the girl over his shoulder and headed across the hill. Neill followed, and Andrew ran ahead over the hills toward the church.
She seemed heavier now, and Connor realized she deliberately made herself more of a burden by going limp. He gave her a tap on her firm bottom to let her know he would not succumb to antics, nor would he slow.
Aye, he thought, he would far rather be seated beside his hearth with his fiddle on his shoulder, alone and cozy. Solitude and music always eased life’s grievances.
Instead, he was packing an unwilling bride through murk and mist on the strength of a promise. He did not know where this night would lead, but with every step he took, he felt as if he shouldered far more than a wee stubborn lass.
What did he have to offer a bride, truly? A rundown tower, a barren plot, a few cows, a scattering of sheep. A little music, some dreams to share, a passionate touch to offer. A home and land that was lost, and danger to forbear. Would that be worth a damn to a fine and fiery lass, the sister of a clan chief? She deserved a husband to make her proud. A husband to love.
Love. He would have welcomed that dream once. Ah, well.
He plodded on. She grew calmer, exhausted by her efforts. As he walked onward, she seemed lighter and lighter in his arms.
He had the quick, strange thought that he carried his destiny into this mist—and hoped it was fancy rather than truth.
