Page 78 of Stealing Sophie
At first, he played a repeating tune, rhythm more than melody. When he felt calmer, he moved to another tune, soft and slow, lilting. Not a song he knew, it simply emerged, new and forming under his hands.
The tune was gentle and bright, he thought, like Sophie. He saw golden hair like sunshine, eyes like blue-green crystal, a beautiful smile that warmed his heart. The cadence of the song reminded him of her grace, her sweetness.
He played it again, several times, to fix it in his memory, thinking he must write it down in musical notation so he would not lose it. Perhaps he would title it “Mrs. MacPherson,” or “Lady Kinnoull’s Air.”
But if Rob was gone, he would call it “The Chief of the MacCarrans” for her.
Lowering the fiddle, he looked out over the hills and glen. Far off, the waterfall foamed white in the darkness, a sound like distant thunder. For now, all seemed peaceful. He needed to rest before dawn bloomed again.
Once more for this new tune, he thought; it haunted him as yet. He tipped the instrument to his shoulder and played the exquisite little air again.
The music slipped downcold corridors through the cracks in the stone walls. Sophie stood by the bedchamber door, listening. This time, the tune had a delicate beauty to it. She was not frightened. She only wanted to hear more of it.
Opening the door, she paused. The music was faintbut definite, emanating from somewhere inside the stone ruins.
Achingly beautiful, the air expressed something poignant in its notes, lifting, falling, soaring pure. Something loving. Sophie gasped, placed a hand over her heart, felt tears start in her eyes. It was so very beautiful.
The music stopped as mysteriously as it had begun. After a while, she closed the door, went back to bed, slid under the covers. The melody repeated in her thoughts again, as tender and comforting as if love itself had turned to sound.
