Page 8 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 3
She felt sick. Folded over the brigand’s wide shoulder, her head hanging downward, Sophie sucked in a breath, fearing she might lose her supper altogether. She needed fresh, cold air desperately.
“Stop,” she begged. “Please stop.”
His step did not lag.
Sophie tried to calm herself with slow breaths, tried to master her roiling stomach, but it remained queasy. She had been carried off by force, and now bounced along nearly upside down after too much food and wine earlier that evening and too much tumult since. The snug stays beneath her gown did not improve matters.
When she left the convent and Belgium weeks ago to journey home to Scotland, she craved adventure after six years of a quiet life. The prospect of marrying Sir Henry Campbell did not promise excitement or happiness, and she had wished to be free of that. She had wished that something daring, something wild and wonderful, would happen in her life.
But this was far more adventure than she had wanted. Be careful what you wish for, Sister Berthe had always said. If your wish is sincere, it will come to you, and you had better know what to do with it.
Sophie closed her eyes, remembering the little elderly nun who had been the gardener at the English convent in Bruges who had often advised Sophie to pay attention to the wisdom of the flowers. Cultivate grace, gentleness, sweetness, and beauty, Sister Berthe had said; display a sunny nature, bloom with kindness and compassion. Flowers teach forgiveness and happiness, Sister Berthe always said; flowers teach love, comfort, and peace.
All well and good in the convent garden, Sophie thought. But that was of no help when stolen away by a Highland outlaw, flung over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and threatened with dire consequences.
Sophie’s younger sister Kate would have known what to do. Kate, who had gone to London for a few weeks, would never have let herself be carried off by madmen. Had anyone attempted, there would have been Highlanders lying on the misty moor groaning when she was done with them. Kate had a natural charm that brought men to their knees, but if they did not fall adoringly around her, she knew weaponry, too. And the sharp side of her tongue was a marvel.
Sophie did not have Kate’s courage and fire. She and her sister had both inherited what the family called the Fairy’s Gift, a touch of natural magic inherent to MacCarrans, but both girls had the fairy’s temper, too. For years, Sophie had endeavored to subdue her temperament. Loving the peacefulness of convent living, she had absorbed that serenity and devoted herself to flower gardening.
Much good it did her now. She had tried forgiveness and tolerance, but the outlaw did not care. And it was nearly impossible to meditate upon cheerfulness or gentleness with her stomach churning and her head smothered in a smelly old plaid.
“Please,” she croaked. “Mister Ghost! Sir Ghost! I need air. I will be sick.”
He paused, then set her on her feet, steadying her while he loosened the plaid that covered her head and face.
Gasping in the cool, damp air, Sophie felt a hideous wave of sickness overtake her. Dropping to her knees, she retched into a heather clump at the Highlander’s feet.
He sank to one knee beside her, patted her shoulder. Dimly she felt his hand on her hair, pulling it back from her face while her stomach cleared itself.
“Water,” he snapped in Gaelic to his comrade. “Now!”
Head spinning, Sophie sat back, while her captor unwrapped the bulky plaid from around her, freeing her arms. She shoved at her tousled hair, which was sliding out of its braiding, and found her lace cap, a flat pinner, barely clinging by a silver pin to her hair. Using it as a handkerchief for her mouth, she managed to rinse it in a little puddle, wringing it out and cramming it into the deep pocket of her gown.
She could not look at the Highlander. How embarrassing to be vilely sick in front of him. He would think her a weakling just when she needed to seem strong.
She had tried valiantly to fight and resist him, to face up to him, and her finicky stomach had undone all of it. The sumptuous dinner and wine she had consumed at Sir Henry Campbell’s table that night had been far too rich for her. Perhaps now she would feel better, clearer, more able to deal with this situation as Kate might have done if she had been snatched away in the night.
The other man brought a dripping cloth, which her captor used to wipe her lips. She sucked at its wetness.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thirsty...I need a drink.”
He looked down, where the evidence of Sophie’s dinner lay at his feet. “How much did you eat, lass?” He sounded astonished.
“Too much,” she groaned.
“Here. Can you stand?” He extended a hand, helped her to her feet and put an arm around her shoulders, then spoke in rapid, quiet Gaelic to the other Highlander.
The pressure of his arm there felt good, somehow, a shield and comfort. She let herself lean against him while he talked with the other man.
She glanced around. They stood on the slope of a high hill. The fog was thinner up here, filtering the moonlight as it spilled over the hills and flowed over the misty glen. They had climbed higher than she had realized.
She turned. The moonlight was bright enough now to show her captor more clearly, even in darkness. Looming over her, tall and broadly built, he looked like a warrior angel, though it was a trick mist and moon. His face was handsome in its natural symmetry of strong cheekbones, a square jaw shadowed with whiskers, straight dark brows over deep-set eyes that might be blue in daylight. Long dark hair waved loosely to brush the banded collar of his linen shirt. His expression was somber as he frowned at her, looking concerned.
She tilted her head and studied him. He radiated a quiet, earthy power, although there was an impish quirk in the shape of his lips. Pride and inner strength both showed in his face. Keen intelligence, too, and a surprising hint of gentleness in eyes and mouth.
He was studying her just as she did him. She glanced away.
