Page 89 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 23
Walking along the hilltop, Connor looked down but did not see Sophie. His heart lurched in alarm. Dangers existed out here and he was vigilant, yet had lost sight of her.
Then she was there, just there, stepping up on a rocky ridge of the hill. He felt sudden relief, not only that she was safe, but that she was heading up to join him. When he had left her on the slope, they both knew she had a choice.
The dogs ran past him, barking, chasing down the slope, startling the sheep a bit and no doubt making foxes nervous. He smiled. All was well in this place, in his world. He moved toward Sophie, who stood watching the sheep and waiting for him.
Lined up on the hillcrest, three great rams watched the slope too, still as sentinels. Below, ewes watched their lambs or stood patiently while their newborns nuzzled at them and scampered off to play in the gathering darkness.
Connor felt his heart swell, and he breathed with it. The night had a quiet beauty, never quite silent—the shush of the wind, burble of water, the liquid trill of a curlew, and the soft bleating of lambs. But he was silent as he came toward Sophie, took her arm, drew her toward him, and bent to kiss her.
Pulling her hard against him, he wanted to give in to the yearning he felt so strongly near her—craved her with the hunger, now, with which he craved the air of the high hills and the stars overhead at night. Out here, away from the castle and the troubles in the glen, and lifted out of the life he lived and all he had lost, he was just a shepherd, a farmer. A small laird. Out here, he was more himself than anywhere else. He wanted her to understand that, and to know that when he was with her, he felt most completely himself.
Her arms looped around his neck as he captured her mouth with his own, cupped her face with his hands as fervent kisses followed. As he pulled her to him at her slender waist, she pressed against him, so that he pushed back instinctively, expressing the fierce demand within him. He kissed her avidly, compelled, and she arched toward him, lips, arms, her being opening eagerly, sweetly, welcoming. Close and closer, yet never close enough.
He eased his hands over her, fingers teasing over her bodice, his breath quickening with his heartbeat, her breaths faster, kisses urgent, deeper, without hesitation. She angled to allow his touch, to plead for it, as she soothed her hands over his back. He shuddered, burned, needed her if she was willing now. Dropping down with her to the ground, her body sliding along his own, he leaned her gently down, just where the grass was thick and greening, where a cluster of rocks, old heather, and new gorse surrounded them, shielded them. Far off, he could hear the dogs barking, the sheep bleating. For now, he would leave them on their own.
Another kiss, another, a sense of lightning striking through him as he pulled her closer on that cushion of earth. Her hands tucked under the plaid, warm and soft and bold, and he took in a quick breath, angled away—not yet. Not yet.
The fervent need to feel her, know her, release his passion with her near overwhelmed him. Her lips beneath his were urgent, needful, willing, and as he worked at laces and buttons, drew up the length of the gown she wore, she pulled and tugged as well, her body pale and beautiful in the lavender light. Within moments, he unpinned his plaid to wrap both of them in its folds, so that he could cradle her against him, skin to skin, warm and miraculous. He closed his eyes, kissing, savoring, grateful—truly so, the feeling swamping him in its grace and depth—that she was here with him, that she was part of his life now. Out here, where he was himself, she could be too. Out here, choices could be made, passions released without broken dreams or trapped hopes holding them back. His need was powerful, and she showed him in deep kisses and caresses that she felt it too, wanted this as he did, tender pleasure and something more that he could put a name to now. Love filled him.
He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for causing her fear and grief when all he had intended was to protect her and keep his word. Silently, he told her with touches and kisses how much he cherished her, that she was all he could ever need.
Yet something must be said clearly. Drawing back, resting his brow to hers, he sensed her heartbeat against his chest. “Sophie,” he said. “If we mean to ensure this marriage, and secure your safety”—he paused, his hand above her breast, its softness a fascinating distraction–“yours and the welfare of your clan, then we–”
“We should go on with this,” she supplied, moving against him.
“If you want this.” He could scarcely think for the pulsing in his blood.
“Aye,” she whispered on a breath. He traced his lips over her throat, breast, lightly teasing downward as she arched to meet him, and he knew that she trusted him utterly, at least in this, and he would honor and savor that. She was so delicately made, soft and taut, pliable and willing. Shifting against him, moving her hands along his back, fingers rucking under the enveloping plaid to skim and quest until she discovered him, touched him. He caught his breath, filled and hardened, the feeling exquisite and insistent, stoking a fire within him.
As she moved again, pressing and pleading with a rhythm he knew, he touched and stroked in turn, sensing her quickening breath. Shifting too, he set his weight on his hand, palm flat on the earth from which he often drew strength—and then paused, looked at her, waited. She was lovely, rocking toward him, guiding him within her, making the choice herself. Gloved there, flaring with the force that took him and then her, he felt the need thunder through him, and then abate, replaced by peacefulness.
The surrounding air felt as sweet as after a storm as he sank beside her in the cocoon of the plaid and she tucked her head against his shoulder. He kissed her not with lust this time, but something enduring. Inside the plaid, he held her, just that. She belonged there in his arms. She felt like home.
