Page 9 of Stealing Sophie
“If I do not wrap you in the plaid now,” he said, “will you walk where I take you?”
“I will walk home.” She stepped back.
He caught her arm. “You must come with me.”
“Why?” She pulled, to no avail.
He did not reply. Taking her arm, he led her down an incline to a fast-flowing runnel. He knelt, rinsed his hands, and scooped water in his cupped palm, then rose to offer it to her.
“You are thirsty. I have no cup,” he explained.
She blinked in surprise, then hesitantly touched his hand, bringing his palm close to her mouth, and sipped.
The water was cold and refreshing, and his skin carried an earthy, manly scent. Standing close, her lips touching his flesh in such an intimate way, she did not feel awkward or embarrassed. She felt safe and surprisingly protected.
Yet this man did not want to protect her. He had other intentions, having snatched her. Her cheeks flamed as she thought of the moment when he had seemed tempted to kiss her. And she had responded against her own will, almost permitting it. Responded not to the man who had taken her, but to the kinder man she sensed existed beneath the surly Highland brute.
She would not allow that to happen again.
Swallowing, she nodded, stepped back hastily. “Thank you.”
He bent, then scooped her into his arms and began to carry her away.
“Please—no—” she gasped.
He stopped. “Will you be ill again?”
“I—I do not think so. But do not carry me. It makes me feel ill, all that motion. And carrying me so far could hurt you.”
“You care about me wrenching my back?” He laughed and set her down. “Very well, if it makes you feel ill, we will conduct our business here. Neill!” he barked, looking over his shoulder. He spoke in Gaelic again. “The priest. We will wait here.”
She understood what he said. “No! I will walk. Where are we going? Why do you want a priest?”
“If you would walk, then keep step with me.” He did not answer the rest.
“I will.” She lifted her chin. “But I will not—” She dare not say the rest. Not yet. She stepped away, backed away, turned to run.
“Hey! Come back here.” He grabbed her arm, then drew a length of slender rope from inside the pouched folds of his belted plaid.
“Rope?” she asked, stunned.
“I see you do not want to come with me. I was prepared for that.”
“I did not want it then and do not now. Stop that!” He wrapped the rope snugly around one of her wrists, knotting one end around his wrist.
“My apologies,” he said quietly.
“You are mad!” She pulled; the leash tightened. “This is not necessary!”
“We cannot risk you running over these hills at night. You might get lost or hurt.”
“Oh, and you will not injure me, I suppose.”
“And I will not.” His answer was calm.
She could hate him for that mellow voice alone. His deep, true-pitched tone belonged to a king or a bard—too good, too beautiful, for such a rogue as he.
“Come ahead. We have a distance to go yet.”
