Page 99 of Stealing Sophie
“Later,” he said gruffly, and took her by the shoulders to kiss her, so that her head dipped. She stood near on a level with him seated, and her breasts were just there, so close and tempting, and he dipped his head, traced kisses, dipped further. He drew the linen sheet from her, dropped it to the floor. And tasted her breast, felt her weaken, sink, while he heightened like a flame. Pushing at him gently, she urged him to wait, rest. He could not. “Come here.”
The bench was next to the wall, and he leaned back, pulling her to his lap, she in her wet gown. He pushed it up. She gave up then, no more attempts to delay or convince him. She laughed a little in relinquishing, in agreeing, and faced him, straddling. He splayed his hands around her waist, traced over her back, the creamy skin, the delectable curve of her hips. He teased at her breasts as she arched back, pressing down into him. God, she felt good, soft and smooth, damp and warm. Smelled good, too, all lavender soap and woman, and that made him urge hard against her. Shifting, she found him, writhed, sank upon him. His breath caught, body burning, and she felt it too, gasping. He slid his fingers downward, finding her, wanting to make sure for her, too.
For this certainty of heart and soul was overtaking him, and before it pounded through, he wanted her there with him. Always there, with him, in every way. Then he lost himself utterly to her, rocking with her, spirit shuddering through him, through her, his love.
Then he was back where he began, on the bench with his back pressed to stone and his wife in his arms. And he knew he would never be the same again.
Now he knew he was no longer the man he had been only weeks ago. He had moved on, moved ahead, and she was the gentle, shining force that brought him out of the shadows.
The quaverof the bow upon the string soothed him, released him. He felt the music rise up, flow through. As he played, he blended with the music more than he gave it thought, created it more than played it. When the melody took him like this, it was as if the soul of the music expressed its joyful existence through his hands and his bow upon the fiddle. In those moments, he felt washed clean, peaceful, forgiven. The past faded, the present brightened, the future became possible. The music brought hope each time.
Now he saw her face in his mind, saw her smile and heard her laugh. That same sense that came to him when he played certain airs came over him. He felt loved and loving. The music swayed through him, the tones resonated, he played without thinking, his mind free. The music’s poignancy was the sound of the wind, rising and falling. He heard the exquisite touch of grace notes, tugging at his heart. He thought of her again, the curves and planes of her body, and stroked with the bow as he would stroke her, gently, lost in the lure of it.
As the last note faded, he set the fiddle on its side, set the bow upon the upper edge, and turned.
She stood in the throat of the stairwell, her eyes wide. The wind feathered her hair, feathered his in turn. She wore a shift and the damask robe, rumpled from its soaking and drying the other night. She pressed a hand to her chest.
“So it is you,” she said. “The ghost of Glendoon.”
He nodded. She came toward him, and he waited beside the parapet, wind billowing his shirtsleeves, rippling his plaid, lifting his hair along his shoulders.
“That was beautiful, Connor. There is such heart in the music when you play.”
He shrugged. “I come up here now and then to keep intruders away. That is all.”
“It is more than that. Mary said that the ghost who haunts this place keeps the soldiers away from here. But your music is too lovely. It would lure visitors to want to hear more. It lured me here,” she added.
“Down on the slopes, it sounds like a dreadful caterwauling, according to Neill and Andrew,” he drawled. “The roar of the falls changes it, so it sounds like a haunting.”
“It is haunting, but I could not keep away. It is inexpressively beautiful. Each time I hear it, I am drawn to it, but I did not dare climb the steps. It was not the music, but the idea of meeting a ghost that sent me away. Tonight I found a little courage.”
He smiled. “You always had that, my girl.” He touched her cheek. She tilted her face into his palm for a moment. Then he turned to put the fiddle away.
“Oh, not yet,” she said. “I want to hear more. Do you play reels and jigs, too, as well as airs? Do you play for ceilidhs?”
“I can and I have, but it has been a while. It is a solitary thing for me now, this music.” Instead of putting away the instrument, he set it on his shoulder, lifted the bow, then paused, tapping his foot and waiting for the tune to come to him.
He chose a jig with a constant, joyful, simple rhythm. Sophie swayed, smiling, then began to clap. He walked about, stepping around the broken stones in the small, collapsed room, turning to look out through the broken wall at the pewter sky just before dawn light. When the song was done, he lowered the instrument.
She was smiling, arms wrapped around herself, the robe filling in the breeze. “Where did you learn to play? In Paris, when you went to school there? Or did you have a music master at home?”
“I learned by ear, mostly, and from an older cousin who had learned from his father, the notorious James MacPherson. He was my great-uncle. Have you heard of him? No? He had gypsy blood and was a fiddler as famous for his misdeeds as for his music. Have you heard ‘`MacPherson’s Lament?’”
He played a little of it for her, the lilt and sadness in it that always touched him. He lowered the bow. “But Jamie MacPherson was caught for his rascal ways and sentenced to hang. Before his execution day, he wrote that tune and played it for the crowd who came to watch him die. He moved them all to tears. Then he offered to give his fiddle to anyone brave enough to take it from him. No one would. He broke it in half moments before the noose was set around his neck. The irony of it is, there was a pardon on its way for him,” Connor added. “But he had an enemy in the sheriff, who saw the rider approaching, and made sure MacPherson was dead before his pardon arrived.”
She gasped. “How horrible! Jamie sounds a good man for a rascal.”
“Some of us are, on one side of the family. The other side can be rather dull.” He winked, and she laughed. “My father had that sort of boldness in him, though he was a titled peer and a good laird to his people. I hope I have some of it as well.”
“You do,” she said.
He played again, the melody he had written for her this time. She moved in a gentle dance, eyes closed. He smiled as he played the music that made him feel loved and loving, music played from the heart.
Usually, he played music alone, but now she was here to listen, and it made all the difference. That brightened the tunes somehow, in the same way she brought brightness into his life, with her smiles and her temper and her honesty and her touch for growing things. She made his rented ruin feel like a home.
And she was a balm for loneliness, bringing comfort as well as fire into his bed and his heart. He had not meant for any of this to happen, but it had, and there was no further resisting. All he had to do now was keep her.
When he set the instrument down, he felt the chill wind of morning blow past.
