Page 113 of Stealing Sophie

Sophie was already running, splashing along the lapping edge of the stream, stumbling over rocks and roots, going to her knees, rising again, running through mud and muck. He sat, waiting, watching. He pushed fingers wearily through his hair. His shirt was pale in the moonlight, his plaid dark. Then he smiled, a pale flash amid the grime and the shadows.

Nearing him, she fell to her knees. He reached out to pull her toward him, and she looped her arms around his neck, crying, laughing. Connor lowered his head, pressed his wet cheek to hers, mud and water dripping from him, from her.

“The others?” he asked.

“They are well. But—” She drew back. “Campbell. He was...floating in the water.”

“Then I am sorry for the fellow, though he made that trouble for himself.”

“He did indeed. Oh, Connor.”

“I am thinking,” he murmured, “I should speak with General Wade myself, and come to some agreement with him.”

“But he could have you arrested,” she said.

“It is a risk. But he is a reasonable man, and he knows me. I believe he trusts me. If I can regain Kinnoull, the title will hold some weight with him, which may hold sway over certain other matters. Duncrieff and I may be able to come to some agreement with Wade. We can promise no more explosions—without claiming who was responsible for them—if this glen can be left off their map.”

“That would be miracle and sacrifice all in one if such is possible.”

“Would that satisfy the fairy legend, Mrs. MacPherson?” He cupped her cheek. “I love you. I hope you know it.”

“I do,” she whispered, touching his jaw, combing his wayward hair away from his blue eyes. “And I know it is true love. The fairy crystal brought you back to me.”

“We had better think of something to sacrifice, just to be sure. Perhaps this ruined gown—we should put it into the fire.”

She patted the sopping plaid over his shoulder. “And this plaidie. When we get home, we will do that, and pray it pleases the fairies.”

He laughed, low and soft, a sound that made her heart dance, a sound with music and joy in it, and all the promises she could ever want, fulfilled there. “Surely you do not believe that fairy nonsense, madam.”

“I might. But I trust in miracles, after this night. We must go home, now,” she said, taking his hand. “Please, I want to go home.”

“Home, aye,” he murmured, and kissed her, deep and full and sticky with mud.

She knew, as she tilted her face to meet his kiss, that more than one miracle had come of this night, of these last weeks—her love, her husband, was safe, and her brother too, and all the lads that were there for them. Whatever sacrifice might come would be worth all that. The fairy gift might yet turn itself around and about, as fairy gifts will do, and bring even more miracles. She felt it would be so.

As she stood and helped him to his feet, a thought occurred. She paused. “Oh!”

“Are you hurt, lass?”

“No, I just thought of something! I did not quite understand it before. But it all came clear just now.”

“And what is that?”

“I thought of the cup. The Duncrieff cup. Its motto.”

He nodded, setting an arm around her shoulders. “Just so. It is a fine motto. We will adopt it for our own family—yours and mine, love, that we make between us.”

She smiled, walking beside him along the grassy bank in the moonlight. Ahead, her brother, and their kinsmen friends waited.

Love makes its own magic.

Just so, she thought.