Page 14 of Stealing Sophie

The wind was cool and fresh, rippling through her hair, and she breathed in, savoring the scents and the raw earthy strength of the hills. All the years she had been on the Continent, she had greatly missed Scotland. Tonight, for the first time, she was beginning to feel she had truly come home—even in the company of this Highland stranger.

Suddenly she felt like his equal, not his captive. Power and passion flowed through her like a rill of water pouring down a mountainside. The fairy gift seemed to stir in her, the power that gave her the talent to bring flowers to life in gardens, a talent she otherwise had suppressed. She had longed for adventure in a sheltered life, and now this Highlander, in a matter of hours, challenged her to find courage, to fight for her freedom. Something stirred and awakened in her, in his presence.

Again she touched the fairy crystal on its chain at her throat, a constant reminder of her secret obligation. To protect that gift of magic—rumored magic, a legend, for who could know for certain?—she had hidden in the convent. She had buried her innermost yearnings, tried hard, learned to cultivate peace. But she had not found true peace or fulfillment there. She yearned for more in life and was sure it existed somewhere.

The Highlander held out his hand to assist her over some rocks. Sophie stumbled as she stepped through, and he caught her against him.

Her arm looped naturally around his neck, her body pressed against his. Feeling his hard torso, she looked up, stunned by a warm thrill. His fingers, cupped at her waist, slipped inadvertently inside the gap in her stays as he helped her gain her balance.

The shock of that warmth, skin to skin, caught her by surprise. She gasped. He looked down at her, held her steady.

“Just what,” she said, “do you intend to do with me, sir?”

His grip on her waist tightened. Slowly he leaned down, brushed his nose against hers while her heartbeat slammed. Then his lips touched hers.

The kiss was tender, warm, and so quick, as if it had not happened, and yet she stretched up, wanting more. She should have been insulted, alarmed. He pulled back, and she only stared, stunned.

Then she reached up to slap him. He grabbed her free hand, pushed it down, took up the rope. Silently he turned to lead her through a pocket of mist. She followed in silence, heart pounding fiercely, angry with him, with herself for being submissive. She thought she had no choice—yet she did not feel strongly threatened. Only puzzled.

After a moment, he slowed and turned. “I beg your pardon, Miss MacCarran.”

“Wh–what?” She blinked.

“I beg your pardon,” he repeated. “That was poorly done.”

“Well,” she said. “Good, then.”

He grunted, lengthened his stride, forcing her to run to keep up. Her gown rustled like a whipping wind. Bewildered, she wondered if he apologized for a swift, gentle kiss, or for setting a pace she was hard-pressed to match.

Abducted, dragged about, kissed by a man whose name she did not even know, Sophie felt the spark of irritation bloom to fire. Her entire world had gone topsy-turvy in the space of a few hours, and all he did was apologize.

Bunching her skirts with one hand, she did her best to keep step. When he halted on the ridge of the next hill, she closed her eyes, breathed slowly, lifted her face to drink in the cool, brisk mountain air.

The Highlander touched her arm. Sophie opened her eyes.

Ahead, she saw a chapel.