Page 19 of Stealing Sophie

“Why did you bring me into the hills for this wedding? You could have found a church closer,” she whispered.

“Your brother wanted it done here, though I do not know why. A church is a church. Say your name, lass, for God’s sake,” he said between his teeth.

She frowned. His answer confirmed that Robert may truly want this marriage. Long ago, wedding unions in the MacCarran chief’s family had always been performed at Saint Fillan’s. She and Robert, and their sister Kate, had always thought to hold their weddings here, too, though the chapel had suffered from age and parish abandonment.

Keeping silent, delaying while her would-be groom glared down at her and the others stared, she realized then that marrying Robert’s choice for her–brigand or none–meant that she did not have to marry Sir Henry Campbell.

Bless Robert, she thought, for an ill-guided attempt to help her escape the burden of her future. Drawing a deep breath, she took the greatest chance of her life.

“Sophia,” she whispered hoarsely. “Katherine Sophia MacCarran.” Her brother had used her proper birth name in his note of permission. A further proof, though this MacPherson brigand did not seem to realize it.

The priest intoned on, and woodenly she repeated her vows. Connor MacPherson said his own vows, and the priest pronounced them man and wife.

Married.Her heart slammed, the world spun around her.

Connor MacPherson leaned down and kissed her. His lips were warm and gentle on hers, and though she did not return it, her limbs trembled and her heart thumped like a drum.

The shadowy chapel seemed to collapse around her. Sighing, she sank downward, and felt her Highlander grab her waist. She batted at him, and fought against fainting while he held her up, pulled her against him. She could not appear weak, not now. Courage–she had to find it, keep it. Above all, show it.

He led her outside, pushing her down to sit on a broken block of stone. “Breathe,” he said. “Slowly. Breathe.” He kept his hand on her shoulder.

Her breathing was rapid, panicked, and she struggled to suck in enough air. MacPherson’s hand on her shoulder was not entrapping, just lending strength.

She nearly hated him at that moment for such calm control while her own life reeled on an unknown course—all due to him. And her brother, she thought.

Turning, he spoke to the older Highlander–Neill, the man was called–who handed over a silver flask. MacPherson opened it, offered it to Sophie.

“Drink,” he said. She caught a waft of strong whisky.

“I do not imbibe hard spirits.” She pushed it away.

“It will revive you. I will not have you fainting away. This night is not yet over.”

She glanced at him, her heart pounding at the implication. In silence, she took the flask, touching it warily to her lips, swallowing. Feeling the first harsh burn in her throat, she coughed. A mellow taste and a bloom of inner heat followed, surprisingly pleasant. She swallowed again. Another cough, increasing heat. Relaxing a bit, she inhaled, breathed out fully.

“I do feel better. Thank you.”

“Go easy,” he murmured as she raised the flask to her lips a third time. He took it, drank some, tucked the flask in the folds of his plaid. Then he held out his hand.

Refusing his support, she stood shakily. The whisky had sparked a little strength in her. “What now?”

“Come with me,” he said, taking her elbow.