Page 39 of Stealing Sophie

“Where is your sister?” he asked then. “Duncrieff told me she would return to Duncrieff Castle this week. I knew Kate had gone to Edinburgh, so I thought he meant that. Where is Kate?” he repeated. How could he resolve this? His mind whirled.

“Aye, she was in Edinburgh last week. She met me when the ship that I was traveling on landed at Leith harbor.”

He raised a brow. “You came to Scotland but a week ago?”

“I have been in Belgium. I just sailed here from France with Mrs. Evans, my mother’s maid. She was the lady who was shrieking when you sank my escort.”

“I see. Is Kate in Edinburgh now?”

She shook her head. “She was going to London to see friends there. She said it had been arranged before she heard about Robert’s imprisonment, just before I arrived. Kate urged me to go on to Duncrieff with Mrs. Evans—and to keep my appointment with Sir Henry Campbell to ask if he could help. She would inquire what could be done for Rob before she left for London. Rob knew Kate would meet me in Edinburgh. He had promised to meet us there, too,” she added, covering her mouth to stifle a half-sob.

Connor sighed, reached into his sporran, drew out Duncrieff’s folded note. “I wonder who the devil your brother intended me to marry,” he muttered.

“He wrote my name. Not hers.” She extended her hand for the note, took it. “Look here. That is my name. And here, where part of your name is scratched out. K...n, and l. It says...Kinnoull?” She looked up.

“Kinnoull,” he confirmed.

“Then I wonder who the devil Robert intendedmeto marry,” she snapped. “Campbell of Kinnoull, it must be. You forced my brother’s signature.”

“Blast it! I did not. I am Kinnoull.”

“You! It says Glendoon here, with Kinnoull scratched out. Are you Sir Henry’s tenant or Duncrieff’s?”

“Later for all that. Are you sure your brother knows your full name?”

“What a ridiculous question.” She fisted her hand at her waist again.

Her tiny waist, which he had shaped with his hands. That lovely bosom now heaving in irritation, which he touched, tasted. Damnation. What now?

What had Duncrieff meant by this—was it a mistake, or deliberate? Rob must have known that Connor assumed the bride was Kate, yet he had not corrected that. He had said Connor was an ideal husband for his sister, being a Jacobite sympathizer who could look out for her safety. And he had mentioned that he did not want her to marry Sir Henry Campbell.

If Rob had meant to send Connor after Sophie, why not tell him? And why would he leave Kate unprotected if she needed it?

Connor knew little about Sophie. Only that this fairy-like creature was stubborn as a mule, nimble as a fox, could chatter like a parrot, and was so damned polite it could drive him mad. He knew liquor loosened her tongue and gave her the heart of a lioness. He knew she tasted like clear mountain water and felt like heaven in his arms.

“Sophia,” he said gruffly, trying out the name.

“Sophie. Miss MacCarran,” she added, lifting one brow.

He blew out a breath. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

“You do. But we are married now. And last night we...“ She looked away.

He sighed. Had they? Was the marriage consummated? “A while back, Duncrieff mentioned his sisters, called one a hellion, and the other—” He paused. “Saint Sophia.”

She scowled. “He used to tease me because I went to a convent school.”

“Convent.” He nearly groaned aloud. “A wee nun?”

“I spent six years in the English Convent in Bruges.” She stood before him, shoulders squared, hair glowing. Her breasts, full and luscious, rose and sank beneath the translucent gathers of her thin shift. He remembered the warmth and weight of her breasts in his hands.

“You do not look like a nun,” he finally managed.

“I am not a nun.”

“Novice, then.”

“I did not take vows. I was only educated there.”