Sarah Gabriel by Stealing Sophie Page B

cold,” she said. “I’m tired. My shoes hurt, my skirts are damp, I am hungry. And I do not know where you are taking me. I do not even really know who you are!” She blurted the last bit in an irritated tone.
    With his left hand resting on his sword hilt, he held the rope taut in his right. “I suppose you want to rest for a bit.”
    “I want to go home. ”
    “That cannot be arranged.”
    “Then take me to your home, so that I can rest. Alone ,” she added. She sent him a dark glare in the moonlight.
    “I do not have a home.” He did not know why he said that. Customarily he kept his life and his feelings private—few needed to know his business, his thoughts, his heart.
    “None?” She looked astonished. “Even brigands and thieves have homes. Surely you have a house—even a hut or a cave.”
    “There is a place where I stay. I do not call it home.”
    “If it has walls and a hearth, it will do,” she said peevishly. “I just want somewhere to sleep. Somewhere safe. And I want a cup of tea.”
    Tea? Did she expect him to brew tea for her, rub her feet, sing her a bedtime lullaby? He extracted the flask from his plaid. “For now, another sip of uisge beatha will have to do for both of us.”
    She took the flask readily, tipped it to her lips.
    “Just a bit,” he warned, then retrieved it from her to take a long swallow himself, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
    He resumed walking, as she did. Then she hastened to catch up to him, rope swaying between them. “I beg your pardon, Mr. MacPherson,” she said. “I try not to surrender to my temper.”
    “You seem quite at ease with your temper,” he replied dryly.
    She glanced at him, her hair slipping loose of its braiding, her eyes wide. Connor glanced away, feeling guilty enough without that fey and beautiful gaze fixed on him.
    “Nonetheless, please forgive me. You have shown some kindness in this situation, and I do appreciate it.”
    Connor blinked, looked at her. Her apology seemed sincere. Not sure how to answer, he said nothing, acutely aware that he held her tether in his hand.
    “We don’t have far to go now,” he said, in lieu of accepting her apology. “Less than two miles.”
    She sighed, shoved back her hair, trudged onward. She looked spent and bedraggled, yet she had an elusive, luminous quality that he found fascinating. “Mr. MacPherson, I must rest soon, or you will have to drag me the rest of the way by this horrid rope, or carry me like a sack of wool.”
    He paused. “If you need to stop, there are some bushes over there—see the flowered ones? They will give you some privacy.”
    “I did not mean—oh, very well. But not with you holding this rope. Untie me, please.” She held out her wrist.
    He hesitated, then reached out to work at the knots. “For a moment only. If you think to run—”
    “I know very well what you would do. Thank you,” she murmured, as the rope loosened. “It’s kind of you.”
    He glanced at her warily, his hands stilling on hers. “You are quick with thanks where it is not necessary.”
    “I was raised to be polite—and my convent education taught me to express my appreciation for all things. It is a habit now.”
    “I see. Convent?” he asked curiously.
    “My father was exiled from Scotland years ago. My siblings and I were all educated in France and Flanders. My sister and I went to a convent school.”
    “Ah.” Kate and Robert MacCarran had returned to Scotland a couple of years ago, he knew. The other sister had stayed in the convent, he recalled. “I spent some time in France myself. Many Scots with Jacobite leanings have found their way there, or even to James Stuart’s court in Rome, at one time or another,” he added.
    “That’s true—our family certainly did,” she murmured while he worked the knots. “Where is your home, sir?”
    His fingers released the knot, but a gate closed within him. He did not want to tell her that he had grown up at Kinnoull House