Sarah Gabriel (23 page)

“Well…” she said. “Well…” She stepped forward.

“But you must promise to stay with me.”

She was beginning to think she would go with him anywhere. “What’s this about?” she asked as she fell into step beside him. The three dogs scampered ahead, barking.

“I need to take the dogs into the hills tonight, and I’ll be gone for a while. I thought you might like to
come along.” He glanced at her. “You like lambs, don’t you?”

“Not to eat,” she said.

He chuckled. “I’m taking the dogs out tonight to look for fox dens. It’s lambing time for the hill sheep now, and we run the dogs out into the hills often at night, to frighten the foxes away from the new lambs and the flocks. Roderick and Padraig usually do this, but now and then I take a turn.”

“Hunting foxes? Oh no,” she said, slowing. “I do not want to see that.” She glanced at him. “You did not bring your pistol.”

He clapped a hand to his belt. “I have my dirk hidden here—I always have that. But there’s no need for pistols tonight. There are only hill sheep and mountain goats—and foxes up here. And we’re not hunting them. The dogs have a job to do.”

“Killing foxes? No,” she said, pulling back.

“You’re a tender wee thing, Saint Sophie,” he said, and his hand rested on her shoulder. “Do not worry. The dogs will just guard the flock, and put up such a commotion with their barking that no foxes will dare come near. They are good, loyal wee warriors, these dogs,” he said. “The terriers are what we used to call earth dogs in the Highlands—they follow the trails of the foxes down into the dens if they must, to make certain the wee beasties will not come out to harm the lambs or any in the fold.”

“The foxes have cubs at this time, too,” she pointed out.

“Aye, they do, which is why they want to feed their little ones. And I want to protect my wee ones, too.”

Her heart stirred unaccountably. “The lambs?”

He nodded. “At lambing time, the newborns are tiny, and make a tempting meal for foxes. We bring the dogs out regularly at night at this time of year. Foxes are smart—they learn to keep away. And if they do not, well—that task is up to the dogs.”

“Oh,” she said in dismay.

“It’s just Nature at work, lass.”

“I know,” she said. The shadows were long now, and deep, as they climbed the slope through long heather that in sunlight would show greening tips. Somewhere nearby she heard the burble of a rushing burn, like music in the fading light. Looking up, she saw three deer silhouetted on a far hillcrest.

She drew her breath, taking in the sweet, peaceful air. Turning, she looked down into the glen far below, where a loch and the river reflected the sky and the moon, and behind the hills the last violet glow of the twilight faded.

“This is nothing like the last time we were out walking the hills together,” she said, and gave a sigh of contentment.

Connor laughed softly and set his hand at her waist as they mounted the incline. The dogs caught a trail and ran off, barking. After a moment Connor left her side and followed the dogs, ascending the hill ahead of her.

His dark hair fluttered in the breeze, his shirtsleeves showed pale, and his dark plaid rippled as he walked. She admired the length of his stride, the strength and grace of it. And she found herself smiling a little, private, glad smile.

The sheep were scattered all along this hill and the next, milky blurs in the darkness, the adults stodgy
and darker, their fuzzy-coated lambs small and sweet where they leaped about here and there. Sophie stood watching them for a while, laughing at their antics. Looking up, she saw Connor standing on the ridge of the hill, watching the dogs who had disappeared down the other side.

He was right, she thought. She needed to be out here on this beautiful night in the open, with the long bowl of the glen below, water shining like sheened steel, the hills dark and majestic. The sky was wide and beautiful, sparkling with stars above the lavender haze left by the setting sun.

She turned again, realizing that Connor had stepped out of sight. The dogs barked in the distance now, the sound muted and earnest.

He had given her a perfect chance to flee, she thought. She could easily run in any direction from here, and he might never see the path she took.

Yet she realized that ever since he disappeared over the hill, she had missed him. She felt strangely out of sorts without him near her now.

Resting against a large boulder on the hillside, she watched the sweet lambs and their truculent parents, and felt a sense of freedom such as she had never known before—for she made a choice in that moment for herself, perhaps the first in many years.

S
triding over the hilltop, Connor looked down and felt a sharp sense of relief to find Sophie still there, waiting. He had half expected her to be gone. The slight breeze ruffled her hair, blowing golden strands free. His heart beat hard, fast, with deep excitement as he descended the slope. Somewhere behind him the dogs barked, busy with their task.

Three rams watched the scene from up above, lined along the hillcrest like an honor guard. The rest of the sheep grazed here and there along the slope. Some of the ewes watched their lambs, and others stood patiently while their newborns nuzzled at them.

Connor felt his heart swell with feeling. As it swept him along in its course, he walked toward Sophie purposefully, passionately. When he reached
her side, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

The night had a quiet beauty, never silent—the wind shushed and the burn bubbled; he heard the liquid trill of a curlew and the soft bleating of the lambs. But he was utterly silent as he drew Sophie toward him, bent and kissed her.

Pulling her hard against him, he gave in to the yearning that had grown so strong in him. He wanted to feel her body answer his, craved it hungrily, as he had craved the air of the high hills and the stars overhead tonight. Out here, away from the ruined castle he rented, away from the life he lived and the life he had lost, he was just a shepherd, a farmer. He was not a brigand or a rebel with something to prove, something to pursue. He was more purely himself here than anywhere.

And when he was with her, he felt more completely himself. He captured her mouth with his own, cupping her face with his hands. As she returned his kiss fervently, he slid an arm around her and pulled her to him at the waist.

Her arms looped around his neck and she pressed herself tightly against him, and he pressed back in some instinctual effort to express the fierceness of the demand he felt, though that only increased its force. He kissed her more avidly, exploring, compelled, seeking satisfaction, striving to give the same to her. She arched her hips against him now, opened her mouth beneath his, and he tasted the sweet, moist tip of her tongue, while his body throbbed and pulsed against her.

Keeping a hand at her waist, he eased the other hand down her back, her arm, let his fingertips tease along her upper breast, letting her know the direc
tion of his desire. As he moved his fingertips, every fiber of his body responded to touching hers. She leaned back her head and accepted his kiss again, deeper this time, a slow massage of the lips, a sweeping of tongues, pressing bodies so close, yet not close enough, never close enough.

He felt no hesitation in her, only the heat of her own passion heightening his own. Sensing the rapid drumming of her heart, he felt his own heartbeat increase.

No words were uttered between them—there were no words for this, and none needed. She angled herself to allow his touch, to welcome it, and she soothed her own hands over him.

As he swept his hand over her breast, he felt her nipple tighten, even beneath the stiffness of her undergarments. He felt himself shudder and burn, and he had to have more, much more, if she would let him.

Dropping down with her to the heather-clad hillside, he felt the slide of her body along his own. He came to his knees with her and sank lower, falling gently to lie with her just where the grass was thick and greening, heather clumps surrounding them. Far off, sheep bleated, the dogs barked, the wind shushed past. He thought about none of it.

Lightning struck through his body as he pulled her against him where they lay on the cushion of the earth. Her palms flattened over him, sliding along his back and down, tucking under the plaid, her hands warm and soft and bold, and he sucked in a fast breath and angled away—not yet. Not yet.

The fervent need to feel her, taste her, plunge deeply into her and release his passion and her own now overwhelmed him. Desire felt like a living em
ber within him, and he was compelled to burn to its will. Her lips beneath his were urgent, needful, glorious and willing.

The dark cotton gown she wore closed simply at the front, and his fingers worked the buttons, while her fingers, too, pulled at the laces of her undergarments, so that soon—faster than he knew—fabric parted and her body emerged, pale and smooth and beautiful in the purple light. She lay beside him clad in chemise and stays, and soon those, too, came away.

Within moments he unpinned his plaid and unwound it to wrap both of them in its folds. He cradled her there against him, the kiss of skin to skin warm and miraculous. He closed his eyes, savoring, grateful—truly grateful—that she was here with him, and that they were not in the castle where he had kept her confined, or in the bed that had belonged to his family.

Out here, in the hills, they were truly alone, and truly themselves, and choices could be made, passions unleashed, that might never find expression in the ruined castle, with its broken dreams and trapped hopes.

His need to take her, to make her his own, was powerful now, irresistible, for she did not protest. She had shown him with silent kisses and caresses that she wanted this, too. She wanted this as much as he did, and his heart soared. He wanted to give her back a little of what she had given him, tender pleasure and unexpected delight—and something more that he still could not name.

And he wanted to say that he was sorry for so much—for causing the loss of her brother and the
threat to her clan, for bringing her fear and pain and grief, when all he had wanted to do was protect her, keep her safe, and keep his word.

He touched his tongue to her lips and she opened for him there, and he yearned for her, with the cool wind upon him and the hard earth beneath him. He slipped his hands over her naked body freely, marveling, savoring the smooth sheen of her skin and the lush grace of her curves, the weight and feel of her breasts, so perfect for his hands. And he felt the longing within her like a match for his own.

He drew back, rested his brow against hers, his breathing as ragged as hers, and forced himself to speak, knowing there was something that must be said, though her heart beat fast beneath his hand and her hips surged against his and he knew the answer.

“If we are to ensure the sanctity of this marriage,” he said, “and if we…” He paused, slid his hand beneath her breast, the softness there a fascinating distraction. “…if we are to secure your inheritance and the welfare of your clan—”

“Then we should go on,” she whispered.

“If you like.” He could scarcely think for the pulsing of his body and blood, for the drumming of his heart.

“Connor,” she whispered, and it was all the permission he needed. He slid his hand to cup her breast, and she inhaled quickly and closed her eyes, leaning her head back, opening her throat to his kiss. And he knew that she was still able to trust him utterly—in this, at least.

Dipping his head, he traced his lips along her throat, drew downward and lightly teased her nipple with his tongue. She arched suddenly, gasping. Licking lightly, he slipped his hands down.

She was so delicate, so smooth, so small at the waist and taut and firm across the belly, and as he glided his touch over her skin, he felt the ridges of her rib cage, then up again to cage her breast in his fingers. Her nipple was tight and pliable as he encircled it with his fingers, found it again with his lips, and she pulled in her breath and pleaded against him with her hips. Her arms came up his back, down again to cup the mound of his buttocks, her fingers rucking under the enveloping plaid. Then they skimmed, cool and questing, over his thigh until she discovered him, touched him.

He caught his breath, felt himself fill further, harden, the feeling in his groin hot and heavy and insistent. Kissing her breast, he nuzzled, traced and teased and warmed his breath over one, then both. With one hand, she sank her fingers deeply into his hair, and he felt shivers all through him.

She let her knee slide inward, pressing against his groin, kneading, drawing out, a sort of pleading rhythm that her fingers echoed, sweeping over his taut member, stoking the fire in him until he could not think.

Then he slipped downward, tracing his mouth in a heated path along her flat abdomen, and he found her, clefted and warm, and so moist that when he eased his fingers into her, he closed his eyes and groaned against her. She moaned a breathy answer and arched, so that his fingertip slid easily over her delicate folds, circling, teasing, until he knew she burned with him.

Gasping, she trembled as he touched her, and her fingers clenched in his hair. He lifted his head and touched his lips to her breast, drew in the nipple,
and felt her quiver in his hands now, opening, writhing, seeking.

He felt her heart race, sensed the strong rhythm of the passion within her, and she moved against him like a wave of the sea, and he knew she was ready, knew it from the slickness he felt, from the sweet arch of her back and the quickening of her breath.

And he could bear it no longer, holding back to let her soar first. Shifting, he set his weight upon his hands, palms flat upon the earth, upon the hills from which he so often drew strength. A fierce need swept through, threatening to overtake reason and being. He was starved for her, and yet he waited, paused above her, looked at her.

She was so beautiful, the loveliest creature he could ever imagine, and her passion enflamed his own. When she parted her legs and rocked toward him—her need as desperate now as his—when she wrapped her hand around the hard, ready length of him and guided him within her, she made the choice herself.

He had waited for that, though it nearly slayed him to do so, and he gazed down into her beautiful eyes, their clarity bright even in the dimness. He squeezed his eyes shut then, shifted, felt her move in perfect agreement. She slipped over him, gloved him within her moist heated sheath, and he felt the force inside him build, then flare through him like the release of lightning.

The power overtook him, and he lost all thought, thundering through that magnificent need, that joyful force of being. He grabbed her hard against him and felt her move with him, teasing even more power out of him in a crashing wave of passion. Her
soft cries fell into rhythm with his own breathing, and the feeling pounded through him like a dark storm.

Then the force abated and peacefulness replaced it, sweeping in like sweet air after the thunder. He sank upon her, sheened with sweat, the plaid wrapped around them both like a cocoon. Her arms were about his waist, her head tucked against his shoulder, her kisses tender upon his lips, and he kissed her with the remaining hunger he had—and found it was not waning lust, but something different, enduring, cherishing.

He rolled with her in his arms, inside the plaid, and just held her. She held him, too, and he had never felt so good, so complete, wanting for nothing, wrapped in love. She belonged in his arms. She felt like home.

Closing his eyes, he tucked her against him, treasuring the silence and the peace that had been created between them. And he slept.

Connor awoke, shivering, to the bleating of a sheep and the insistent press of a nose. Raising his head, he realized that it was hours later, for dawn glowed pale behind the hilltops. Raising his head, he glanced around, taking care not to disturb Sophie, who lay with her head tucked on his outstretched arm.

Nearby, one of the ewes pushed at his foot as she grazed at the grasses, two lambs beside her. Connor propped his knee to allow her to reach the tender new grasses covered by the plaid.

The dogs lay asleep, curled together, Una’s back warm against his leg. God, he was cold, he thought, shivering again.

Sophie slept close beside him, but he realized then that she had rolled in her sleep, taking much of the plaid with her. Naked, much of his back and shoulder exposed, Connor shuddered in the dawn chill and tugged at the plaid. Still sleeping, she did not relinquish it.

He smiled to himself and shifted, tucking her against him, the two of them like spoons, and eased the plaid around to cover both of them. As her body’s heat restored warmth to him, and the dogs nestled closer and snuffled in their sleep, he heard the bubbling cry of a cuckoo far off.

He closed his eyes to sleep a little more, just a bit, for this moment was the greatest contentment he had ever known.