Sarah Gabriel, a former college instructor, has a Master's degree and most of a Ph.D. in medieval studies. An experienced writer and historian, her fascination for all things Scottish and her love of the romance genre led her to write historical romance. Of Scottish and Irish descent, Sarah has traveled extensively in Scotland and England. She has studied art, healing therapies, music, martial arts, archery, and falconry, and hopes to include all of those interests (and more) in future stories. She lives in Maryland with her husband, three sons, and a Westie.

Stealing Sophie

By Gabriel, Sarah

Avon Books

ISBN: 0060736097

Chapter One

Love makes its own magic.

Inscription on the Fairy Cup of Duncrieff

Scotland, Perthshire
Spring 1728

Connor MacPherson heard their approach longbefore they appeared. Thick fog and darknessobscured the glen and the hills, and sounds weredistorted. But the jangle of bridles, the creak ofleather, the thud of hoofbeats on the old drover'strack signaled the approach of the escort party.

His heart slammed suddenly, the long wait over.His left hand clenched the basket hilt of his sheathedsword. Katherine Sophia MacCarran -- Kate -- would soon be his bride, snatched away without warning,married swiftly. The marriage must be made thisway, whether either of them wanted it. The foldedpaper tucked inside his shirt contained her nameand his, a note signed by her brother, laird of Duncrieffand chief of Clan Carran.

He would honor Duncrieff's request. After all,Connor had caused the MacCarran to be capturedand imprisoned -- and rumor now said that he haddied a few days ago.

The pain of that cutdeeper than hewantedto admit.

Striding ahead, footsteps silently crushing browngrass and old heather, he glanced back at his twocompanions, who followed like graceless bears. Theirbelted plaids, pale shirts, and faces were blurred inthe shadows and mist, but he saw the gleam of pistolsand swords. Weapons were illegal for Highlanders tocarry now. He and his men carried them nonetheless.

Slipping behind the shelter of a cluster of tall, ancientstones, Connor waited for his comrades. He bentto pick up the folded extra plaid that he had earlierstored in this same spot in anticipation of this night'swork. Tucking the tartan cloth into the pocket formedby the folds of his own plaid, he turned.

"All is set?" he murmured in Gaelic.

"The ropes are in place," his ghillie, Neill Murray,replied. "And the priest is waiting at the old chapelin the hills."

Connor MacPherson nodded, watching as ghostlyveils moved over the glen. Poised to spring like awild cat, he could not even see his prey. He scowled,placed a hand on cool stone.

"This is a mere prank," his cousin, AndrewMacPherson, said. "We can do worse."

"No worse," Connor said. "We're inviting troubleenough."

"There are other ways to get a bride," Neillgrowled.

"None so fast as this," Connor replied quietly.

The chink and creak of saddles and the thud ofhooves sounded closer now. As the milky veilsdrifted apart, he saw the ribbon of the drover's trackfor only a moment.

But he knew the course of the moorland road likehis own hand, knew the placement of the two burnsthat poured down from the mountains to cross themoor. Even in obscuring mist he could gauge justwhere those bridges were, and how long it wouldtake the escort to reach them.

"Horses," Neill murmured as the sound grewlouder. "Two Highlanders on foot and two dragoonsescorted the lass and her maid when they left themagistrate's house."

"Aye," Andrew confirmed. "We saw them earlier.After they dined there, Sir Henry sent her homewith a military escort."

"Courteous of him," Connor drawled. "Sink themen and spare the ladies. Then slip away. If I'mcaught for bride-stealing, I'll hang alone."

"We're at your back as always, Kinnoull," Neillsaid.

Connor ignored the bitter tug in his heart. Kinnoull.He had the title still, but not the property. Thefact that Sir Henry Campbell inhabited his housenow seared like fire in his belly.

Motioning to his companions, he strode forwardcautiously. He would not crouch -- he was too tall aman for it, and too proud. He slipped behind an-other cluster of rocks and tilted his head to listen,hearing wind, water, the approaching escort. Hecould almost hear the hammer of his own heart.

He could still walk away, he told himself, and escapethis madness. Kate MacCarran was a fine,bold lass, and though he had seen her but once,he knew she had fire and spit in her. Her brotherhad confirmed that she was involved in Jacobiteespionage -- she would be a good match for an outlaw,though some might say that Connor MacPhersonwas no fit husband for a bride.

Foolishness, he told himself. He should not behere. On such a night, he should be sitting beside afireside with a dram and his fiddle, alone with hismusic and his lost dreams. But the urge to proceedfelt like a deep core hunger within, stronger eventhan his own unyielding pride.

The escort party came closer. Peering through thefog, Connor could just see the faint shapes of twoHighlanders walking, followed by the cloakedwomen riding, and finally the dragoons mountedbehind them.

He did not want a bride -- not yet, not this way. Butthat note bound him to an ill-omened promise, andhe always kept his word. Always, though the manwho had exacted this promise from him likely wasdead. All the more reason that Connor felt he owedhim, and his clan, this favor. Duncrieff had said thatthe girl must be stolen away and made a bride beforeothers could interfere.

Easing around the cluster of stones, Connor narrowedhis eyes. Not far ahead, to either side of thepatch of ground where he stood, two burns crossedthe glen, spanned by two wooden bridges. Through the fog he could see the escort party coming closer tothe first bridge.

Continues...
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