Free Sarah Gabriel by To Wed a Highland Bride

them. James felt a sense of something eerie, even dangerous around them that seemed beyond the storm itself.
    Snatching her up in his arms despite her protest, he took the garden path in long strides. For some reason his leg hardly hindered him as he rushed over the strip of garden lawn and along a pathway lined with leggy marigolds and late pansies to reach the back kitchen doorway. The girl clung to his neck as he hurried.
    When thunder pounded again, for an instant James felt caught again in the nightmare of Quatre Bras. He had been with his Highland Watch regiment, defending ground against an onrush of French cuirassiers. The sensation startled him so that he rushed toward the door and opened it, nearly hurtling inside with the girl in his arms.
    In the corridor, the wolfhound and two terriers waited, shuffling back as James entered with the girl. He kicked the door shut behind him and carried the girl down the hall, past the kitchen, and up the back stairs to the parlor. The dogs trotted close and curious on his heels.
    Elspeth MacArthur was a sopping bundle, but lightweight and no burden, even on the steps. She fit in his arms like sin itself. Her curves eased against him, and a heavy pulse beat through him. Her face was so closeto his, her breath soft upon his cheek, her arm looped around his shoulders, the other resting on his chest.
    Heart slamming, he tried to focus on other matters. The slippery steps, the need to get the girl somewhere warm and dry, the slight ache in his left leg from a wound more than seven years old now. He had dropped his cane in the garden when he had lifted her up. And blast it all, he had lost his hat, and the rain had likely ruined a good woolen jacket.
    Mundane thoughts, he knew—but he needed them now. Anything to keep his mind off the delicious creature who leaned her head against him as if he were her savior. He, of all men, a rescuer—he almost laughed. These days he went out of his way to keep his life dull. This mad, rain-soaked adventure would soon be over.
    But what the devil was the lovely Miss MacArthur doing in his blasted garden?

Chapter 5
    U p steps and along a corridor, its polished wood floor reflecting the glow of creamy walls and brass sconces, James carried her into the drawing room. There, upholstered chairs were arranged beside a low fire in the grate. James set the girl down in a wingback chair and angled it toward the fireplace.
    The room was dim, and he grabbed a tinderbox to light the wicks of the candles in a brass candelabra. Then he turned. “We’d best get you warmed up. You’re soaked.”
    “So are you,” she said. “Sir, I do appreciate this, but I really must go.” She half rose from the chair, but shifted to stand on her right foot, favoring the left. “And I should not sit down anywhere. My things are wet and muddy, and will ruin the furnishings.”
    “My concern is not the upholstery, but you, Miss MacArthur. Sit, please.”
    She sighed, and sat. “I suppose I could stay until the rain lessens.”
    “At least that. My housekeeper would have my head if I let you go out again in such weather, and clearly injured.”
    “Mrs. MacKimmie? Aye, but she knows me, and knows I would leave if I wanted to do so. I’d best take off my plaidie, it’s that wet.” She shrugged out of the long, damp shawl, and James took it, draping it over a wooden bench beside the fireplace.
    “When my shawl dries, I can brush it clean,” she said, “but it could take hours for it to dry properly.” Looking dismayed she brushed ineffectually at her muddy skirt.
    Beneath the plaid, the girl wore a gown of pale cream muslin patterned in small florals with a little green jacket over it. Her bonnet was of straw, its white ribbons and lace ruching pitiful-looking now. Beneath it, her hair was so dark it seemed jet-black, and curled rather than flattened with dampness. Her gown, he noticed, was mud-splotched, and all her garments so wet that the fabric clung to her very