Highland Obsession (12 page)

Reminded that she’d escaped from Cam to come home to him, Alan winced at the clear pain in her movement. That simple fact warred with the bitterness of the betrayal swirling in him.

“No,” he said.

She looked up at him, blinking in surprise.

“You’re not to walk.”

“But—but I need to—” A flush pinked the slanted angles of her cheekbones.

Alan could not abide the thought of her walking outside on those swollen, damaged feet. It could worsen her injury, open her sutures . . . worse, it could cause her more pain.

In two long strides, he was at her side. Kneeling, he reached behind her knees and pulled her into his arms. She gasped and stiffened, but when he settled her against his body, she relaxed. Still, her expression was alarmed.

“This will hurt your back.”

“No.” His stitches pulled slightly, but they held. He looked down at her face, so close to his own. Her skin reminded him of English ivory rose petals—soft, supple, smooth, with a tinge of pink. “Will you be warm enough?”

“Aye.” Her voice was husky. “I’ll only be a moment.”

With her body nestled against his own, he carried her outside to the privy. The midday sun had risen high and peeked out between puffs of clouds, melting the earlier frost.

Within a few moments, she opened the wicker door and hobbled out. He swept her into his arms again and carried her back inside, where he gently set her beside the dining table so she could use it for support.

She unwrapped a meat pie brought from the wedding festivities last night. After she’d set the small table, she glanced up at him. “Would you like to eat?”

He shrugged and sat across from her, silent as she poured claret into their cups.

His wife shouldn’t be waiting on him like this. He’d wanted them to be out here alone for the first days of their marriage, unencumbered by servants, so he’d arranged to have fresh food brought to them daily. Soon his three small outbuildings would be brimming with families come down from the shieling.

He’d wanted these few weeks alone with her. He hadn’t thought about her serving him.

He groaned inwardly. Again, the need to take care of her, to protect her, nearly overcame him. It didn’t make sense, given that he now knew what she was.

He tossed down his wine. She looked up from beneath her eyelashes, and anger flushed through him again. He detested the innocent glances, the false primness in the way she sat across from him.

“More?”

He pushed his cup forward. Eyes downcast, she refilled it with the red liquid.

How would she sit for Cam? Naked, most likely. Had Cam made her touch herself for him? Squeeze those delicate fingers over her nipples while he watched? Press them between the lips of her sex and rub frantically until she came?

Alan blew out a breath. Such thoughts would drive him mad. His comfortable cottage suddenly felt oppressive. Anger and pain and arousal swirled within him, heady and hot and . . . Hell. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor as he pushed it backward. “I’ll be outside.”

She rose too. “May I go with you?”

He raked her body with his gaze—the long braid, the clinging shift, and finally the swollen, injured feet that made his chest clench. “You cannot.”

Hurt flared in her expression before her eyelids lowered so he couldn’t see the emotion behind her hooded eyes.

He pushed his chair away, pausing at the sound of her soft voice. “When will you return?”

“Later.” Tucking the edges of his plaid under his belt, he strode out of the warmth of his cottage and into the cold.

 

In a haze, Cam went through his morning routine. After he ate breakfast, he met with his factor and his steward to discuss castle business. He listened to Duncan natter about London fashion as he shaved Cam and adjusted his wig. The old man prattled on as if he hadn’t seen Cam shove his friend’s newly wed daughter into his bedchamber last night.

Had Duncan aided her in her escape? Cam studied his manservant. No, he doubted it. Quick-witted, brave Sorcha had accomplished the feat all on her own while most of the castle inhabitants, including Duncan, were fast asleep.

Cam studied himself in the mirror as Duncan powdered his wig. Sorcha, ever frank with him, had stated she liked him without it. She loved to run her hands through his short-cropped hair. The wig made him look like a haughty English aristocrat, but she preferred him
au naturel
. She preferred his earthier, baser attributes. She’d always regarded his more manly features with something like openmouthed wonder.

Women often lusted over Cam, but Sorcha was different—she’d liked him as a person too. She understood him in a way nobody in his life ever had. She knew what gave him pleasure, but even more important, she intuitively understood what gave him pain. Her reaction to him—not to his money or title, but
him
as a man and a human being—had made him puff up like a peacock flaunting his plumage. Whenever she was near, he’d felt valued. He’d felt loved.

Besides Alan, Sorcha was the only person who liked him unconditionally. God knew his family didn’t, especially his father, who on his infrequent visits to London had spent more time with Alan than he had with his own son.

“Did Alan MacDonald come here last night?” he asked his manservant abruptly.

Only the slightest falter in his movements marked Duncan’s discomfiture. “Aye, milord. Whilst you were here with . . . Mrs. MacDonald.”

Cam gritted his teeth at the implication Duncan made by stating her name in the precise way he did. “What happened?”

“The guards attempted to turn him away. He injured Rory MacAdam, milord.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Aye. The doctor has seen to him. MacDonald’s sword pierced a bit o’ fat in his side.”

Damn it
. His own mad actions had caused blood to be shed. “And what happened?”

Duncan shrugged. “Alan would have gladly brought about his own demise to gain entrance. So I convinced him to go home.”

Cam raised a brow. “How?”

“I only needed to point out the stupidity of his approach”—Dun can’s lips quirked—“and then direct one of the men to cudgel him over the head.”

Cam sighed. Knowing Alan, it shouldn’t be surprising that he would fight to the death for his new wife. But would he have been so willing to die for her if he’d known how long she’d shared Cam’s bed?

Duncan chewed his lip. “If I might ask, milord. Where’s the lass now?”

Cam tried to appear unaffected. “Gone home, I imagine.” He thought of several addendums to add to that comment, words like, “I was finished with her, you see,” but not only were they lies, they made her look like an object, a whore.

He thought of the defiance in her eyes. No, Sorcha was neither object nor whore.

God, how he needed her.

When Duncan finished with him, Cam left his chamber and headed for the stables, determined to mount his horse and fly back to Alan’s. He’d take her again, capture her from her bed if he had to kill Alan to do it—

Cam’s step faltered, and then he paused on the gravel path, staring bleakly at the gray stone wall of the stables. As prideful and arrogant as he was, he saw those features in himself and understood them for what they were. He knew, unlike many of his station, that there existed better men in the world than he, and that many of his betters were born into stations below his own.

Like Alan.

Just then, a flurry of activity pulled his attention toward the entrance to the adjoining kitchen. He turned as MacLean appeared from behind the heavy wooden door, holding a dripping cloth to his face and looking rather the worse for wear.

“What happened to you, MacLean?” Cam growled.

“The bastard broke my jaw,” the big man whined. “And my gut too.”

Cam resisted rolling his eyes heavenward. Goddamn if MacLean wasn’t imposing as hell, but he possessed the pain tolerance of an infant.

“I doubt that, MacLean. Has the doctor taken a look?”

“Aye, yer lordship. He says they’re naught but bruised. But I know he’s wrong. I know it!”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Quick as a sprite on his feet, he is,” the big man grumbled.

Cam almost smiled. Alan was by no means the faster of the two of them, but the man possessed a mean skill with his fists. A Highland youth was forced to be a fighter when sent away to England and faced with the cruelty of the schoolboys. Cam had rescued Alan only once—when he first arrived in England, a group of boys jumped him and broke his nose. After that, Alan had quickly learned to fight and was soon Cam’s equal in skill. By then, though, Alan had earned the boys’ respect and admiration, and brawling was no longer necessary.

Cam nodded soberly. “Yes, it’s true he’s quick. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

MacLean looked abashed that Cam had dared use him to fight Alan at all, and Cam put a hand on his shoulder. “You did well, man. Take pride.”

MacLean straightened, giving him a gap-toothed smile. “I did well, milord?”

“You did indeed. Now go fetch a fresh cloth for your bruise. You may take the rest of the day for your leisure.” With another pat on his back, Cam let the giant go.

He turned back toward the stables, then paused again.

Alan could have killed Angus MacLean but he’d shown mercy. Honorable Alan. His friend. They’d been closer than brothers for nearly twenty years.

Cam flattened his palm against a cool, flat stone and closed his eyes, listening to the nickering of horses inside.

Sorcha
.

He must let her go. Alan’s strict code of honor wouldn’t let him give her up, even if he did discover the truth of her past with Cam. Even if he never cared for her like Cam did, he’d hold on to her until death, if only for his blasted Highland honor.

Cam had been out of his mind last night, and what he’d done was wrong. He’d caused them pain, and only because of his own spoiled, selfish need for her.

He
did
need her.

But she was Alan’s now.

Repeating that to himself over and over like a papist’s Hail Mary, he turned away from the stables and went to the barracks to see to his injured guardsman.

 

“Hold your hands up.”

Dusk settled over Loch Shiel, quiet but for the soft swoosh of a misty rain falling on the water. All was serene except the simmering tension inside Alan MacDonald’s cottage. He’d been absent the first day of their marriage, leaving Sorcha to her own devices. Unfamiliar with the aching feeling of loneliness tightening her chest, but not one to sit idly, she’d oriented herself in her new home. She had tidied the bedroom, scrubbed the already spotless hearth, and set about baking bannocks. Cooking was not a skill she knew well, having been raised at Camdonn Castle with its skilled kitchen staff.

The first batch was hard as bricks, but she’d coated the second with custard, and they’d come out edible, even rather delicious. Smiling at her achievement, she’d set them aside for later.

In the afternoon Moira came, along with their brothers, to bring food and see to her foot. No sooner had Moira given up on Alan and gone home than he’d reappeared, tired and wet to the bone. He’d eaten supper, making no comment on her bannocks but eating all of them, a fact that gave her a small measure of pride. Then he’d gone to sit on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, and she’d made the command for him to hold up his hands.

He dropped his ties and looked up at her. “What did you say?”

Sorcha licked her lips. She might not be virginal, but she was no cocky whore brazenly flaunting her wares, either. She desperately wished to please this man. He was her husband, and she wanted to bring him back to her side.

Alan looked at her with disdain. When he focused those sky blue eyes on her, she felt like a parched flower withering in bright sunlight. As if he scrutinized her, stripped bare, exposed and naked . . . and found her lacking.

Cam had never looked at her this way. He’d gazed on her with interest. With lust. Even with affection. But it seemed too much to ask from her husband. It hurt, but she deserved it. In his place, pride would compel her to behave the same way.

Sorcha plunged ahead. “I said, lift your hands. Moira was here earlier, and she said I must clean your wound and change the dressing. I’ll remove your shirt.”

He studied her in silence for a long moment, and she realized he was exhausted. His eyes drooped slightly at the corners, and deep lines were etched into the sides of his mouth. His color wasn’t as bright as usual, and his thick curls hung limply at his shoulders.

Last night he’d been married, taken her in carnal relations, had her stolen from his house, defeated Cam’s henchman, ridden to Camdonn Castle, and tried to fight Cam’s guards before finally being subjected to Mary MacNab’s brutal doctoring. Moira had told Sorcha the whole story. He hadn’t slept, except for the hours he’d been unconscious due to his head wound. And from the looks of it, he hadn’t slept all day either.

He tore his gaze from hers, turned his back to her, and rigidly lifted his arms.

She rushed to help him with his shirt, trying not to wince at the dull pain when she added weight to her foot. Moira had brought her a crutch, but in her haste, she forgot to use it.

Standing behind him, she reached around to untie the strings holding the neck of his shirt closed. Her fingers fumbled and tightened the knot, and his hands closed over hers, gently prying her fingers away. Allowing her arms to fall to her sides, she clenched her teeth. How many times had she easily stripped Cam’s shirt off him?

Best not to think of that now.

Alan finished loosening the ties, and she grasped the hem of his shirt. He shifted to take his weight off the fabric so she could lift it. She inched it up his wide torso, trying not to ogle his body. He was a beautiful specimen of a man. Strong, solid, his muscles defined in relief. Like Cam, he had very little fat on his body, but whereas Cam’s muscles were lithe and sleek, Alan’s bulged, etched under his skin as if by the blade of a sculptor. His innate strength almost frightened her, and would have had she not already seen his gentle nature. Both Alan and Cam exuded masculinity, but in such different ways.