Highland Obsession (25 page)

“Alan!” she cried, rushing forward. But strong arms grabbed her and yanked her back. “Alan!” she screamed again, only to have a meaty hand close over her mouth. She bit down with all her might.

With a roared curse, her captor pushed her away. “Bitch!”

She didn’t look at him; instead she sprinted once again onto the clearing. Somehow, she had to stop them. She could only pray she wouldn’t distract one of them only to have the other take the advantage . . .

“Alan,” she called. “Cam!”

Both men paused in midmotion. But then, once again, male hands grabbed at her. She fought with everything she possessed, trying to twist free. This time, though, there was more than one man, and one of them was her father.

“Sorcha!” he snapped, his face ground into a furious mask. “Do you want both of them to die? Stop this madness at once!”

“No, Da, no! Alan’s hurt. Please, make them stop.”

Her father’s callused hands rounded over her cheeks. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes and gazed into his. People always said they had the same eyes. But his were older . . . and they had always struck her as so much wiser. She’d always obeyed her da. It was one reason she’d gone to such lengths to keep her affair with Cam a secret. As reckless as she’d been, she’d not wanted her father to know. He’d be so disappointed in her.

“You must let them finish this, lass.”

“No.” She cringed as somewhere behind her the swords clashed again.

“Listen to me,” he said in a low voice. “Alan needs this. A chief must retain his honor. There is no other way.”

“They’ll kill each other!”

“Better that way. Better to be a dead man with honor than a living man without.”

“That’s stupid,” she spat. But even as she spoke, she understood with all her heart. In either man’s position, she’d have done the same.

“It is your choice,” her father murmured, his eyes hard. “I’ll have the MacDonalds drag you away from here, or you can remain and keep your fool mouth shut.”

She glanced beyond her father’s shoulder where a group of MacDonalds glowered at her, annoyed at being torn from their entertainment. They gave her no choice.

“I’ll watch,” she ground out.

By the clanging of the men’s swords, she knew the duel continued. She wrenched out of her father’s grip and straightened her spine. Holding her head high, she turned away and limped back to the crowd, pushing her way through the men. Her foot bled profusely, soaking her shoe.

Alan’s shirtsleeve was also soaked in blood—his injuries appeared much worse than her own, but the motion of his sword was strong and precise. If he felt pain, he didn’t show it.

Moira finally appeared. She pushed in beside Sorcha, but Sorcha ignored her wheezing sister.

Blood dripped from Alan’s sleeve. Still, he fought with complete control, heedless of the injury. He blocked two quick jabs aimed at his stomach, then went on the offense with a high, powerful swipe of his blade, which Cam parried easily.

Clenching her fists at her sides, Sorcha watched, aware of the men surrounding her, aware of her father hovering behind her, all of them ready to haul her away if she so much as made a peep.

You caused this, Sorcha. They’ve the killing rage in their eyes. You will be responsible for the demise of one of these men.
Just as she ignored the throb in her foot, she ignored the tear that leaked from her eye and began a slow, hot descent down her cheek.

This was her fault. The blood on Alan’s arms was her fault.

She would never forgive herself if one of them died.

Please, God
, she begged.
Forgive me. Let them live. Whoever is the victor, make him offer quarter . . .

Cam lunged forward, taking a low slice at Alan’s leg. The sharp point of his sword cut through the wool of his plaid and Alan grunted as the blade nicked his thigh.

Sorcha stood on wobbly legs, her fists clenched at her sides. She would not let them die. Either one of them.

With a growl emerging from low in his throat, Alan spun away from another of Cam’s jabs, ending a step behind him. Cam misjudged a powerful thrust aimed for his torso, and instead of parrying, leaned toward the oncoming weapon. Alan’s sword sank deep, and Cam cried out hoarsely.

Alan yanked his blade from Cam’s side. It was slick with blood. Cam’s blood.

Cam raised his sword to parry again, but when he lunged forward, he swayed. Alan stepped back toward Sorcha, as if in shock.

Blood poured like a waterfall from Cam’s side, and he lurched drunkenly. His free hand went to his side. Blood gushed between his fingers. Ever so slowly, he sank to his knees. Then he toppled over like a rock.

CHAPTER TWELVE

S
orcha sprinted to Cam and dropped onto her haunches when she reached his side.

He trembled all over. Sweat sheened the pale skin of his face, and blood stained his shirt a deep crimson. The pink of the gash in his flesh gaped through a long tear in the linen. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he blinked, struggling to maintain consciousness.

He focused cloudy eyes on her. “Sorcha?”

“I’m here.” She pressed her palm to the wound. She didn’t know how else to staunch the flow of blood.

“Sorcha. Please stay with me.”

“Aye, Cam. I will.”

His lids fluttered closed. Sorcha bit her lip hard, staring at the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He had only fainted, thank God. But he wouldn’t survive for long if she didn’t stop the blood from pouring out of him. Her hand was doing nothing.

She glanced behind her and saw Alan on his knees. A man was wrapping a handkerchief round the wound on his arm. The slit in his plaid exposed his thigh.

She searched the faces swarming around her. “Moira! Where’s my sister?”

“She’s here, lass,” someone said, and in a moment the crowd parted to reveal Moira standing alone, her face blanched, wringing her hands.

“He’s too badly injured,” Moira whispered. “I can’t—”

“You must.” Sorcha gave her sister a hard look. “Come help me. We have to stop the bleeding.”

“Call for Mary MacNab!” The shout came from behind her, and she didn’t turn to see who it was. “The earl’s in a bad way. Hurry!”

A boy standing across from her turned and ran, pushing past the men blocking his path.

Moira sank to her knees across from Sorcha. “Pressure. There must be more pressure on the wound. I need a bandage.”

Heedless of the people surrounding her, Sorcha lifted her dress and took the skirt of her petticoat between two hands. The screeching sound of tearing fabric seemed to quiet the murmurings of the crowd as she tore strips of linen and handed them to Moira.

“Will you help me turn him over, Bowie?”

Bowie, kneeling beside Moira on the other side of Cam, nodded.

How odd that it was Bowie, Alan’s second, who helped now. What had happened to that giant, MacLean? She rapidly scanned the gathering, and her lip curled when she spotted him. Even at a distance, he towered over the crowd. He stood alone, shoulders hunched, with a handful of pebbles he was using to pelt at a nearby tree.

She turned back to Cam. He deserved better friends than that.

 

Alan stared at his wife’s back, at her bloody shoe. God, she’d probably run all the way from the valley. She’d hurt herself to chase after him. She needed help. She needed a doctor. She needed to be home and stitched back up . . .

All he could think of was Sorcha and her injury, for it was bleeding more profusely than his own scratches. But the men surrounding him made it impossible for him to go to her. Finally the bandage was tied off on his arm, and Alan pushed through his clansmen and hurried to his wife’s side.

It was then he saw Cam.

His friend lay limp on the ground, his eyes closed, his face pale as death. His shirt was more red than white. Alan’s slicing sword had gone deep. Deadly deep.

Alan swallowed as grief overwhelmed him. Hell, he didn’t want Cam to die. Not the man who’d defended him from the boys who’d broken his nose. Not the man who’d stood by him, who supported him, who’d helped him survive Oxford . . .

The thought of Cam dying made his stomach twist.

Kneeling across from Sorcha, he took the earl’s limp hand in his own.
Goddammit.
Cam had never failed to block that kind of attack before. Alan had intended to try to cut him, to end the duel, nothing more.

Their hands covered in blood, Sorcha and her sister focused on Cam with a single-minded determination. Alan just watched, locked in a mire of fear and regret, as they worked to save the man’s life.

Within minutes, Mary MacNab marched up and gave everyone hell for participating in a foolhardy, pointless duel, but she praised Moira for stopping Cam’s bleeding. Alan asked her to see to Sorcha’s cut after she was done with Cam, and she snapped at him that it was her duty to see to all injuries, not just to the high-and-mighty earl’s.

As a cart arrived to carry Cam back to Camdonn Castle, Cam clawed back to consciousness. His eyes locked on Alan’s.

“Honor restored?” he gritted out from behind bloodless lips.

“Aye.” Alan realized he still gripped Cam’s hand, and he released it gently.

“Good.” Cam let out a shaky sigh. Still staring at Alan, he whispered, “How long do I have?”

“You’re not dying. You’ll be with us a long time yet.” Alan’s voice sounded more confident than he felt.

“I wronged you.” The words were so quiet, Alan had to put his ear near Cam’s mouth to hear.

“You did.”

“Forgive me.”

“It’s over.”

“Alan—” Cam released a low, grating sob. “Stay with me. Stay with me till it’s over.”

“Goddamn you, Cam. It’s not over. You’re young and hale, and you’ll mend.”

“Please, Alan. Please don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

There was no choice, really. In the end, there was too much history between them. Alan still loved the damned fool.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see you home.”

Mary MacNab shooed Alan away and presided over loading Cam into the cart. She and Moira rode with Cam, but Alan lifted Sorcha onto his horse, and they followed close behind.

They rode in silence for the first mile, but then she turned to face him. “You will stay with him?”

He nodded. “I won’t leave him until I am certain he’ll be all right.”

His hand rested on her stomach, holding her against him, and her palm closed over it. “You’re a good friend.”

Of course she was thankful—it was clear she still cared for Cam. Far more than made him comfortable. Alan bit back his rising jealousy, but a part of him wondered how he’d endure setting foot in Camdonn Castle knowing Cam and his wife had loved there.

 

It was late, and Sorcha felt close to falling over from sheer fatigue. Mary MacNab had left in a huff hours ago, after disagreeing with the castle surgeon. As she and Moira worked on Sorcha’s foot, she’d stated that Cam’s chances of recovery were “grim to fair,” whatever that meant. Sorcha diligently refused to think too much on it.

Now Moira sat on the other side of the bed, her shoulders drooping and her auburn hair hanging limply, a sweat-slicked strand stuck to her cheek.

Cam had faded in and out of consciousness all day. When dusk fell, he woke long enough to look at Sorcha in surprise and ask her where Alan was.

She had to admit she didn’t know. Once they’d entered the living quarters, he’d remained outside to take care of the horses. She hadn’t seen him since.

“He’ll be back, won’t he?” Cam asked through white lips before drifting back to sleep.

Sorcha glanced at her sister over Cam’s sleeping body. “You should go,” she said in a low voice. “Bowie will take you home.”

“I don’t want to leave you here alone with him.”

“Alan is close by. In any case, Cam is too ill to touch me, much less besmirch my honor.” Sorcha’s lips twisted. “Any further, that is.”

“Oh, Sorcha.” Her sister looked as though the words had physically harmed her. “I’m so sorry. I should have stopped you—”

“No, Moira. You should have done nothing. I made many mistakes, but I wouldn’t exchange the time I spent with Cam. And Alan—” Lord . . . how to explain the intensity of her feelings for Alan? She pursed her lips.

A rustling sounded at the door, and Sorcha whipped her head around to see her husband standing at the threshold. The wool of his clothing brushed against the doorframe, and he wore a clean shirt and plaid. Heat suffused her cheeks, and she pressed her palms against her skin to soothe it. How much had he heard?

Ignoring her, he smiled at Moira. “You’ve done well, lass. You should go home. Your da will be worried.”

Moira chewed her lower lip. “I don’t know . . .”

Alan stepped deeper into the room. “Bowie’s already waiting.”