Authors: Dawn Halliday

Highland Surrender (8 page)

BOOK: Highland Surrender

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Ceana’s spine stiffened, and her breaths became shallow. She freed herself shakily, more roughly than she’d intended. It was foolish to hold his hand.

MacNab women were strong. Renowned for their force of character, for the unbreakable shell that kept them aloof from the rest of the world.

She glanced at his face. He was awake, watching her, his dark eyes intent.

Damn it.
Tucking strands of tangled hair behind her ears, she smiled down at him. “Good morning.”

He returned her smile. Color had seeped into his cheeks, and he looked much better. “Thank you.”

She took a shaky breath. “For what?”

“Saving my life.”

“Ah. Well, how do you feel?”

“Weak. But better.”

“And your shoulder?”

“Sore. Tolerable, though.” He flinched as she reached to adjust his bandage, and then gritted his teeth as she peeled it back to check the wound. She turned to her medicine shelves to find the Saint-John’s-wort salve.

“Why aren’t you married, Ceana?”

Her back to him, she froze. Closing her eyes, she remembered Rob’s proposal. Then she gathered her wits. “That, my Lord Camdonn, is none of your business.”

“I’m merely curious. Someone as beautiful as you ought to be married. It is odd to me that you aren’t.”

“MacNab women never marry,” she said, her voice flat.

He remained silent as she made a show of taking up a long-handled spoon, dipping it into the small clay pot containing the salve, and mixing—though it didn’t need to be mixed.

Finally, he said, “Alan hasn’t returned.”

She turned back to him, carrying a bit of the medicine on the edge of the spoon. “He did, in fact. He came in the middle of the night, and you were sound asleep. I told him to let you rest. They’re coming to take you home to Camdonn Castle later this morning.”

Worry clouded the earl’s dark eyes. “Did they find Elizabeth?” he asked through gritted teeth as she gently rubbed the salve over his wound.

Still she couldn’t look at him. “The lady is well. Robert MacLean found her on the road and brought her to the castle late yesterday.”

“Robert MacLean?”

“Your stable master. He was returning to Camdonn Castle . . .”

Her breath caught. Lord, how to finish that sentence?
After tupping me hard, slapping my arse, and listening to me cruelly reject his offer of marriage . . . ?

“Ah. Yes, of course.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Thank God she is unhurt.”

Ceana’s jaw tightened a little even as she smiled at him. She set the spoon back on the table, took the swath of linen she planned to fashion into a sling, and busied herself by folding it. “It sounds like you love her very much.”

“She’s a lovely girl. Perfect, really.”

“I see.”

For God’s sake, she did
not
want to talk about the perfect, rich, and undoubtedly beautiful Englishwoman this man was going to marry. With her stomach clenched tight, Ceana turned away from him.

As soon as Alan arrived, Cam would have to leave her.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t like the thought of her alone in this tiny cottage in the forest. Especially with murdering highwaymen roaming the nearby lands.

Cam watched as she busied herself with her work. She ground herbs, chopped leaves, boiled something sweet-smelling over the fire.

God help him, his dreams had been carnal, and she’d featured in all of them. He’d woken with a painful erection, unimpeded by the stabbing ache in his shoulder. Her name had been on his lips, but he’d managed to swallow it down before he said it aloud.

He remembered one of the dreams. They’d both knelt on the bed, facing each other. She’d raised her arms over her head, lifting those heavy, pale breasts for his perusal. He’d taken one sweet pink nipple into his mouth as he’d brushed his fingers over the other. He’d pinched gently, scraped his teeth over the taut peak, and she’d moaned . . .

Hell, it was happening again. Deliberately, he focused on the ordinary. The peat fire circle on the floor at the foot of the bed, fingers of smoke spreading under the rafters as if searching for the hole in the roof. The thatch of the ceiling overhead . . .

He had no intention of betraying Elizabeth. Nevertheless, he wasn’t married to her, not yet. He’d made no promises of fidelity.

Hating that damned devil inside him clamoring to be set free, he pushed the thought away.

Lady Elizabeth was going to be his wife. Months ago, he’d locked up that dissolute creature within him and tossed away the key. Never again would he allow a woman to control him. Never again would he surrender to the power a woman could wield over him.

He was stronger now. A year ago, he’d been impulsive and arrogant, driven by lust. In the past few months, he’d reined himself in. Now he displayed a self-possessed, serious, calm facade, and henceforth he pledged to do what his duty and position required. He’d already gone to England and found a suitable lady to become his wife. Within a month, they’d marry, and within a year, she’d give birth to his heir. Meanwhile, he’d focus on his tenants and his lands, and try to help his people break free from the crushing poverty that swelled like an endless plague through the Highlands.

He hadn’t spent a great deal of time with Elizabeth, but he sensed a core strength of independence in her he found appealing, and he thought she might eventually assist him in the monumental task ahead, unlike most fragile Englishwomen, who’d certainly hinder his efforts. She was intelligent and curious, and when they had taken walks together, though their conversation had felt stilted and stiffly polite, she had shown an interest in matters that were important to him. All of these traits boded well for her future as a Highland wife.

He also sensed her unhappiness with her life in Hampshire. Her smiles rarely reached her eyes, and at times when she thought no one was looking, Cam saw her gazing longingly at the horizon. He attributed her melancholy to the loss of her parents at a tender age, and he understood wholeheartedly, having lost his own mother young and never having achieved closeness with his father.

She was beautiful too. Though he knew the task of bedding her wouldn’t be unpleasant, he didn’t lust after her like he had Sorcha. He didn’t know why, for she was a lovely woman—it was simply that he didn’t feel that visceral, inescapable desire in her presence. That was precisely what he was looking for in a bride. He couldn’t become so physically wound up over a woman again.

He glanced at Ceana and caught her gazing at him. She looked quickly away.

Damn it.
If only she were more like her grandmother. In truth, she was very much like her grandmother, but different in all the ways that mattered . . . in the ways that affected him most.

Strangely, he felt safe with Ceana. Comfortable. As if he’d known her his whole life. For some reason, he wanted to explain himself to her.

“I hardly know her, you see,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

Her gray-blue eyes locked on his once more. “Who?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Ah.”

“The Duke of Argyll suggested the match. He introduced me to her uncle in London two months ago.”

A week later, they’d traveled to Hampshire to see Elizabeth at her uncle’s seat, Purefoy Abbey. The young woman had quickly shown him that she possessed all the traits required to make him a proper wife. After three weeks in Hampshire, he’d done what everyone expected and offered for her. Everything about the match was perfect.
She
was perfect.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked Ceana.

Why was he talking to a stranger about this? Something—God knew what—compelled him to give Ceana the truth. Hell, maybe he just needed to tell someone. He’d kept everything bottled inside for so long. Alan and Sorcha had remained his best friends, had seen him through his worst moments, but after all that had passed between them, there were so many things he couldn’t share with them.

He watched the struggle play out on Ceana’s face. Shadows seemed to pass over her expression as she debated. Her eyes shifted away from him.

He understood her dilemma. She feared getting too close to him. He knew why—he was dangerous. Poison.

“Of course you can,” slipped from her lips, and she closed her eyes in a long blink, as if she regretted her acquiescence. She sank onto the chair beside the bed.

“I’ve loved only one woman in my life.”

“Sorcha MacDonald.”

That took him aback. He was silent for a long moment, but then he gave her a rueful smile. “I’d forgotten you told me you knew Sorcha.”

He’d never love another woman like he’d loved Sorcha. He was solely responsible for the disaster he’d made of his obsession with her, and he’d never forgive himself. Partially in penance for his past deeds and partially in pure self-preservation, he couldn’t allow that to happen again.

“Do you still love her?” she murmured.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I’ll always love her. But—” He broke off, staring up at the rafters. In the past year Sorcha had stopped appearing in his dreams, stopped occupying his every thought. His thoughts of her usually occurred in conjunction with thoughts of Alan, and were no longer carnal. Sorcha and Alan were like a brother and sister to him. Closer than that, perhaps—he couldn’t know. He’d never had a brother or a sister to compare.

“I no longer desire her,” he finished belatedly.

“Well, good,” Ceana said on an exhalation. “I’d prefer not to witness Alan eviscerating you.”

“Indeed.” He released a low laugh that resonated in his wound. Though it didn’t hurt as much as it should—he felt almost too well for having been shot less than a day ago. Must be the MacNab family secret. The MacNab witchcraft, some would call it.

He returned his gaze to her and closed his hand over her palm. “I haven’t even been home yet, and you’ve already saved my life. I suppose, given my luck, you’ll have the opportunity often in the future. So I think we should be friends.”

Friends?
He nearly laughed aloud at his own words. He was a damn fool, and Ceana saw right through him.

She raised a cynical brow. “Friends?”

He kept his gaze fastened on her. Hell, those lips. Such a deep red. Now slightly parted, they showed the hint of white teeth behind them. He wanted a taste.

“At another time, in other circumstances, I’d ask for more than friendship.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.” He’d demand more. Insist on more. He wouldn’t give her a choice.

Or maybe he would. It would be gratifying to know she’d choose him. And right now, with the spots of color high on her cheeks, her dilated pupils, the pulse pounding rapidly in her neck, he knew she would.

As much as he’d tried, the beast inside him was impervious to all his efforts to destroy it. He’d never succeed in exterminating it. His reserved behavior in England was a sham, and now that he was home, his true nature emerged. He was debauched to his soul.

“What . . . would you ask?”

Her question sucked the air from his lungs. If he were free from his promises to himself and to the Duke of Irvington, what would he ask of this woman? A kiss? A one-time tumble? Or would he ask her to be his lover? His mistress?

His throat closed, and he couldn’t answer her. She seemed to understand, for she turned her palm up beneath his hand and curled her fingers around his.

He’d ask for a kiss, surely. A kiss would be the first in line of many other things he’d ask of her.

She leaned closer. Their lips brushed . . . so softly that he barely felt it. But the connection hummed through his veins, all the way to his toes, softening the sharp pain in his shoulder.

“Ceana.”

He said her name against her lips, and he felt a violent shudder roll through her.

Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and yanked her closer. Her hand dove into his hair, sifting through the strands. Her fingertips rubbed his scalp. He deepened the kiss, tracing the softness of her lips with his tongue until she groaned, opening to him.

She fisted her hand in his hair, and he tightened his grip on her neck. They resonated together as if they’d been struck by the same bolt of lightning and its electricity vibrated through them.

A knock sounded at the door, and it creaked as someone swung it open.

“Cam?” Sorcha’s voice.

Ceana stumbled backward so fast, her chair toppled. Her chest heaved. Her curls framed her head like a halo, her cheeks turned fire red, and her eyes widened to blue pools. God, she was beautiful.

Finally, Cam tore his gaze from her. Alan and Sorcha MacDonald, the latter heavy with child, stood frozen in shock in the doorway, their mouths agape.

CHAPTER FOUR