‘Saraid?’ She blinked and glanced up to find Alan standing before her now. ‘Are you going back to the village soon? I must speak to Jamie and could take you.’
Her resolve not to be alone with him nearly melted away in that moment and she was only saved from foolishness by the lady.
‘I need Saraid’s help with a task here, Alan,’ the lady said. ‘If you would?’ Her words turned an order into a request and Sorcha nodded to her.
‘Certainly, my lady,’ she said softly.
Alan nodded at her then, an expression of candid disappointment in his eyes as he followed Brodie out of the solar. At the last moment, he turned and glanced back at her and she expected to see the heat there once more. Instead, he smiled at her and it warmed her heart. No man in her life had ever considered her in that way.
Not in the way her father watched her, nor in the way his allies and friends did. Not in the way her servants or the villagers at her home did. Alan looked at her as though she was someone worth seeing. A woman worthy of his time and attention. As the door closed behind him, Sorcha understood that it was something she would never forget no matter what happened to her.
* * *
The next few days turned dreary and wet and she did not spend much time outside or far from Clara’s cottage. The rains matched her mood this third morn since that kiss.
Standing in the doorway of the cottage, Sorcha watched as the rains did not so much fall as they instead flowed around the houses and down the paths and roads of Glenlui village. These were not the torrents of rain that had covered her escape from their camp next to the river that night. No, this was more like all around them than pouring down on them.
Like walking inside a cloud must feel, as Clara described it.
The clouds were low in the sky above them and thick. Shades of grey almost alive and swirling over their heads as the storm tried to decide if it would be a thorough drenching or just a quickly moving mist. But, by midday, it was much the same as it had been all morning.
Several days had passed since Alan had kissed her hand and yet she found herself lost in reverie over it even now. Oh, her hand had been kissed before, out of respect and in greeting when various nobles and important men visited her father and were introduced to her. A few times the polite gesture turned into something else, something...possessive. Ill at ease over such presumptuous intimacies, she’d look to her father for guidance and he’d ignored her and the action. So she did.
But when Alan had touched his lips on her skin, it had sent waves of pleasure through her. His gesture had been intimate and possessive and yet not threatening. A sense of anticipation grew within her and the sinful part of her wanted him to continue. To move his mouth over her skin, to kiss her mouth and more. Even now, remembering it brought a trembling heat to the deepest place in her body.
Which was wrong. So wrong for so many reasons.
To be honest, she felt unsure of how to act after his gesture. Sorcha made certain she went to the keep earlier rather than later on that first day. Though they’d not spoken in private since that kiss, she’d watched him more than she wished to admit.
No matter that she yearned for more. No matter what she wanted. Even if she decided not to enter the convent, this could never be the place she remained. If her identity was discovered, too many would pay for her deception.
As The Cameron’s nephew, Alan was absolutely the worst man to pay her heed or for her to get close to. And his tracking skills made it more dangerous. If anything should prick his curiosity about her, she had no doubt he would seek her truth and discover it. So, instead of thinking on him, she should be planning ways to avoid his company and his scrutiny.
And not about that kiss at all.
Once the bairns were down to sleep after their noon meal, Sorcha knew she needed to get out of the cottage. She had not planned to visit Father Diarmid until the next day, so she had no excuse to walk to the keep. If she walked around the village, she would, no doubt, get lost even while meeting Dougal or one of the other men who seemed to appear on the road when she did. Sorcha would not have believed they were there for her but for Jamie’s explanation.
If they knew her true identity, none would be worthy of her. If they knew how unprepared and ill suited she was for marriage, none would want her. She could not cook or clean or care for a household or bairns—skills these men would need in a wife. Clara had tried and Sorcha had given it her best effort and yet she still burned the food, left soap in the clothing and lost at least one of the bairns every time they set foot out of the cottage.
No one seemed worse for it though. The children kenned their way home or were helped by villagers back to the right place. Clara managed to save most of the meals Sorcha attempted and to remove the soap before anyone itched or scratched because of it.
She was about to tell Clara of her plan to walk when the deep masculine voices drifted through the misting rain to her. As she followed the sound to the back of the cottage, she recognised both voices. Jamie and Alan Cameron. Staying in the shadows of the corner of the croft, Sorcha watched as they worked there. It was a failing, for certain, but she found the sight of him to be alluring. As long as she kept in mind the dangers he presented to her and her plan, Sorcha was sure it would all work out well.
Glancing over, she caught sight of the two men who were oblivious to her gawping there. Both men were tall and fit and strong. They matched each other in ability and rhythm as they hammered the iron horseshoes to the shapes and size they needed. This was a usual practice of theirs, she could tell, and she took advantage of it now.
They worked in silence and occasionally they would pause and laugh at some jest or comment from the other. Sorcha could not turn away or keep herself from staring. Both men laboured bare-chested, as though they did not feel or pay heed to the rain and the coolness of breezes carried by the storm. When Alan turned away, she stared at his body, enjoying the view of his powerful back and shoulders as he toiled at the demanding work.
Why did he do this? He was cousin to the lady and nephew to the chieftain of the mighty Camerons. He did not have to work as a common villager. And yet he did. In good spirit and in willingness. This was a strange way of living and so different from the way her father ruled over his kin.
‘Well,’ Jamie called out a short while after she began observing them work, ‘have you had enough yet?’
Jamie put down the hammer he held and wiped his hands on the plaid that hung around his waist. Alan stopped then, breathing hard, and shrugged. Walking to the bucket, Jamie dipped the battered cup into it and drank it down. Dipping again, he held it out to Alan.
‘I can tell how upset you are by how many days you show up here willing to work with me,’ Jamie said, once Alan had taken the cup. ‘Three days in a row means you are very upset.’ Jamie laughed and Alan replied with the darkest frown she’d seen in a long time. The crude movement of his hand just made Jamie laughed louder. ‘You told me a bit, but I would guess there is more to tell?’
Alan tossed the cup into the bucket and used his hands to smooth his hair back away from his face. With his arms raised like that, it made his chest seem even larger than she’d thought it. The muscles of his stomach rippled and tightened as he replaced the leather strip holding his long hair back. Sorcha could not breathe as she watched the display of muscles and masculinity continue.
Heat unlike anything she’d ever felt poured over her. Not even sitting close to the huge hearth in her father’s hall had made her anxious and restless. She struggled against the urge to walk to him and to reach out and touch him. To slide her fingers over the defined pattern in the muscles of his stomach and to feel the rippling as he moved under her touch.
Instead of giving in to the compelling need that flooded her, Sorcha stepped back and leaned against the cool surface of the cottage. Her breathing was shallow and quick, she
tried to slow it down and understand the torrent of sensations that were now attempting to control her body.
This was desire!
She’d felt stirrings of it before—when he held her hand, when he stared in that intense way at her and when he pressed his mouth to her hand and her wrist. Her body had responded when she’d sat behind him on his horse, somehow heating and loosening and aching all at the same time. Sorcha closed her eyes and waited for it to ease. His words brought it to an abrupt halt.
‘My uncle and The MacMillan reached an agreement.’ She sucked in a breath as she heard his reference to her father.
‘Your uncle was to marry that one’s daughter. The one you searched for and found dead?’ Jamie asked.
Ice now froze her in place. As though the rain had changed to sleet and coated her, Sorcha could not move. Alan had searched for her? He’d been there? Worse, Jamie knew of his involvement?
‘Aye, that one,’ Alan said. ‘And I searched for her but never found the body. The river was so swollen and the storms so intense, she could not, she did not, survive her fall into it that night. God rest her soul.’
There was a mix of profound sadness and pity in his voice that it made her chest tighten. For a young woman he’d not met, well, not truly met. Yet something else swirled around that pity in his voice. A pain that was very personal. As though the thought of Sorcha MacMillan’s death was tied to something else. Otherwise, how could he feel so much for a complete stranger?
‘So, who is your uncle marrying now?’ Jamie asked, moving their topic off the dead heiress. So, the Cameron’s penchant for marrying and marrying again was known. Did they also know of the rumours of his implication in his previous wives’ deaths?
‘Not my uncle this time.’
‘Truly?’ Jamie laughed then. ‘So then, who is The MacMillan to marry?’
Her thoughts scattered at those words and she fought to pay heed and listen. As her stomach threatened to heave, Sorcha forced herself to remain silent there in the shadows. Oh, she’d known of her father’s desire for a son. And of his need to hold his claim to Castle Sween. Worse, she knew that his planned alliance with The Cameron was for a reason bigger than even that.
‘Another Cameron cousin. One who has proven herself fertile and able to bear sons.’
The loathing in his voice surprised and puzzled her. To whom did he direct such disgust—her father, his uncle or this cousin who was, no doubt, a pawn in the machinations of the other two?
‘Well, the only good thing is that she is old enough to have been married and had bairns.’ Jamie’s tone had changed and his voice had grown softer as he spoke. ‘When does this marriage happen?’
‘They are to be wed within a fortnight and to return to Castle Sween then.’
Pain pierced her at that revelation. Why she was so shocked or horrified, she knew not, for her father had made no secret of his desires for a son. But, to do so within months of her mother’s passing and within weeks of her own was an expediency that bordered on indecent.
Jamie asked another question, but Sorcha could not listen to more. The fear of Jamie revealing her true identity to Alan, the reality of her father’s disregard and the irreparable loss of everything she once was struck her in that moment. Without care for the rain or being seen, she walked from the shadows of the cottage and away.
Just away.
The rains that had been more like a mist now turned to angry downpour and she saw others scattering off the road ahead of her, seeking refuge from it. But she welcomed it.
Her every tie to her own life was now gone. Her father had not even paused in his own plans to mourn her loss or her mother’s. She’d known the fact of it, but she had not believed he would so simply and quickly move on so clearly with such a clean break.
Her mother’s plan to protect her had worked. With his attentions elsewhere now and his intentions on a bigger plan with The Cameron, he would not even seek her.
Somehow, her own part in this made it worse. With few choices and none of those acceptable to her, she’d chosen to flee. Chosen to leave behind everyone and everything she’d known. But only now was the true understanding of that choice becoming real to her.
She began to run then, with the rains slashing across her as she splashed through growing puddles along the road. Sorcha ran and ran and ran until she could no more. She stumbled off the road and fell to her knees there, wondering if the rains would wash away whatever was left of the once Lady Sorcha MacMillan.
* * *
Alan only noticed her when he saw her run from next to Jamie’s cottage. The rains, which had been mild until now, turned fierce and would drive them inside until the worst passed. They put the tools away and sought the dryness of the croft. Clara was waiting for them.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
The way she placed her hands on her hips told of a coming storm of a different kind than the one that began to rage outside. They both shrugged and shook their heads.
‘We were working and talking as we usually do,’ Jamie said. ‘Where did Saraid go just now?’
‘That was my question of you both. She’s been out of sorts all morn and I saw her go outside. When I went to get her, she was running down the lane there.’ Her hands were still on her hips which told Alan she was not done. He did not have to be married to her to understand that much. ‘What were you speaking about?’
Jamie shrugged, but the guilty expression in his eyes as he looked at his wife spoke of a shared knowledge of something to which Alan was not privy.
‘Do you think she is ill?’ Alan asked, looking down the road and not seeing Saraid. ‘Does she need aid?’
He left before waiting for her reply, grabbing his shirt and pulling the plaid at his waist up to cover him.
Alan considered getting his horse, but decided to follow on foot instead. The road was growing worse by the second and would be covered in puddles and holes quickly during a storm like this. He had a better chance of seeking her on the ground.
He did not bother to call out her name. The winds and the heavy sheets of rain pouring down would be too loud to yell over. Alan trotted along the side of the road, searching for her. About a mile from the cottage and far enough along to be outside the village, he spotted her, kneeling just off the road.
‘Saraid?’ he said as he approached. ‘Saraid.’
From her drenched condition and the rain that yet poured down on both of them, he could not tell if she was crying. Pale and silent, Saraid did not object when he lifted her to her feet and guided her under a stand of thick trees that could block some of the storm. Once they were out of the worst, he turned her to face him.
She’d lost the kerchief she usually wore and her hair was now matted down by the rain. Her eyes were vacant and she did not answer him. He needed to get her out of this storm. Alan glanced around and noticed a shelter in the field, one where hay was kept to feed the horses that were used to work the fields. With little help from her, he half-dragged and half-walked Saraid towards the shelter, whispering to her the whole way.
Her whole body quaked with shivers by the time they entered the small place, a tarp pulled over a simple frame of wood to keep the bales of hay covered. But it kept the rain off them and Alan suspected that was exactly what she needed at this moment. The only good thing was that it was a summer storm rather than a winter one and it might blow over quickly. The winds that rose just then belied his hope.
‘Saraid,’ he said as he tugged more of his plaid free from his belt and threw it around her shoulders. Gathering her in close, he used his crumpled shirt to dry her face and sop up some of the water from her hair. ‘What happened, lass?’
She tried to speak, but the strong shivering stopped her efforts to do so. When her teeth began to chatter, Alan put his arms around her and rubbed briskly up and down on her back
, trying to share his warmth and encourage her body to make some of its own. After a short time, he felt the tremors lessen but did not release her.
Saraid still not speak or explain what had happened. Thinking back on what he and Jamie had been talking about, the realisation struck him—every time he mentioned his uncle, she reacted in fear. What connection could there be between this widow and his uncle? Before he could ask another question, he felt her chilled fingers move across the bare skin of his chest and on to his stomach. The caress happened so quickly and was done that he questioned whether or not she had truly touched him.
‘I am lost,’ she whispered. ‘Lost.’
Did she refer to her inexplicable ability to get lost any place in the village? Her tone was one of desolation and sadness, so he thought not. This went deeper.
‘Do not worry then for I am good at finding things,’ he said, trying to ease her despair. ‘Or so I am told by my kith and kin.’ Alan could not resist holding her a wee bit tighter then. ‘I will find you.’
Whatever response he expected, the one that happened was not it. She slumped against him then and when he lifted her chin, he realised she’d fainted. Alan shifted his hold on her and eased her up on his lap so he could get a closer look at her. Or to be ready to carry her back to Jamie’s if need be. She was rousing even as he moved her.
‘Are you well, Saraid?’ he asked. She was a slight thing in his arms. ‘Or did I frighten you in some way? ’Tis not my usual manner in dealing with women.’
He felt the moment when she realised she was in his arms for she stiffened the tiniest amount before holding still. It was not a bad thing, holding her like this.
Claiming His Highland Bride Page 13