Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  "Alan MacDonald is my husband."

  "He will seek an annulment once he hears the truth. Then you may stay by my side with a clear conscience."

  So that was how Cam saw her future—as a spurned wife, as his mistress. And when he tired of her, she'd be finished. Relegated to the mountain with the other whores and discarded women. "What do you believe will cause Alan to abandon me so quickly?" A smile played on Cam's lips. "Alan doesn't abide liars. He values honesty above all else. And your fate will be sealed when he learns how you feel about me. When he sees what 1 can make you do. Perhaps we should let him watch us together, Sorcha. Perhaps if he sees how you respond to me, how eager you are to open your legs for me—"

  "Never!" she spat.

  "It would be nothing new to him. He's watched me fuck women before."

  "Not his wife, I daresay," Sorcha said thickly.

  Cam smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "True. I imagine it will only add to the excitement."

  "Stop it."

  "Knowing Alan as I do, I think he would enjoy watching me with you, Sorcha. He wouldn't want you to be his wife any longer. Oh no, he only wants an innocent, an angel, to occupy that position. But we both know you're neither, don't we?"

  "Please stop."

  "Perhaps he'd want to join us." His fingertip trailed a path down her arm.

  "No," she whispered, but she could not deny the sinful response her body had to his terrible words. Cam knew her too well—he knew that speaking to her coarsely made her mad with lust. Images of kneeling before Alan's muscular body with Cam taking her from behind suddenly flooded her mind.

  No . . . She had to stop. Staring out into the darkness, she pressed her thighs together, hating Cam all the more for taunting her like this.

  "Or perhaps we could fuck you together. Would you like that, sweet Sorcha?" She froze as his hand wandered over the curve of her buttocks, tugging the plaid down as his fingers drifted lower.

  "Stop it, Cam," she burst out. "Please, stop." She pressed her forehead against the windowpane in a vain attempt to cool the fire in her blood, but she could not stop the illicit thoughts. They roared through her, mixing the reality of both men with the fantasy of having them together.

  His madness must be catching. But then, he'd always had this effect on her. He leaned closer to her, and the stiff rod of his cock nestled between the cheeks of her buttocks.

  "I think you still want me, Sorcha."

  "I hate you," she whispered.

  Gently, he pried the edges of the wool away from her fingers and pushed it from her shoulders. "You are so beautiful. Let me show you."

  "No."

  The plaid fell to the floor, leaving her bare and exposed against him. His clothes were still wet from the rain, and she shivered.

  "Go to the bed," he ordered softly. "Wait for me there. You will see what man you truly honor."

  She stole a glance at his bed. It stood there, quiet and inviting, piled high with warm blankets. The hairs on her arms and legs rose, and she shivered again, not only from cold but from fear.

  "No."

  His fingertip stole around her body and brushed over her puckered, sensitive nipple, eliciting a low groan from her.

  She hated him. She'd left their relationship with fond memories of him, and now ... now he was on the verge of destroying her.

  He cupped her jaw in his hand, and the heat of his skin shot through her. "I need you, Sorcha. More than any other man in this world. I wish to keep you here with me, forever. Tonight I will show you."

  "No." She moved her lips, but only the subtlest sound emerged. She doubted he heard her at all. She glanced at the door. He had her trapped in his home, in his bedchamber, and had attempted to weave her in his spell of lust and need. There was no way she could escape.

  She had made a promise to Alan, under God. She belonged to Alan now.

  "Let me take you, keep you, hold you against me. You want me, Sorcha. I know you do. You always do."

  She made a sound of dissent.

  "And I want you. I need you." He ground his cock against her but' tocks. "Can you feel it, Sorcha?"

  Sorcha closed her eyes.

  Cam's voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "I need you tonight. Now. Go to the bed." She moved away from him and took a step toward the bed, clutching her arms around her naked body. Her hand brushed over her stomach, still sticky with Alan's release.

  "Go to the bed, Sorcha."

  She nodded and took another step. Behind her, she heard the rustling sound of Cam kneeling to remove his boots.

  She closed her eyes, allowing the battle to rage within her, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself. Then she spun around and sprinted for the door. Grasping the handle, she yanked it open and leaped out into the hall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The castle, like Alan's own lands, abutted the southern shore of the loch, and within the hour his mount turned down the twisted path leading to the castle grounds. As Alan neared, lights flickered through the scrubby trees, and approaching hoofbeats sounded from the direction of the gates. A shout filtered through the brush; someone must have spotted him. He drew MacLean's horse to a halt and waited in the middle of the path. The animal pranced anxiously, picking up on his mood.

  Riders rounded the nearest bend and emerged from the mist. Alan counted six of them, all heavily armed, wide-awake, and wary. Sent by Cam, no doubt. A man Alan didn't recognize led the group. He stared up at Alan, his dark eyes round as marbles in the dim light. "You're trespassing on the Earl of Camdonn's lands. Who are you and what business have you here at this hour?"

  "I am Alan MacDonald. I've come to fetch my wife." Alan felt the weight of his broadsword, comfortably heavy at his left hip, and his dirk sheathed on his right. He scanned the men rapidly.

  "You'll not find her here," the leader said.

  "Sure yer not some Jacobite bastard come to murder our lord in his sleep?" asked another, his rawhide face drawn tight with suspicion.

  "This has naught to do with politics. All 1 want is my wife." Alan pictured Camdonn Castle in his mind. Across the courtyard and through the parting mist, its white stone walls would gleam dimly in the pale moonlight. Yellow light would shine from the tall, narrow top-story windows. It was Cam's home, where his friend felt safest. Alan had heard stories of Cam's happy childhood here before his mother died and his beloved governess had left him. Before his life had turned lonely and unhappy, with a father who didn't understand him and who sent him away to England at the earliest opportunity. No, Cam wouldn't have taken her anywhere else.

  He returned his focus to the men, who had formed a straight line before him, their mounts sidestepping nervously.

  He'd barrel through them, and if he survived, make a dash for the main gate. The castle was surrounded on three sides by the loch and steep cliff walls, and the iron gate was the only way in. He'd have to fight his way past the guards there, then run for the living quarters. Cam kept a barracks on the castle grounds. Theoretically, Alan could be forced to battle through a hundred men before reaching Sorcha.

  His chances were slim, but what choice did he have? He wouldn't stand by and allow Cam to ravish his wife, as unreal as the notion was. In all their years of friendship, Alan had witnessed Cam tupping many a woman, but never one with any connection to Alan. And he had never seen Cam force a woman. What madness had infected him? Alan had seen the look on Cam's face when he had taken her, and he could not mistake the man's intent. Cam wanted her. He valued her. Far more than he valued his lifelong friendship with Alan.

  Alan had visited the earl just last week, and nothing had seemed amiss. They'd spent most of their time together lounging in Cam's comfortable drawing room and contrasting their lives in Scotland and England. They'd resolutely stayed away from the topic of politics—

  in that regard they'd never seen eye to eye—and Alan's upcoming marriag
e. Alan remembered now that each time he'd brought up Sorcha's name, Cam had quickly steered the discussion in another direction.

  Placing his hand very deliberately over the hilt of his broadsword, Alan cast the guards a hard look. "She's my wife," he said softly. "1 know he brought her here." The leader was undaunted. The men surrounding him sat straight-backed in their saddles, on high alert. Tension radiated from them.

  "Where's Angus?" one of them asked. He looked like a shrunken version of MacLean, pockmarks and all. Definitely a close relation.

  Alan stifled a grimace and gestured in the general direction of his lands. His balls still ached from Cam's blow. His shoulder throbbed and smarted where MacLean had hit and pricked him with his sword.

  "Did ye kill 'im?"

  "No. He'll be along soon enough, I imagine. He'll be right as rain once he sleeps it off."

  "Our orders are to turn you back, MacDonald. No soul is allowed entrance to the castle grounds this night." This came from the leader.

  "She's my wife," Alan repeated. No sane, honorable man would fail to understand his motivation, or his intent.

  "Go home, MacDonald," another man said in a grating voice. Focused solely on the leader, Alan didn't know which of the clustered men the words came from. Not without Sorcha.

  Horses shifted restlessly, and a gap stretched between the leader and the man to his right. Alan didn't hesitate. Sinking his heels into the horse's sides, he drew his weapon with a whoosh of steel against leather. As the six men rushed to unsheathe their swords, he galloped toward the center man, aiming the sword at his heart. Unable to draw quickly enough, the man tried to veer his horse away, but Alan was too fast. Alan's broadsword sank into his side. Crying out hoarsely, he slumped forward as Alan withdrew. If the man died, Alan could be hanged for this act alone. But there was no time to think on that now. He had to get through them. To reclaim his wife.

  Someone shouted, but Alan couldn't make out the words. Thanking God for the clearing sky and the full moon, he pressed the bay into a full run. The horse thundered toward the castle gate. He ignored the hoofbeats pounding close behind him. Ahead, another group of men had amassed at the entrance.

  But he wouldn't give up. He'd rather die fighting than sit scratching his arse while his innocent wife suffered at the hands of an earl in the grip of madness. As he neared, the men at the castle gates drew their weapons. Alan counted another five guards on foot. Added to the four pursuing him, that made nine men, most of whom looked familiar, though he hadn't visited Camdonn Castle often enough to know them by name.

  His horse sprinted at the gate, then shied as it encountered the obstacle of the men and metal blocking its way. Alan swayed in the saddle, struggling to stay mounted.

  "Halt!" One of the standing men raised his musket and aimed it at Alan. The four mounted men behind approached the gate in a flurry of hooves, reining in their horses as they neared.

  Regaining control of his mount, Alan straightened his spine and held his broadsword at the ready. "I'm here to fetch my wife. Permit me to enter."

  "Blast it, MacDonald, can ye not see yer outnumbered?" shouted one of the mounted guards.

  "Give it up, man." A grizzled guard stared up at Alan, his hand on his sword hilt, his silver brows furrowed. "Go on home, MacDonald. None of us wants trouble tonight."

  "Nor do I. So let me by or I will be forced to fight my way through you." A few of the men snorted derisively.

  He'd have to be on foot to pass through the gate. Alan dismounted carefully, keeping his senses attuned to any movement.

  "She's my wife," he repeated as his feet struck the muddy path. "What the hell kind of husband would I be if I were to allow another man to rape her?"

  "The wise kind," one of the men muttered.

  "The living kind," added another.

  Though they jested, they all remained wary and on alert. There was no way to compel them to let down their guard. Alan had to force the issue.

  He lunged for the gate, knocking down the musket of the man barring his way and kicking another in the leg.

  Alan turned to the man on his right, the man who'd told him to give it up. He drew his sword with a whoosh, his silver brows snapped so closely together they looked like a straight line over his eyes. Steel clashed, once, twice, then a searing pain sliced down Alan's back, nearly causing his legs to buckle. .

  He regained control of his legs and spun around. One of the mounted men had struck him. Two swords slammed against his one, and someone caught his wrist, wrenching the steel from his grasp. Blood streamed hot down his back. His arm was twisted behind him, forcing him to his knees. Words penetrated through the muddle of Alan's mind. "Ye'll not have her back if yer dead, MacDonald."

  Now both his arms were yanked behind him. A man looped rough twine around his wrists. His flesh was on fire.

  "Alan."

  Blinking away the film of pain and frustration blurring his vision, Alan looked up into the kindly face of Duncan MacDougall, Cam's manservant and a secret Jacobite. The servant breathed heavily, and sweat beaded upon his brow even in the coldness of the night.

  "Duncan," Alan gasped. "Sorcha ..."

  "Aye, lad, I heard the ruckus out here. I've just come from the castle. She's with his lordship."

  Alan closed his eyes. He knew it was so, but to hear it confirmed fek as painful as a sword slicing him in two. He groaned. Stars swam in his vision. His head throbbed. His shoulder ached. His back burned.

  "Why?" he whispered.

  Duncan knelt before him and clutched his chin, forcing Alan to meet his wizened eyes.

  "Ye must keep yer strength, Alan. This is folly. They'll kill ye, sure as not."

  "No. I have to get to her."

  Cam was no rapist, but his expression had been that of a desperate man, a man who'd do anything to get what he wanted. Images flashed in Alan's mind. Cam forcing Sorcha onto her back. She was naked, her pale skin stark against his darker flesh. Black hair against black hair ... tears streaming down her face as he held her down ... Alan made a final attempt to lunge to his feet, but the guards held him firmly down. Duncan's kindly face swam before him. "Use your head, Alan MacDonald. Go to her father—he has a history with his lordship."

  So did Alan—his past with Cam was more extensive than any of the surrounding men could imagine—but what good was that to him right now? Alan blinked. Duncan was telling him to leave? He shook his head. "It's too late for that. I've injured men in Cam's—his lordship^—service. And Sorcha"—his voice cracked—"my wife ..." He'd kill Cam for this.

  He struggled against the men who held him. "Let me go to her, damn you." Duncan leaned toward him and spoke in low tones. "They understand, lad. Go home now, and there'll be no more bloodshed. If ye persist, they'll either have ye in chains or dead by night's end."

  "I can't—" Alan's lungs constricted. He could scarcely breathe. Could he turn his back on Sorcha ... allow Cam to have his way with her?

  What would she do? From what he'd seen of her tonight, she was

  no helpless chit. She had fire within her. Was she still fighting him? Alan squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Yell be no good to her dead," Duncan said gently. "Go, lad. Go to Stewart. He'll help ye."

  He was no good to her defeated, either. Mustering all his strength, he lunged forward again, breaking away from the men who held him down. He sprinted to the iron gate and rammed his shoulder against it. The hinges groaned, giving slightly under the force of his blow.

  But someone shouted, something slammed into the back of his head, and everything faded to black.

  Cam was too fast for Sorcha. He leaped to his feet as she flung open the door, and he sprinted forward, catching her arm and jerking her around as she ran into the hallway. She screamed, and though the noise was loud enough to wake half of Scotland, nobody ran to her rescue.

  Cam hauled her up against him, wrapping a hand around her lower back. She fought him. Writhing in his embrace, she again sank her teeth into his arm as s
he scored his face with her nails, all the while screaming bloody murder. "Let me go. Let me go, damn you! I hate you! You bastard!"

  His biceps stinging from her bites, he locked her wrists in one of his hands and dragged her back into his bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. Once he reached the bed, he tossed her onto it. She flipped her body over and made to scramble away, but he jumped be-side her. He grabbed her ankle and yanked her toward him. He swung his leg over her, straddling her hips, holding her down with his weight and pinning her arms overhead.

  Blast it, he didn't hurt women. He hoped to God he wasn't hurting her. By the twisted look of rage on her face, she wasn't feeling it if he was.

  He shook her. "Stop it, Sorcha. Do you hear me? Stop! Have you gone mad?"

  "Have you?" she spat. "Do you think I'll just lie here while you rape me? Make a cuckold of my husband as I simper in approval?"

  "You will come to me on your own accord," he said flatly, though he was beginning to wonder. Her vehemence shocked him.

  Didn't she love him?

  "I'd rather rot in hell." She tugged her arms as if to test his strength, then held still, staring up at him. Hostility flared in her green eyes.

  Then again, what had he expected from her? Thankfulness? Perhaps from a lass less spirited, less honor bound than Sorcha. He was foolish to have thought Sorcha would fall into his arms, despite what they had once shared. She was a married woman, and he had forgotten how indomitable the bonds of marriage were to Highlanders. Yes, she had cared for him once. He'd seen it in her eyes when he'd made love to her. Hell, she'd stood at the window and admitted it, not ten minutes ago.

  "Let me go, damn you."

  She was beautiful, vibrant, alive. His cock swelled in his breeches. He raked his gaze down her body. Her bare breasts were tipped with dusky nipples, pebbled into hard little points, making his mouth water in anticipation of suckling one as he touched the other, rousing her passion...

  Yet perhaps the state of her breasts had nothing to do with arousal. It was more likely due to the cold draft in the room.