Her sister nodded. "Aye. Mary MacNab was here earlier, and she taught me how." Sorcha's heart began to race. "Mary MacNab was here?" She forced herself not to look at Alan. Had Cam's henchmen hurt him?
"Aye." Moira flicked a glance beyond Sorcha's shoulder. "Alan was cut as well, but we sewed his back up nice and tight."
She felt weak. Nausea boiled in her stomach. Alan had been injured because of her. She looked at her sister in despair. "I—I need to dress first."
"Of course." Moira supported her as they withdrew into the bedroom, where Moira helped her with her stays, shift, and petticoats, and the striped blue plaid dress she'd worn to her wedding. When she returned to her seat before the hearth, her father nudged a glass filled with amber liquid against her elbow. "Would you like a nip, lass?" She raised her brows at the whisky, but then she saw Moira rotating a needle over the fire.
Sorcha's foot hurt terribly, and she winced at the thought of that needle piercing her tender flesh. They'd not see her falter, not if she could help it. She took the proffered glass and tossed back the burning drink in one big gulp.
Chewing on her lip in concentration, Moira threaded the needle, then looked up at their brothers. "Charles, James. Hold her leg down, will you?" Sorcha closed her eyes, pretending she was somewhere else. Anywhere but in her husband's room surrounded by her family, with thread being forced through the ticklish part on the bottom of her foot and her new husband staring dagger holes into the back of her head.
No, she was at Camdonn Castle, down in her cave by herself. Daydreaming. It was there she'd read the volumes of books she'd discovered in the library after she'd insisted to be taught to read like James. She'd found the books so exciting, so full of exotic places, adventure, and romance and . . . lust.
It was there, in the cave, that Sorcha had discovered her body. All by herself, with the loch swishing at her toes, she'd learned how to make herself come. It took only a few moments. Two fingers rubbing vigorously above the part of her body Cam had later fully penetrated, and a ripple of delicious sensation would pulse through her whole being, making her gasp in delight....
"There now. All finished," Moira said.
Sorcha blew out a shaky breath, realizing she was trembling. The whisky swirled through her, muting the pain spiking up her leg from her arch. Resting her foot on her knee, she squinted at the tight loops of thread. They felt awful—scratchy and strange—but they were tiny and tight and expertly stitched.
She smiled at her sister, impressed. "Well done, Moira." The younger woman beamed at her with pride, but then, her smile faltered. "I haven't the charm stones Mary uses."
Sorcha shrugged. "Ah well, 1 think Mary's skill is just that—skill. It has naught to do with charms or pebbles, I daresay. I'd not put too much faith in that nonsense." Moira released a breath of relief. "I thought so too, but somehow the charm seems to finish it." She narrowed her eyes a little, then rose and embraced Sorcha. "I know what we must do. I'll be right back."
She turned away, disappearing momentarily into the other room. When she returned, Sorcha saw that she carried her aunt's wedding gift, a kertch—the headdress of a married woman. Her aunt had embroidered a beautiful old-fashioned trinity knot on the snowy white linen.
Moira knelt before her, and tears pricked Sorcha's eyes. Sorcha and Alan had intended to return to Glenfmnan in the morning, where the wedding festivities would continue, and Sorcha and her sister had planned to have the kertch ceremony in their father's cottage before they began.
Given last night's events, surely the celebrations would be canceled. Sorcha didn't even know whether Alan would have her now.
She groaned in despair. "Moira—"
"You're married, Sorcha." Understanding softened her sister's blue eyes. "We must do this."
"But—"
Moira's expression firmed. "No matter what happened last night. You're married to Alan MacDonald, and it's your duty to wear the kertch."
Moira could be stubborn at times. She had that look on her face now—her shoulders squared, her lips pressed into a line, and a challenge sparked in her eyes. The men were silent—apparently none of them dared counter her. Even Alan. She reminded Sorcha of their mother.
Blinking back tears, Sorcha nodded.
Moira smiled. "I wish Mama could be here to do this."
"So do I," Sorcha whispered.
Moira combed out her hair and then prayed aloud for guidance and wisdom for the new bride. She placed the kertch on Sorcha's head so the embroidered point went halfway down her back. The men watched in silence as she tied the other two points beneath Sorcha's chin. She finished by securing their mother's circular silver brooch at her chest.
"God bless you, sister. And your marriage too."
"Thank you." Sorcha focused on her sister, too afraid to look at her kinsmen's expressions and petrified of what Alan's face might reveal.
Moira flattened her hand against Sorcha's chest and the sisters exchanged a smile. The moment was broken by their father, who cleared his throat. "Can you walk, lass?"
"Walk?" she breathed, turning to him.
So that was it. Her father would take her home. No sooner had she become a matron than her husband had discarded her.
"Wait just a moment." Alan's voice was as hard and brittle as glass. All the eyes in the room riveted to him. "Why should she need to walk?"
Her father stared at Alan, then said in a low voice, "She'll be coming home with us, and we've no horse or cart to carry her."
"No," Alan said shortly. "She will remain here. With me." Thank the Lord, Sweet relief, as cool as the waters of the loch in the summertime, swept through Sorcha.
Moira wrung her hands. "She will need someone to look after her injuries. And so will you."
"We will care for each other's injuries," Alan said.
A strange thrill bubbled up from Sorcha's core as the image of him with her foot cradled in his lap flitted through her mind. But it disappeared as his frown deepened. He was furious. Would he beat her when her family left? Judging from his scowl, it seemed likely.
Her father glanced at her, his expression brimming with questions. She knew if she told him she wanted to leave with him, he'd fight for it.
But she didn't. She wanted to stay with Alan. To explain what had happened with Cam. To face his wrath, if it should come down to that. She was his wife, and she would not slink away with her da like a spineless maiden.
"I will stay here with Alan. Tell me what to do, Moira." Her father looked mildly horrified, and his expression almost made Sorcha smile. She'd kiss him on the cheek if she didn't know it would embarrass him. Moira left instructions for the care and cleaning of their wounds and said she'd walk out to check on them later this afternoon. Until then, she commanded both of them to rest. Sorcha, she said, must stay off her feet, and Alan must refrain from strenuous work. A woman and a group of boys were coming later to attend to the chores and the cooking, so neither Sorcha nor Alan possessed any excuse to leave the cottage. With that, her brothers and sister hugged her. After James said his goodbye and kissed Sorcha's forehead, Alan took him outside. She watched as Alan thrust aside the lopsided door and closed it with a rattling bang behind them.
Sorcha's father knelt beside the chair. "I'll check on you soon, lass."
"Thank you, Da."
After they all left, Sorcha sat in silence. She warmed her toes before the fire, dreading what might happen next.
Then the door squealed open and wood scraped over the flagstones as Alan drew one of the chairs closer to the fire. He situated it beside hers and, with a low groan, lowered himself into it.
Another long silence.
Finally, Sorcha couldn't bear it a moment longer. Biting her lip, she turned to her husband. "What did you say to James?"
"I told him he's not to touch the earl or demand any sort of retribution. You're my responsibility now, and I'll manage the situation as I see fit." Sorcha swallowed. "How—how did he respond?"
Alan shru
gged. "He'll do as I say, whether he's happy about it or not." He was right—James would do as his laird said. He was hot-headed but not reckless enough to go against a direct order from Alan. Yet another long stretch of quiet ensued while Sorcha gazed down at her hands clasped in her lap. Finally, she looked up at him.
"Are you all right?"
He stared at her for what felt like an eternity. Fury was the only expression she could decipher on his face, and her throat thickened in fear.
"You fucked him," he said, his voice rough.
"No!" Sorcha winced, not so much at the harshness of his words, but in remembering her vow to be honest to him always. "Not last night," she amended. He turned to stare broodingly at the fire. "You are lovers, then?"
"No. Not anymore." It hurt to tell the truth, especially after the gentle lovemaking they had shared. It hurt to admit she was less than what he had believed her to be. She knew well that such a revelation might destroy everything.
He raised an eyebrow. "For how long were you fucking him?"
"Nigh on seven months." She brushed an errant tear from her cheek and kept her gaze fixed on the fire. "It ended before you returned home." From the corner of her eye, she saw Alan's lip curl in a sneer. "Not to Cam, apparently."
"I suppose not." She wrapped her arms around her body and rubbed vigorously. It was unbearably cold today. Sorcha wondered if she'd ever be warm again.
"But you say he didn't cuckold me last night? After seven months of sharing his bed, you refused him?"
"Aye."
Alan let out a harsh breath and ran his hand over his head-His fingers curled at the top of his scalp and clenched a clump of hair. "You lied to me, Sorcha."
"No, Alan, I—"
"You pretended to be someone you weren't."
Again, tears pricked at her eyes. "Aye. That I did."
"After that, why would I believe anything you tell me? How can you sit there and tell me Cam didn't take his pleasure on you after carrying you naked from my home?" Sorcha clenched her arms, tightening her fingers until she knew they'd leave pink marks.
"I won't lie to you again, Alan."
He made a disbelieving noise.
"It is all I can offer. You've no reason to trust me after I deceived you, but please believe me when I say I wanted only to make it good for you. I didn't mean to hurt you. I couldn't touch Cam last night—I wouldn't. He wanted to bed me, but I fought him. He locked me in his bedchamber and I escaped. To come home ... to you."
"Were you aware I knew Cam in England?" Alan asked.
"He—he told me."
"For once, I wanted to bed a woman who hadn't been thoroughly debauched—by him or by some other Englishman. I wanted a pure, innocent Scottish lass to share my bed. To be my wife. Someone who could bear my children and be by my side."
"I can do all that. I will be by—"
He raised his hand to stop her from speaking. "No. I thought I'd achieved all that when I wed you, Sorcha. But you lied to me. Your father lied to me."
"My father knows nothing of this."
"He suspected. Why do you think he moved you and your family from Camdonn Castle?" She stared at him, stunned.
He nodded. "Aye, he suspected what Cam was doing to you. Fucking you. Stealing you into his bedchamber at night? Taking you in the closets and in the cellars during the day?" Alan rose abruptly. "He taught you well, I imagine. Last night you offered yourself to me like a frightened virgin, but there's more to you, isn't there?" His eyes narrowed further. "Was it an enjoyable game to play, Sorcha? Playing the innocent to fool your poor besotted husband? Were you laughing inside at your clever deception?" Poor besotted husband? She was flabbergasted. Until now, he'd given her no indication that his feelings for her went beyond kindness.
"No." Sorcha hung her head. Truth. Only the truth from now on. "1... didn't enjoy it. I wasn't laughing."
"What then?"
"The deception—it made me feel terrible. But last night was... special. You—you made me feel..." She took a deep breath. "Desired."
"And Cam?" Alan said harshly. "How does Cam make you feel?"
"He makes me feel nothing. Not anymore."
"How did he make you feel, then? When you were fucking him?"
"Please don't ask me that."
He knelt before her and took her chin in firm fingers, forcing her face to tilt toward his.
"Tell me, Sorcha. What did he do to you? How did he make you feel?"
"No," she whispered.
"Did he make you slick between your legs? Did he make your nipples hard? Did he make you ache for the feel of him thrusting inside you?"
"Alan," she begged.
"Did he make you do things for him? Suck his cock? Stroke his balls? Go on your hands and knees and tilt your arse at him so he could take you from behind? Take you over his knee so he could spank those firm cheeks?" His fingers tightened over her chin. "Open your eyes, wife, and tell me. Tell me everything." Her vision swam. It was obvious he and Cam had once been close, because he described exactly what they'd done. "What do you want me to say?" she cried. His hand dropped away from her chin. "I want you to say he never touched you. I want you to tell me this is all a nightmare and that I'll wake in the morning with my beautiful, unsullied wife lying beside me."
"I can't," she groaned.
He rose again and strode to the window. Facing away from her, he said, "Then tell me about your first time. Your real first time. With the earl."
"Please ... no."
"Why not? If I couldn't have been there for my wife's loss of innocence, I think it's within my rights to hear about it, at least."
"He took me in a closet," she murmured, her cheeks flaming.
"And?"
"We were both fully clothed," she said in a monotone. "He'd flipped my skirts up. I couldn't see anything because they were covering my face." She remembered the scratchy feel of wool covering her nose. Cam had pinned her arms overhead, and unable to breathe, she'd turned her head to the side so the fabric wouldn't asphyxiate her.
"What happened?"
"He was... in a hurry. Rushed, because the door was unlocked and servants were passing by outside. I don't think he knew I was"— she licked her lips—"untouched."
"Did you make a noise, Sorcha? Did you scream, even with the threat of discovery?"
She pushed the words out. "I did."
"Did it hurt?"
"Aye, it did."
"But then you did it again after that, didn't you? Why?" Humiliation swept through her, threatening to drown her, but she clawed herself up, grasping at the crumbling walls of her pride. "Because I wanted to." Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
"Because Cam made it feel good, didn't he? Even through the pain?" She closed her eyes, remembering that day. The smell of cedar wood and lavender surrounding them. Her backbone pressing into the hard planks of the floor. The feel of a man's body on top of hers for the first time. And then the pain, so sharp, but then dulling to be replaced by something exciting and wonderful.
"Aye," she breathed.
"Did Cam realize it was your first time after he penetrated your body?"
"Aye, he did." And he'd begged for her forgiveness for being rough.
"What did he say?"
"He said sorry. He said he'd make it better next time."
"And did he?"
"He did." The second time they'd been in Cam's bed, and he'd gone slow, taking his time to arouse every part of her body before he'd taken her. It was the first time she'd come for him.
"I should hate you for this," Alan said in a low voice. She rose from the chair and hobbled over to him. Her swollen feet were tender all over. She stood beside him at the window, gazing out over the glistening green of the lawn separating the cottage from the loch.
"Do you hate me?" she asked, too afraid to look at his face. Tension radiated from every pore of his body, creating a force that made her fear moving closer.
"I don't know."
"But do you beli
eve it when I say nothing happened between me and Cam last night?"
"I don't know that, either. I don't know if I believe a word you say." She understood. She looked up at him, seeing for the first time a terrible lump on the side of his head. Emboldened by empathy, she reached up to touch it, but he cringed away.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"I was in a fight."
"With whom?"
"Cam's guards."
So he had come after her, fought for her. A feeling she'd never experienced surged up from her chest. "Thank you."
"You're my wife. I will protect you, even if..." He didn't finish, so she did it for him.
"Even if I betrayed you."
He didn't answer.
She wished he'd let her touch him, because the sudden desire to lay her head on his shoulder was almost more than she could bear.
He glanced down at her. "You shouldn't be on your feet."
"I don't care."
His lips firmed. "Get some rest, lass. You probably didn't sleep at all last night."
"Neither did you," she murmured. "Will you come to bed with me?" Perhaps there she could be brave enough to embrace him, to show him how thankful she was for his acceptance, however tentative, of her. How grateful she was he'd tried to save her from Cam.
"No. I'll make up a pallet by the fire. You take the bed." Her heart sank. "Alan, I—"
He raised a brow at her.
"I wish you would sleep with me. I am your wife."
"For now, Sorcha." His face was hard as carved marble.
"What do you mean?"
He eyed her, and she'd never seen anyone peruse her body so dispassionately. As if she were a broodmare and he assessed her for her ability to bear foals.
"I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you," he said finally, his voice cold. "Maybe I should send you back to the Earl of Camdbnn. You are perhaps better suited to be his mistress than my wife."
CHAPTER FIVE
Cam awoke flopped over the desk in his study with a half-empty glass of whisky beside his hand and a headache from hell. "Christ," he muttered. He rose unsteadily on shaky legs and squinted at the morning light sifting in between the cracks in the curtains. How much had he had to drink last night? Apparently far too much.
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