Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  Sorcha.

  "Christ!" he exclaimed, louder this time.

  He remembered everything. Almost everything. The important bits, at least. The fact that he'd left Sorcha alone in his bedchamber, weeping in misery. The fact that he'd planned to release her this morning.

  Maybe that wasn't a good idea, he mused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Alan was a proud man—would he take her back after what had happened? Cam couldn't be sure. He'd seen Alan with women often enough. But he'd never been bound to anyone in the way he was bound to Sorcha. And Cam had never before interfered in Alan's relations with a female.

  Perhaps Cam should simply lay down the facts and let her decide. He'd made a mistake by abducting her, but it was too late to undo it.

  Through no fault of her own, her marriage to Alan was in jeopardy, but Cam would offer her a good life. He'd keep her here at Camdonn Castle. He'd support her and protect her and offer her an income large enough to make any Highlander swoon. He'd even have his lawyer draw up some favorable terms, if she desired.

  If, after all that, she still wished to return to Alan—well, Cam would no longer hold her against her will.

  At least, he'd try his damndest not to hold her against her will. He swallowed down the cotton in his throat and glanced longingly at the pitcher of whisky, but it was too early to get drunk.

  The thought of chaining her in the castle dungeon was far preferable to the thought of returning her to Alan MacDonald's bed. But seeing her crying last night... He couldn't do that to her. As much as he wanted her, it killed him to see he'd caused her pain. He dragged his unwilling body to his bedroom. He took a deep breath at the door, remembering the heartrending scene of her sobbing in his bed. What would her mood be this morning? Would she be angry? Still in tears? Accepting of her fate? He opened the door to silence. His bed, though rumpled, was empty. He stepped inside to scan the room. "Sorcha?"

  She was nowhere to be found. In desperation, he checked the window—it was locked, and in any case, she'd be a fool to try to squeeze through it—and searched the wardrobe and under the bed. Nothing.

  It hit him like a brick in the gut. Clutching his stomach, he turned slowly toward the threshold. He'd walked right in. He'd been so bloody sotted last night, he hadn't locked the door.

  She'd escaped.

  Alan stood at the window as Sorcha rested. He wasn't tired, though he hadn't slept at all last night.

  He could join his men in their duties. It was a busy time—not only was it the middle of harvest, but they were still herding the straggling cattle down from the shieling where they'd been taken to graze for the summer.

  He could read one of the books he'd brought with him from England. He could go out and work, though Moira had forbidden manual labor. He could fix the damaged door, which was allowing a frigid draft to waft in from the outside.

  He could take off his clothes, lie beside his wife, and make love to her. She was his, after all, to do with as he pleased.

  No. His pride wouldn't allow him to touch her. He'd opened his heart to her far too easily, and now he paid the price. He wouldn't let her know how her deception cut him to the quick. Couldn't let her know he cared.

  He shouldn't be feeling so strongly about this. But he was shaken to the core, flooded with disappointment and the bitter taste of be-trayal. Out of all the men in the world, why had it been the goddamned Earl of Camdonn?

  He walked to the partition separating the two rooms and gazed at the bed. She lay curled on her side, covered by a plaid with her pale arm wrapped over it. She was relaxed, her wine-red lips parted in slumber, her long eyelashes arcing at the bottoms of her eyelids. Her hair swept around her head like a midnight-colored fan.

  If only he could bury himself deep into her sweet warmth again. Start over, from the beginning.

  But as he'd told her earlier, she wasn't what he wanted, wasn't what he'd looked for in a wife. God knew for once he wanted a woman completely separate from Cam's influence. He'd thought she'd be that woman.

  Yet... as cold as he felt toward her, something about her behavior nourished a seed of hope somewhere inside him. Maybe it was her pained honesty when he'd so brutally questioned her about her relations with Cam. In that, he knew intuitively, she hadn't lied. But why? After deceiving him so smoothly last night, why wouldn't she try to continue the charade? He didn't think it was sheer fear of him discovering her secret. She'd been afraid to tell him everything, but resolute. Determined.

  She was an enigma, this pale Scottish woman. One he didn't know how the hell to approach. She brought out a vulnerability in him he didn't like at all. Never before had a woman had the ability to hurt him. He'd been married to this one for less than a day, and the wound she'd inflicted on him pained him far more than the slice down his back. Alan blew out a breath. Hell. All of his hopes, his dreams for a happy life in Scotland with his new wife, had gone up in smoke. Nothing was as it should be. Memories washed through him, of the times he and Cam stood side by side, friends through good times and bad. In England they'd been inseparable through school and university. Together they were invincible, or so they'd thought as young men. When Cam returned to Scotland, their communications had dwindled. Alan had been busy with his grandfather's estate, Cam had been busy assuming his duties as earl, and neither of them were faithful letter writers. And when he'd finally returned to Scotland eight months after Cam, Alan had been overwhelmed by clan business and his upcoming nuptials. He'd seen Cam on only a few brief occasions, the visit to Camdonn Castle last week the longest... and in retrospect, the strangest. He realized now Cam hadn't been quite himself. He hadn't looked Alan in the eye, and he'd drunk whisky steadily throughout Alan's visit.

  Alan had missed his friend, thought about him often, mulled over how odd it was he saw him less in Scotland than he had in London, even though they lived closer to each other now. Alan planned to visit again once the political crisis had calmed. He'd admonished his Jacobites to live peaceably beside Cam's loyalist men. He'd considered asking Cam to join with him on an investment he planned to make in cattle.

  Their duties had forced them apart, but in Alan's mind, their friendship was as solid as ever. If he ever truly needed anything, he knew Cam was just a few miles away. But Cam had severed the tight bonds of their friendship last night when he abducted Sorcha. The sense of loss left Alan feeling winded. He felt as if two people close to him had died.

  Sorcha shifted, made a low sound in her throat, then stretched and rolled to her back. Her eyes opened and slowly came to focus on him.

  "Alan," she murmured. Her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet and sliding under his skin like a warm balm. "What time is it?"

  "After noon"

  "Have you slept at all?"

  "I'm not tired."

  She rose to her elbows. "I'll make you something to eat." He stood silently, watching her as she left the bed, her shift falling to her shins. His cock swelled at the way the linen draped over her body, clinging to the pert breasts, the flare of her hips. She hobbled to the table in front of the silver-edged mirror he'd given to her as a wed' ding gift and ran a brush through the silky cascade of her hair. With deft fingers, she made a single braid down her back and then, with a shy glance at him, pulled a plaid over her shoulders and limped past him, slipping on her shoes set beside the front door. Reminded that she'd escaped from Cam to come home to him, Alan winced at the clear pain in her movement. That simple fact warred with the bitterness of the betrayal swirling in him.

  "No," he said.

  She looked up at him, blinking in surprise.

  "You're not to walk."

  "But—but I need to—" A flush pinked the slanted angles of her cheekbones. Alan could not abide the thought of her walking outside on those swollen, damaged feet. It could worsen her injury, open her sutures ... worse, it could cause her more pain. In two long strides, he was at her side. Kneeling, he reached behind her knees and pulled her into his arms. She gasped and stiffened, but when he settled her ag
ainst his body, she relaxed. Still, her expression was alarmed.

  "This will hurt your back."

  "No." His stitches pulled slightly, but they held. He looked down at her face, so close to his own. Her skin reminded him of English ivory rose petals—soft, supple, smooth, with a tinge of pink. "Will you be warm enough?"

  "Aye." Her voice was husky. "I'll only be a moment." With her body nestled against his own, he carried her outside to the privy. The midday sun had risen high and peeked out between puffs of clouds, melting the earlier frost. Within a few moments, she opened the wicker door and hobbled out. He swept her into his arms again and carried her back inside, where he gently set her beside the dining table so she could use it for support.

  She unwrapped a meat pie brought from the wedding festivities last night. After she'd set the small table, she glanced up at him. "Would you like to eat?" He shrugged and sat across from her, silent as she poured claret into their cups. His wife shouldn't be waiting on him like this. He'd wanted them to be out here alone for the first days of their marriage, unencumbered by servants, so he'd arranged to have fresh food brought to them daily. Soon his three small outbuildings would be brimming with families come down from the shieling.

  He'd wanted these few weeks alone with her. He hadn't thought about her serving him. He groaned inwardly. Again, the need to take care of her, to protect her, nearly overcame him. It didn't make sense, given that he now knew what she was. He tossed down his wine. She looked up from beneath her eyelashes, and anger flushed through him again. He detested the innocent glances, the false primness in the way she sat across from him.

  "More?"

  He pushed his cup forward. Eyes downcast, she refilled it with the red liquid. How would she sit for Cam? Naked, most likely. Had Cam made her touch herself for him? Squeeze those delicate fingers over her nipples while he watched? Press them between the lips of her sex and rub frantically until she came? Alan blew out a breath. Such thoughts would drive him mad. His comfortable cottage suddenly felt oppressive. Anger and pain and arousal swirled within him, heady and hot and... Hell. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor as he pushed it backward. "I'll be outside."

  She rose too. "May I go with you?"

  He raked her body with his gaze—the long braid, the clinging shift, and finally the swollen, injured feet that made his chest clench. "You cannot." Hurt flared in her expression before her eyelids lowered so he couldn't see the emotion behind her hooded eyes.

  He pushed his chair away, pausing at the sound of her soft voice. "When will you return?"

  "Later." Tucking the edges of his plaid under his belt, he strode out of the warmth of his cottage and into the cold.

  In a haze, Cam went through his morning routine. After he ate breakfast, he met with his factor and his steward to discuss castle business. He listened to Duncan natter about London fashion as he shaved Cam and adjusted his wig. The old man prattled on as if he hadn't seen Cam shove his friend's newly wed daughter into his bedchamber last night. Had Duncan aided her in her escape? Cam studied his manservant. No, he doubted it. Quick-witted, brave Sorcha had accomplished the feat all on her own while most of the castle inhabitants, including Duncan, were fast asleep.

  Cam studied himself in the mirror as Duncan powdered his wig. Sorcha, ever frank with him, had stated she liked him without it. She loved to run her hands through his short-cropped hair. The wig made him look like a haughty English aristocrat, but she preferred him au naturel. She preferred his earthier, baser attributes. She'd always regarded his more manly features with something like openmouthed wonder. Women often lusted over Cam, but Sorcha was different—she'd liked him as a person too. She understood him in a way nobody in his life ever had. She knew what gave him pleasure, but even more important, she intuitively understood what gave him pain. Her reaction to him—not to his money or title, but him as a man and a human being—had made him puff up like a peacock flaunting his plumage. Whenever she was near, he'd felt valued. He'd felt loved.

  Besides Alan, Sorcha was the only person who liked him unconditionally. God knew his family didn't, especially his father, who on his infrequent visits to London had spent more time with Alan than he had with his own son.

  "Did Alan MacDonald come here last night?" he asked his manservant abruptly. Only the slightest falter in his movements marked Duncan's discomfiture. "Aye, milord. Whilst you were here with... Mrs. MacDonald."

  Cam gritted his teeth at the implication Duncan made by stating her name in the precise way he did. "What happened?"

  "The guards attempted to turn him away. He injured Rory Mac-Adam, milord."

  "Will he be all right?"

  "Aye. The doctor has seen to him. MacDonald's sword pierced a bit o' fat in his side." Damn it. His own mad actions had caused blood to be shed. "And what happened?" Duncan shrugged. "Alan would have gladly brought about his own demise to gain entrance. So I convinced him to go home."

  Cam raised a brow. "How?"

  "I only needed to point out the stupidity of his approach"—Duncan's lips quirked—"and then direct one of the men to cudgel him over the head."

  Cam sighed. Knowing Alan, it shouldn't be surprising that he would fight to the death for his new wife. But would he have been so willing to die for her if he'd known how long she'd shared Cam's bed?

  Duncan chewed his lip. "If I might ask, milord. Where's the lass now?" Cam tried to appear unaffected. "Gone home, I imagine." He thought of several addendums to add to that comment, words like, "I was finished ! with her, you see," but not only were they lies, they made her look like an object, a whore. He thought of the defiance in her eyes. No, Sorcha was neither object nor whore. God, how he needed her.

  When Duncan finished with him, Cam left his chamber and headed for the stables, determined to mount his horse and fly back to Alan's. He'd take her again, capture her from her bed if he had to kill Alan to do it—

  Cam's step faltered, and then he paused on the gravel path, staring bleakly at the gray stone wall of the stables. As prideful and arrogant as he was, he saw those features in himself and understood them for what they were. He knew, unlike many of his station, that there existed better men in the world than he, and that many of his betters were born into stations below his own.

  Like Alan.

  Just then, a flurry of activity pulled his attention toward the entrance to the adjoining kitchen. He turned as MacLean appeared from behind the heavy wooden door, holding a dripping cloth to his face and looking rather the worse for wear.

  "What happened to you, MacLean?" Cam growled.

  "The bastard broke my jaw," the big man whined. "And my gut too." Cam resisted rolling his eyes heavenward. Goddamn if MacLean wasn't imposing as hell, but he possessed the pain tolerance of an in' fant.

  "I doubt that, MacLean. Has the doctor taken a look?"

  "Aye, yer lordship. He says they're naught but bruised. But I know he's wrong. I know it!"

  "Tell me what happened."

  "Quick as a sprite on his feet, he is," the big man grumbled. Cam almost smiled. Alan was by no means the faster of the two of them, but the man possessed a mean skill with his fists. A Highland youth was forced to be a fighter when sent away to England and faced with the cruelty of the schoolboys. Cam had rescued Alan only once—when he first arrived in England, a group of boys jumped him and broke his nose. After that, Alan had quickly learned to fight and was soon Cam's equal in skill. By then, though, Alan had earned the boys' respect and admiration, and brawling was no longer necessary.

  Cam nodded soberly. "Yes, it's true he's quick. You're lucky he didn't kill you." MacLean looked abashed that Cam had dared use him to fight Alan at all, and Cam put a hand on his shoulder. "You did well, man. Take pride." MacLean straightened, giving him a gap-toothed smile. "I did well, milord?"

  "You did indeed. Now go fetch a fresh cloth for your bruise. You may take the rest of the day for your leisure." With another pat on his back, Cam let the giant go. He turned back toward the sta
bles, then paused again.

  Alan could have killed Angus MacLean but he'd shown mercy. Honorable Alan. His friend. They'd been closer than brothers for nearly twenty years. Cam flattened his palm against a cool, flat stone and closed his eyes, listening to the nickering of horses inside.

  Sorcha.

  He must let her go. Alan's strict code of honor wouldn't let him give her up, even if he did discover the truth of her past with Cam. Even if he never cared for her like Cam did, he'd hold on to her until death, if only for his blasted Highland honor. Cam had been out of his mind last night, and what he'd done was wrong. He'd caused them pain, and only because of his own spoiled, selfish need for her. He did need her.

  But she was Alan's now.

  Repeating that to himself over and over like a papist's Hail Mary, he turned away from the stables and went to the barracks to see to his injured guardsman.

  "Hold your hands up."

  Dusk settled over Loch Shiel, quiet but for the soft swoosh of a misty rain falling on the water. All was serene except the simmering tension inside Alan MacDonald's cottage. He'd been absent the first day of their marriage, leaving Sorcha to her own devices. Unfamiliar with the aching feeling of loneliness tightening her chest, but not one to sit idly, she'd oriented herself in her new home. She had tidied the bedroom, scrubbed the already spotless hearth, and set about baking bannocks. Cooking was not a skill she knew well, having been raised at Camdonn Castle with its skilled kitchen staff. The first batch was hard as bricks, but she'd coated the second with custard, and they'd come out edible, even rather delicious. Smiling at her achievement, she'd set them aside for later.

  In the afternoon Moira came, along with their brothers, to bring food and see to her foot. No sooner had Moira given up on Alan and gone home than he'd reappeared, tired and wet to the bone. He'd eaten supper, making no comment on her bannocks but eating all of them, a fact that gave her a small measure of pride. Then he'd gone to sit on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, and she'd made the command for him to hold up his hands. He dropped his ties and looked up at her. "What did you say?" Sorcha licked her lips. She might not be virginal, but she was no cocky whore brazenly flaunting her wares, either. She desperately wished to please this man. He was her husband, and she wanted to bring him back to her side.