Alan looked at her with disdain. When he focused those sky blue eyes on her, she felt like a parched flower withering in bright sunlight. As if he scrutinized her, stripped bare, exposed and naked... and found her lacking.
Cam had never looked at her this way. He'd gazed on her with interest. With lust. Even with affection. But it seemed too much to ask from her husband. It hurt, but she deserved it. In his place, pride would compel her to behave the same way. Sorcha plunged ahead. "I said, lift your hands. Moira was here earlier, and she said I must clean your wound and change the dressing. I'll remove your shirt." He studied her in silence for a long moment, and she realized he was exhausted. His eyes drooped slightly at the corners, and deep lines were etched into the sides of his mouth. His color wasn't as bright as usual, and his thick curls hung limply at his shoulders. Last night he'd been married, taken her in carnal relations, had her stolen from his house, defeated Cam's henchman, ridden to Camdonn Castle, and tried to fight Cam's guards before finally being subjected to Mary MacNab's brutal doctoring. Moira had told Sorcha the whole story. He hadn't slept, except for the hours he'd been unconscious due to his head wound. And from the looks of it, he hadn't slept all day either. He tore his gaze from hers, turned his back to her, and rigidly lifted his arms. She rushed to help him with his shirt, trying not to wince at the dull pain when she added weight to her foot. Moira had brought her a crutch, but in her haste, she forgot to use it. Standing behind him, she reached around to untie the strings holding the neck of his shirt closed. Her fingers fumbled and tightened the knot, and his hands closed over hers, gently prying her fingers away.
Allowing her arms to fall to her sides, she clenched her teeth. How many times had she easily stripped Cam's shirt off him?
Best not to think of that now.
Alan finished loosening the ties, and she grasped the hem of his shirt. He shifted to take his weight off the fabric so she could lift it. She inched it up his wide torso, trying not to ogle his body. He was a beautiful specimen of a man. Strong, solid, his muscles defined in relief. Like Cam, he had very little fat on his body, but whereas Cam's muscles were lithe and sleek, Alan's bulged, etched under his skin as if by the blade of a sculptor. His innate strength almost frightened her, and would have had she not already seen his gentle nature. Both Alan and Cam exuded masculinity, but in such different ways. She tugged the shirt over his head and set it aside. She untied the linen bandage and unwrapped it from his waist, slowly peeling the final layer, which had stuck to his wound. He didn't move—didn't make a noise. As she tugged the last of the fabric away, her eyes locked on to the mean-looking gash, and her breath caught.
"Oh sweet Lord," she gasped.
He didn't say anything, didn't move.
She just stared at it. The cut was deep and long, with scores of tiny black stitches sealing it shut. It slashed across his lower back, slightly diagonal, from low on his waist across to his shoulder on the other side.
She spoke dully. "You needn't have done this. You needn't have risked your life for the likes of me."
He whipped around so suddenly she flinched. "You are my wife. I would have risked my life—and more—to keep you safe."
Anger sharpened his tone and hardened his features, and it didn't escape Sorcha that he'd said the words in past tense. She clenched her fists at her sides and closed her eyes. And now, Alan? Would you keep me safe now? Knowing 1 am not the virgin you desired? Knowing 1 am a liar?
She was far too cowardly to utter the words.
She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. Shuttering his expression, he turned away and muttered, "Clean it, then."
Biting her lip and tensing her muscles to keep them from trembling, she fetched a clean rag and the water she'd warmed over the fire. She dipped the cloth and began the slow, painstaking process of cleaning out the wound, gently scrubbing away the blood and sweat that had accumulated throughout the day. In the silence, she was aware of every move he made, from his deep breaths to the heartbeat pulsing beneath his skin. As she rinsed the cloth, she looked at the blond hair softly curling over his shoulders and down past his nape. He'd tied it back in a queue yesterday, but today he'd left it loose and flowing. What would it feel like to comb her hands through that thick mane? Biting her lip, she squeezed out the cloth and refocused on her task.
She tried desperately to keep from hurting him. Holding her hands steady, she cleaned over the sutures and between them, more than Moira had said was required, but she wanted to be thorough. If he died from infection, it would be her fault. The only noises were of the water sloshing in the pot, the gentle rustle of fabric as she shifted on the bed, and the soothing sound of the gentle rain falling outside. She rinsed the cloth again, watching his broad shoulders rise and fall with his deep intakes of air, watching the muscles ripple beneath the taut skin. She moved her gaze over each contour, imagining running her fingers, then her tongue over every dip and curve.
She remembered his taste from last night. Warm and earthy. Like a blade of grass on a hot summer's day, but mixed with his own essence. She wanted to lick him all over. It was a bad impulse, a wicked, debauched thought. One she should banish immediately. One she might have considered during her wild affair with the Earl of Camdonn. But Alan would be disgusted if he could read her mind.
He'd said he wanted a good wife. An innocent.
She'd been innocent once, and she could regain her innocence, if that was what he wanted. Not in body—no, that was impossible—but in her mind and heart. She'd curtail her rampant lustful imaginings.
When she had almost finished and had reached the area where the cut rounded his side, he gasped and flinched away.
"Did I hurt you?" Her voice broke the extended silence between them and sounded unnaturally loud.
"No," he said stiffly. Then, "It tickles."
She stared at the back of his head, fighting a smile. "Well, forgive me. I didn't mean to tickle you."
"Nothing to forgive."
"I haven't finished yet."
He released a breath through pursed lips. "Continue, then."
"You mustn't move."
"I'll try."
Before she thought about it, she slipped an arm around his waist, resting her palm flat on the indent of his chest just beside his heart. "Focus on my hand here and perhaps you won't feel the other so much."
She cringed, realizing her touch was brazen, and not something an innocent, newly married maid would have done.
She started to move away, but his hand came to rest over hers, heavy and warm, pinning her palm between his fingers and his chest.
Raising the damp cloth to his wound, she continued to clean its edge. His muscles tensed under her hands, but he didn't cringe again, and she finished in a few swipes. She threw the cloth into the dirty water in the pot.
"It's clean now. I'll give it a few moments to dry."
"Aye."
For a long moment, he held her hand pinned against his heart. Sorcha's breaths grew shallow, and her heartbeat surged. Then he withdrew his hand from hers, and she let her arm fall away.
She wanted to touch him again. Run her fingers along the outsides of his bulging arms. Feel the muscles flex and move and heat under her touch.
She ruthlessly squashed the wanton thought and glanced at the dwindling fire. "Are you cold?"
"No."
"Will you sleep in bed with me tonight?" She immediately regretted the question, for it, too, had sounded forward. Could she say or do nothing without second-guessing herself?
"I think not. I'll lay a pallet on the floor."
She was glad he was turned away. He wouldn't be able to see the shining tears of hurt pricking at her eyes. "Aye," she said, her voice rough with emotion. "I understand."
"Do you, Sorcha?"
"I do." Pride would keep her upright. It was all she had left to hold on to, as fragmented and ruined as it had become in the past hours. She rose from the bed and took the pot of water to dump down the drain in the wall tha
t led to a cesspit outside. When she limped back into the bedroom, he'd turned so he faced her as she entered. She tried to smile at him. "The clock says it's half past six. We've been married a full day."
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Aye. So we have," he said, his tone flat. Perhaps the longest day of her life. When his gaze returned to hers, it was emotionless.
"Don't you want to ask me where I was all day, Sorcha?" She stared at the floor. "It's none of my business where you were." The bed creaked as he shifted his weight, and when he spoke, there was an edge to his voice. A hint of challenge. "Isn't it?"
A shiver of dread began low in her belly, traveled up her spine. From the base of her skull it spread down her arms, making her hands tremble. Had he gone to the mountain? Where the prostitutes and le-mans lived?
"I would like to know where you went... but perhaps"—her voice shook when she continued—"I don't deserve to know."
"Perhaps you don't."
She glanced back up at him. His eyes reminded her of ice chips floating at the edge of the loch.
It was one of her worst fears. That she wouldn't be enough. That one day her husband would tire of her and slake his lust upon someone else.
Long ago, when she'd seen other abandoned wives despair over the loss of their husbands, and again when she'd watched her own dear father ascend the mountain, she'd promised herself that no matter what it took, once she married, she'd hold on to her husband.
How naive she'd been. They'd hardly been married a day, and he was already indifferent. Worse, she'd brought it on herself by her thoughtless, impulsive actions, her cowardice, and her lies.
She knew Alan imagined her with Cam. She knew Alan pictured Cam's cock entering her, pictured their hands on each other's bodies, their limbs entwined. The images rolled off of him in invisible waves, and along with them, his anger seethed. Her betrayal and her deception were boiling within him, and the likelihood he'd take a mistress in retaliation was very high indeed.
She drew in a lungful of air. "Last night you told me it was important for a man and his wife to be open and honest with each other."
"Aye," Alan said on a sneer. "I have observed how long that 'honesty' lasted."
"But I agreed with you," she protested. "I promised myself that after that one deception—which I believed would save us both from unnecessary pain—I would never betray you again." She took a step closer to him. "And I meant it. It has been so difficult, but I have been honest with you, completely honest, about everything from that moment until now."
"Will you continue to be honest with me, Sorcha?"
"Aye. Forevermore. No matter what happens."
He raised an eyebrow, and his lip curled in sarcastic disbelief. "Really?" Sharp, cutting pain sliced through her at his expression, his mocking words. How could this man wield such power over her? And so quickly?
She almost wished he'd beaten her.
CHAPTER SIX
If not for the fact that the Jacobites had taken Inverness in the weeks before, Cam would have left Camdonn Castle to visit his favorite establishment tucked away on the banks of the firth. Once there, he would have proceeded to tumble a few slight, dark-haired wenches while imbibing half the place's stock of whisky to help him pretend those wenches were Sorcha.
But given the volatile political climate in his part of the world, it would not be wise. Cam was a Whig like his father, who'd been aligned with the Duke of Argyll and had been granted a viscountcy in the En-glish peerage. Cam had spent most of his life in England, speaking English and involved in English politics. He was a lord, and ultimately, because of his ancestral and personal bonds, he was a tacit supporter of the government. The mood of the people in this region of Scotland leaned heavily in favor of the Pretender. Out of sympathy for their cause, Cam turned a blind eye to the Jacobite grumblings on his own lands. Scotland's unpopular union with England eight years ago had done nothing to better their situation, and with the death of Queen Anne and the ascent of the Hanoverian King George to the throne of Great Britain, the time was ripe for rebellion.
Since his return home in January, Cam had maintained tight scrutiny of current events. In the past month, the Duke of Argyll and his government army had holed up in the southeast in Stirling, to protect the crown jewel that was Edinburgh. Meanwhile, the Earl of Mar and his Jacobites had taken most of the northern cities, pausing finally at Perth. Just days ago, a Highland army thousands strong had marched south to join them. The two sides were on a collision course in the Lowlands, and it was only a matter of time before their ultimate clash.
So far the Jacobites had ignored Cam. If they beat Argyll in Stirling, then Cam might have cause to worry for his title and lands. Until then, he resolved to keep his head low and heighten security on his properties. He made sure his barracks were well stocked—not for the purpose of joining either side of the confrontation, but to protect his own interests. He'd focused so much of his attention on this task that when Alan had arrived in Scotland, he'd scarcely had a moment to welcome him home. His plan to abstain from rousing unwanted attention meant that he was tied to his land until the uprising was over. There would be no Inverness whorehouses to soothe his aching need. No bawdy taverns to ease his troubled thoughts.
A man could sit and drink in his study for only so many days before it became more of a tedious task than an escape from reality. The only remaining option, though he hadn't ridden up there since his father died, was the mountain.
Cam sat in his study, whisky in hand, and thought of Sorcha inside that tiny cottage with Alan. Him touching her. Her crying out in ecstasy. The two of them, laughing together. Laughing at him.
God. It was like poison coursing through his veins.
He. wanted her so badly, his blood thrummed with it. His cock ached for her. His limbs strained for her. His heart was affected worst of all. It had shattered into a million pieces, and Sorcha was the only one capable of gluing it back together. Every day, he considered taking her from Alan again. Chaining her to the walls of Camdonn Castle so she couldn't escape. Ordering Alan killed the next time he tried to win her back.
Taking what he wanted—what he needed—from her. By force. That was where the fantasy ended. Because as much as.he loved sinking his cock into Sorcha's tight sheath, there had been so much more to it than that. Her seemingly unconditional acceptance was the true source of his dependence on her. Just as he'd been dependent on his governess after his mother died so long ago. He'd thought he'd never survive when she left him. He remembered running away from home to find her, only to be discovered by his father's men a day later, a frightened seven-year-old boy shivering in a ditch on the outskirts of Glenfinnan. His father had eyed his tear-streaked face with disdain and then ordered a servant to beat him, apparently deeming the task beneath him. A month later, he sent Cam to school in London, where he'd lived in lonely misery until he'd met Alan and they'd become fast friends.
The Sorcha of the other night—angry, defiant, and finally hopeless, her body willing but her mind completely repelled by him—was not who he wanted. He wanted her beside him in bed, but he also wanted her happiness, and her love. If he took her by force, he'd have none of that.
All his other options exhausted, wretched in mind and body, Cam finally gave in. He rode to the mountain to see Grainne.
This was hell.
The quiet days Alan had imagined spending alone with Sorcha, learning about his wife, pleasing her and teaching her how to please him, had turned into endless hours of silent, seething tension. Her near desperation to placate him was obvious, but it failed to penetrate the barrier he'd erected around himself as soon as he'd discovered she was a liar.
He'd have been furious to learn she'd given herself to anyone before him, but the fact it had been Cam took him over the edge of hot fury into frozen anger. As close as he'd been to Cam, an insidious rivalry had always ex' isted between them. What Alan had lacked in the title and funds possessed by his friend, he'd made up for by sheer str
ength and ability to sway others. When they worked together to achieve whatever ends they sought, they always encountered success. They never clashed. Both knew it would be brutal if it ever happened. But it was there. That oh-so-subtle competition, often seen by one only in the gleam of the other's eye.
And now the game had begun. It was war, it was deadly, and Sor-cha was their Helen of Troy.
Cam could return at any moment to try to steal her away, this time with more men. For the first two days, Alan had been on guard, keep> ing his weapons near and his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. When he went for his first long "ride," he'd called several of his men away from the herd to guard the cottage in the event Cam tried to come back to kidnap her.
Sorcha seemed to think Cam wouldn't return. But why not? As much as Alan wanted to kill the earl for what he'd done, a part of him understood. Alan, too, seemed to be developing somewhat of an obsession with his wife.
"Would you like more eggs?" Sorcha asked softly.
"No." Even that singular word came out harsh, like a punishment, and she flinched, hurt flaring in her eyes.
He looked away. He hated what he was doing to her, but he couldn't help it. The damage had been done. It was eating away at him like a rabid disease, and he didn't have a cure. In a way, he didn't want one. He wanted to punish her. She deserved his wrath, every bit of it. He'd never harm her physically, but he wouldn't quash his anger. He refused to hide it from her. She deserved every cool look, every careless shrug. Surely she knew most English husbands would have discarded her the moment they learned she wasn't pure. He'd considered it, but ultimately he wasn't prepared to take such a step. Something in her demeanor, her sincere candor since that first morning, her willingness to take responsibility for what she'd done, stopped him. A part of him knew that if he continued treating her with such aloof disdain, she might be the first to leave. She would run away from him. Probably directly into Cam's waiting arms.
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