"Aye." She nodded solemnly. "The old earl insisted all the lads of the castle were taught to read in English."
He couldn't contain his snicker. "You're no lad, Sorcha."
"No, but my brother is." Her eyes held a wicked gleam, a hint of that passion he'd seen in her that first night. "I merely decided to learn what he did."
"And they allowed it?"
"Not at first. But I pestered James late at night and forced him to teach me what he'd learned, so my father finally gave in. My sister learned too. Later, during his illness, we read to the old earl, and he took great pleasure from it."
"He was an eccentric old man, wasn't he? I never knew him well—only saw him a few times when he came to England." Alan smiled and rolled onto his back. "He stopped in London on occasion to see Cam—or rather, to chastise Cam for his wicked behavior and his lavish spending."
Just as he had begun to relax, Alan stiffened again. How was it their conversations always ended up turning to Cam? The last person he wished to discuss in his wife's presence was the present Earl of Camdonn, and yet he kept bringing the goddamned man up.
He turned his head in the grass and saw her gazing at him. She must have sensed his tension, because her green eyes filled with despair and her fist clenched in the grass.
"I'm sorry, Alan. Forgive me."
"Do you love him, Sorcha?" Each painful word tore at something deep in his gut. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "No."
He clenched his teeth to keep from saying something he might regret.
"I realize I never did. Not really."
Not really? With the guilty expression on her face, she sank the dagger in, and with her words, she twisted it.
"Whatever happened to the honesty you promised me?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"I am being honest. I swear it."
"You don't look honest. Your face tells me you're lying. That it pains you to say you don't love him."
"You're wrong." Her tone hardened, and her expression transformed from distraught to intractable. "It hurts to admit to you that I thought I might love him. It hurts to admit that I was a foolish lass who made a terrible mistake."
"So are you saying that you no longer love him, but you love me instead?"
"I..." Her voice dwindled.
"Tell me. Is that what you're saying?"
"No."
"So you do love him."
"No! 1 don't love him. But... I—" She took a deep breath. "I don't think I love you, either."
All the air whooshed out of his lungs as if she'd punched him in the stomach. She rose to a seated position, and her green eyes glowed with passion. "I don't know you!
I have spent too little time with you, and you've been silent and angry for most of it." He came up beside her. Logic told him she spoke the truth, that he would have laughed in her face if she'd lied and said she loved him. But the truth hurt more than he expected. God help him, he wanted her to love him, craved her love like he'd never craved anything in his life. He nearly groaned aloud.
"Please, Alan, understand. I want to know you. I want to love you. I want us to make a life together."
And of course she didn't know how, when he was cold and cruel to her. Who would? Yet he couldn't stop it. He could feel the ice overtaking him again, freezing over his heart, steeling his limbs.
"I must go."
She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. "Where?"
"For a walk," he said tautly. "Perhaps a ride." Sadness edged into her expression, and he tore his gaze away from her as she nodded.
"All right."
He hefted himself to his feet. Some dormant residue of gentleman-liness flared to life, and he held his hand out to her.
Hesitantly, she took it, and he helped her up. "I trust you can manage walking back to the cottage by yourself?"
"Aye," she mumbled.
"Good." He released her hand and turned away. He felt her anguished eyes on him as he strode through the grass, until the bank curved and steepened, and he disappeared from her sight. Taking a deep breath, he stopped and dropped his head into his hands for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned and peered back round the bend. Shoulders slumped, she picked her way up the path to the cottage, mincing her steps. Once she'd closed the cottage door behind her, he released a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. He felt shaken, off balance.
He fought the urge to follow her inside to draw her sweet form against him and apologize for his cruel, cold behavior. Then he'd kiss her, showing her just how much he'd wished to do so—wished all along ...
Pride, man. Show some pride.
Stiffening his resolve, he stalked back to the clearing and signaled to the hidden copses of shrubs where he'd assigned clansmen to keep watch. Each man returned his signal, confirming they'd seen no sign of Cam or any of his men.
When he was certain all was well, Alan crouched near the back wall of the stables and refocused his attention on the cottage. Sorcha would think he'd gone riding, but today he'd join his men in their vigil. If Cam came for her, Alan would be ready. Sorcha stirred the fire absently, glancing back over her shoulder at Alan's supper. It had gone cold. She'd have to reheat it when he returned.
She rose and walked to the window. A thick fog had rolled in over the loch, obscuring the mountain peaks on the far side. The air had turned damp and cool. It was almost dusk. Alan had never come home this late before. Sorcha chewed her lip nervously. What could be keeping him?
Perhaps tonight would be the night he didn't return. Perhaps it was over, and she had lost him forever.
She blew out a breath, steaming the window, then drew curlicue designs in the frost. She had to stop these traitorous thoughts or they would drive her to madness. He had given her reason to hope earlier today. They had actually engaged in a civil conversation, one that might have gone on longer if not for the subject of Cam rising like a specter between them to wrench them apart.
Perhaps she should go look for him. She paced for long moments, wringing her hands. Alan had told her to stay in the cottage. What would he do if she disobeyed him? The urge to go after him overwhelmed her desire to obey. If she went, she should go now. It would be full dark within the hour. And Alan had gone with no way to light his path. He was less familiar with the landscape than she.
Resolved to go after him, she pulled her arisaid over her shoulders, pinned on her brooch and tied on her kertch, and went outside. She hurried down the path toward the loch and picked her way along the water's edge until the bank veered.
There, she stopped, frowning as she stared down at the shallow impressions made in the grass by Alan's shoes. Here the tracks doubled back to the clearing. With her heart hammering in her ears, she followed the footprints back to the stables. He'd stopped, gone inside, and then ... back out. She peeked into the horses' stalls and saw he'd taken his gelding, Eachann. But his weren't the only footprints—several others of varying sizes churned the dirt in this area.
Sorcha glanced at the darkening sky. The fog had closed in, and mist hung heavy in the air, casting dark shadows across the lawn separating the cottage and the stables. Whose footprints were these? Perhaps her brothers' from earlier? She thought not. A feeling of dread skittered up her spine, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. Someone was watching her. Eyes burned into her skin.
Lord. Could it be Cam?
She flattened her body against the outside wall of the stables, turned the corner, and slipped back inside. The cow let out a low groaning noise, and the chickens clucked and ruffled their feathers, scattering as she entered their midst.
Sorcha scanned the tools hanging across the inside wall, searching for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes alighted on a rusty scythe hung from a peg. Gritting her teeth, she stepped forward, clutched it in two hands, and lifted it away.
Cam wouldn't catch her unprepared. Holding the curved blade high, she slipped back out the door and returned to the place where the footsteps clustered. With every sense bristl
ing, she studied the steps until she determined a direction to follow. Slowly, stealthily, she picked her way through the grass.
Ahead, a branch cracked.
"Who is it?" she called, her voice shrill, the scythe held at the ready.
"All's well, lady, it's just me."
Sorcha frowned, recognizing the voice. "Bowie MacDonald?"
"Aye." Bowie, Alan's younger cousin, appeared from behind a cluster of bushes, his hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. Bowie was Alan's closest living relative since the death of his uncle. He was armed with his sword and dirk, and even held a pistol in his belt.
"What are you doing here?" she asked sharply. "Where's Alan?" Bowie looked chagrined. "We're keepin' watch over you, Sorcha."
"What?"
"Aye. Alan—well, he feared the earl might come and try to capture you again. So ... well, we were watching over you. Just to be sure, like."
Annoyance bubbled up within her. Why had Alan told her nothing of this? "We? How many of you are there?"
Bowie cast an uncomfortable glance past her shoulder, and she looked back to see movement in a craggy rise beyond the bam. "Uh. There's about ten of us tonight."
"Where is Alan now, Bowie?" she asked through clenched teeth.
"Well..." Bowie trailed off, and his gaze shifted from hers.
"Well what?" She took a menacing step toward him. Bowie was younger than her, and as the laird's wife, she could command his respect.
"Er ..." A deep blush spread across Bowie's freckled face.
"Tell me what happened. Tell me where he is."
"I'm .. . uh . . . I'm not certain he'd want you to know."
"Bowie MacDonald." Sorcha kept her voice cool, laced with authority. "You shall tell me the whereabouts of my husband. And you shall do so before another moment has passed."
"He's gone to the mountain," Bowie blurted.
Sorcha cocked her head but otherwise stood very still. Even the air between them seemed to hang suspended.
"Has he, then?"
Her stomach felt like a lump of ice. Lord, she'd told him this afternoon she didn't love him. Had that painful admission driven him to the mountain, where any whore would declare her love for a few bits of silver?
Yet they'd been married just over a week. Surely he couldn't expect everlasting love from her already. Alan seemed too practical for such fancies.
It didn't make sense. If he'd climbed the mountain because of that one comment, he was a vengeful, impulsive fool. If he went because he'd kept a mistress all along ... That seemed the more likely scenario.
Sorcha flexed her toes, testing the strength of her scab.
She turned on her heel. With her back ramrod straight, she left Bowie MacDonald standing agape and marched toward the cottage.
Once inside, she found a strip of cloth. Shoving off her shoe and stocking, she wrapped the linen around her foot and then replaced her shoe, forcing the leather over the bulk of the bandage.
At the door, Sorcha pulled another plaid over her shoulders. It would be dark and colder by the time she arrived on the mountain. She smelled snow in the air. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed the scythe.
She strode out of the cottage and turned onto the path to Glen-finnan. She ignored the murmuring and footsteps behind her. Let them follow. It made no difference to her. Unease hit Alan square in the gut as he scanned the one-room cottage. Large pillows, soft furs, and an ivory silk counterpane covered the plush, inviting bed. Clearly some high personage—probably Cam— had given it to the whore as payment, because it looked like something from a grand castle rather than a poor woman's cottage. It overpowered the room and looked nearly ridiculous in its prominent location on the dirt floor. Beside it, splitting the sleeping area from the eating area, the hearth occupied the back wall. The woman bent over it and poked a stick into the fire. The curve of her rump tilted toward Alan, and he averted his gaze to the single square glass-paned window—another luxury. Crowded with fog, the window revealed just a hint of outside greenery. Alan turned toward the door to discover his guide, a boy from Camdonn Castle, had slipped away. Slowly, Alan dragged his gaze back to the whore.
The woman rose and turned to face him, and from the languid sway of her hips and swing of her hair, Alan knew immediately she calculated every move for maximum effect. She was older than most of Cam's dalliances, and he'd never known Cam to have a particular affection for flame-colored hair. But it was clear to him now that there was quite a bit he didn't know about Cam.
The woman spoke, her voice low, rich, and smooth, like brandy. "I'm Grainne." Her wide lips curved into a sensual smile. "And you're Alan MacDonald." Grainne. Cam spoke of her often. She'd served as his first teacher of the carnal arts, and Cam held her in the highest regard.
Alan narrowed his gaze at her, looking at her through new eyes. This woman had a long, complex history with Cam. Were they in collusion?
"I'm informed the earl wishes to speak with me. Where is he?" It had surprised him when the lad approached him this afternoon. Red-faced, the youth had ridden up to him and handed him a message from Cam. The note said Cam wanted to meet with Alan here on the mountain, tonight, to make peace between them. Alan had agreed to come on the condition that he remain armed. For he intended to shoot Cam in cold blood if he did anything but grovel at his feet and offer a thousand different ways to make amends for the damage he'd done.
"He'll be here soon. Make yourself at home, Alan MacDonald. Perhaps you require a stiff drink, eh?"
"No. Thank you."
"Something to eat, then?"
"No."
"Please. Sit." Grainne gestured to a fancy chair set across from the hearth. Covered in red velvet, it boasted intricate legs and armrests carved to look like a lion's feet and paws. It looked like something straight from an opulent English drawing room. Cam had probably given it to her as well. Alan eyed it dubiously.
"Make yourself comfortable."
Releasing a harsh breath, Alan stalked toward the chair and stiffly lowered himself into it. Instantly, Grainne hurried to him, knelt before him, and began to unlace his shoes. He jerked his feet away, and she looked up at him from beneath ginger-tipped lashes.
"Sorry, love. I only wished to help you be comfortable."
"I'm comfortable enough, thank you. How long before Cam returns? I should be home." It was nearly dark, and Sorcha would worry.
Grainne rocked back on her heels, a smile tilting the edges of her bowed lips. "Cam told me about you. Loyal to a fault, are you? Even when your wife isn't?" Alan ground his teeth. "What are you saying?"
Grainne's brown eyes widened. "Surely you know she's in love with the Earl of Camdonn?"
Alan's lip curled. "Surely it isn't any of your business, madam." He sounded more like his English grandfather than himself. But when the woman spoke like that to him, she didn't deserve his Highland regard.
"Och. You're likely right." Grainne lowered her eyes modestly. "But you're a bonnie man, Alan MacDonald. If you haven't the attention you require from your wife, 'twill be easy enough to find it elsewhere."
He watched her through slitted eyes, wondering if Cam intended to come up at all or if this was some harebrained scheme to—what? Draw him away from Sorcha? The notion was laughable. He was already just about as far from Sorcha as one could be without actual physical distance between them.
He'd been foolish to believe Cam wished for peace between them. This was just another of his manipulations, another means by which to steal Sorcha away. In fact... God. Cam could have brought an army to his house, intending to kidnap her again while the whore distracted Alan.
Alan rose abruptly. Grainne had turned, but she spun round to face him. Her bodice was open, the laces dangling freely on either side. She wore no shift, and the stiff material of her stays curved around the outsides of her ample breasts. He could see the light blue trail of veins beneath the plump, pale skin, and the stark red of her beaded nipples.
"Not today, eh, Alan?" She rose to
her feet with her dress hanging precariously from her arms. Her breasts swayed as she stepped closer to him. Close enough to touch. "Perhaps tomorrow, then. Know I am here for you. Thinking about you, ready to comfort—"
"No," he growled. She was blocking his exit. "I don't know what scheme you and Cam have devised, but it isn't going to work, Grainne. I am a married man, and I have no interest in bedding you. Now step aside so that I might return home to my wife."
"Your marriage," Grainne murmured, "isn't a happy one, is it?"
"I've been married only a short time."
'"Tis a challenge to keep hold on your Highland honor, isn't it?" she continued. "When you know your wife is bedding a lord with so much more than you yourself have."
"Leave it, Grainne." He fought the urge to toss her aside. She stepped closer. "I can make you happy." She reached out and placed her palm flat against his chest. "I can make you feel again."
He gazed at her dispassionately, but he didn't move. "You make me feel nothing." Her bow-shaped lips curled into a wicked smile. "Not yet. But I can offer you great pleasure."
With a slight twist of her torso, the dress slipped from her shoulders, baring her naked body. Alan wondered how often she had practiced the movement in order to make it just right.
He smiled, almost feeling sorry for the woman. "You'll not be seducing me, Grainne. Not today."
She shimmied closer to him, undaunted, her grin widening. "Tomorrow, then, perhaps?"
"No."
Just then, the door to the cottage opened with such force, it banged against the inside wall and rattled the windowpane. Grainne spun round and Alan's gaze snapped up as a blast of cold outside air collided with his face.
Sorcha stood at the threshold, her face white and rigid, her eyes burning like green flames. In her right hand, she wielded his scythe. Behind her, the first flakes of snow had begun to fall—a peaceful scene in contrast to the woman in the full heat of fury. Had she walked all this way? On her injured foot? Why the hell had his men allowed her to do such a foolhardy thing?
"What are you doing here, Sorcha?" he growled.
She aimed a deadly look at Grainne and then focused on him, her teeth bared. She tore off her kertch and tossed it to the floor, shaking her hair out so it gleamed like a silvery black halo.
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