Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  "Perhaps 1 should ask you the same," she said, her voice ice cold. "We've been married less than a fortnight, and you already choose to slake your lust upon the first willing whore? Or has she been your whore all along?"

  Appearing unperturbed, Grainne stepped aside, leaving her dress piled on the floor and making him look as guilty as sin. She took a woolen blanket from the bed and wrapped it over her shoulders. Alan saw she was shivering. The crisp, clear day had descended into a bitterly frigid and snowy night.

  "Close the door, Sorcha. You're letting in the cold." Sorcha took a step inside. Using her good foot, she slammed the door behind her, not turning away from Alan and Grainne, nor lowering the rusty scythe.

  "'Tis bad manners to wield a weapon in a countrywoman's home." Despite the disapproval in her tone, a smile quirked Grainne's lips. "Perhaps you should put it down."

  "Aye, Sorcha," Alan agreed. "Put it down."

  Sorcha's lips curled into a sneer. "You think I'll let you take your pleasure in a whore? You may not like me, Alan MacDonald, but you've married me. You made a vow before God."

  "Aye, I did," he said calmly.

  "Yet you have no honor. You're a liar. You pretend anger at me for something I did before I married you, while all along, you were just waiting for the opportunity to come up here to bed someone else!"

  She was glorious in her bristling rage. Two bright spots of color splashed over her cheekbones. Her eyes glowed like angry emeralds. Her cheeks were taut, her arms rigid. Alan could gaze at her, watch her rage at him for hours.

  "I'll kill you before I allow it to happen again." She raised the scythe higher. "I was a fool. But no longer."

  "What do you expect, lass?" Grainne said. "Do you think he'll merely accept that you love another?"

  Sorcha turned furious eyes on the naked whore. "What the devil are you talking about?"

  "You're in love with the Earl of Camdonn," Grainne said.

  "Did he"—Sorcha jerked her chin at Alan—"tell you that?"

  "And what if he did? He's a man. You're a wee fool if you think a man's pride could withstand such a blow."

  Sorcha arched her brows. "Is that so? Are men so weak?"

  "But of course they are," Grainne said sagely.

  Not wishing to hear where this conversation would invariably lead, Alan raised his hand.

  "Sorcha. Lower the blade."

  She paused a moment, then granted him a twisted smile. "All right, Alan. Is this what you want?" She opened her hand. The scythe hit the floor with a clunk, and she made a generous motion toward Grainne. "Then I shall sit quietly in the corner and watch. Show me. Show me how you take her when you ride away from me. From our home." Her voice was quiet. He stared at her, his gut surging with an odd feeling he didn't know how to interpret. It was all he could do not to take her into his arms and beg forgiveness. But for what? He'd done nothing wrong. Cam had lured him here on false pretenses, and he'd never possessed a single intention of bedding Grainne.

  Sorcha was the one who had done wrong. She'd made love to Cam. Scores of times. Cam, of all the godforsaken men in the world. Then she'd lied to him on their wedding night. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Show me."

  Bemused, Alan stared at her for a long moment, then glanced at Grainne, who returned his gaze, her brown eyes gleaming. "You want me to take her. While you watch?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "I want to observe how it is she can make you happy when I do not." He could shoot back a retort: Because she doesn't fuck the Earl of Camdonn. But that would be a lie, and though Sorcha likely didn't know about Grainne's past with Cam, Alan couldn't bring himself to utter that falsehood.

  His wife continued. "I want to see what it is that makes what I did to you so very wrong, while it's all right for you to do the reverse, and worse."

  "I never lied to you, Sorcha."

  "Perhaps not, but I chose never to ask." She spoke bitterly. "I'm not so great a fool as to demand to know how many women you've had, though that number is likely to be far, far greater than the number of men I've had."

  He raised a brow.

  "Why must I accept the fact that you bedded half the women of England? Why isn't it considered proper for me to expect you to be untouched in our marriage bed?"

  "It isn't the way of the world," he said with a shrug. But her words rolled through him like an earthquake. He'd never considered such things before. Women and men lived by different standards set by society. Yet both sexes were capable of thought. They both expert enced emotion: the pains of betrayal, the joys of love.

  In Oxford and then in London, he'd behaved exactly as people expected. He'd enjoyed his debauchery, knowing all along that the day would come for him to take a woman to wife. Ten years ago, the thought of marriage had made him cringe, and he and Cam both had resolved to take their fill before the dreaded moment of their eternal shackling arrived. They had taken their fill. By the time Alan reached his twenty-eighth year, he'd had enough.

  But what of the female sex? They were expected to leap into lifelong relationships straight out of the nursery. Without exploring, without experiencing. And if they dared to explore and experiment, they were rejected by society, cast off as loose women and whores.

  Alan glanced at Grainne, briefly wondering what crime she had committed to be relegated to such a fate. Likely nothing that could even come close to his own wicked past.

  "The world is mad," Sorcha muttered darkly, "if it is acceptable for a man to visit every whorehouse in England, then engage the services of a whore so soon after his marriage." Grainne chuckled.

  "Not every whorehouse in England." Only every whorehouse in Oxford. Alan considered disabusing her of the notion that he'd engaged Grainne's services. No. Not yet. Perhaps he was enjoying her anger too much. Not a particularly honorable excuse, but then what part of this situation had aught to do with honor? Sorcha sneered. "Good, then, Alan. Show me what you've learned, why don't you? Show me how you achieve satisfaction without the services of your rejected wife." She yanked a chair out from the table and lowered herself in it. Sitting upright, she clasped her hands in her lap and raised an expectant eyebrow.

  Smug little wench. Why not give her a taste of what betrayal felt like? What he felt like, knowing she'd spent months in Cam's arms?

  He glanced at Grainne again. Still standing naked and wrapped in the blanket, the whore smiled. A bit like a cat that had just gorged itself on the most delicious bowl of cream. The whore seemed more than willing to continue the ruse, making him certain that she knew more about this situation than she'd admitted.

  He slid his gaze back to his wife. A muscle moved in Sorcha's jaw as she ground her teeth, but she didn't speak.

  He watched her as he unbuckled his belt and removed his dirk, sword, and pistol. He set the weapons and his powder horn beside the hearth. Rising, he tugged his plaid loose and let it fall from his shoulder.

  He held it clasped at his hips. "Are you sure you want this, Sorcha?" She'd stop him now. All color had drained from her face; surely she hadn't actually believed he'd go through with it. She narrowed her eyes at him until they shot venomous green sparks. "Aye."

  It struck him then that despite her stubbornness, she was a terrible liar. A fact he might be able to use to his benefit sometime in the future. If he'd been paying better attention, if he hadn't been so lost in the sweetness of her body, he might've recognized that on their wedding night.

  Yet she held her ground and wouldn't give in. She dared him to take it further with a flourish of her hand. "Please. Continue."

  He was no coward.

  He gestured to Grainne and kept his voice even. "I know what I'll get from her—do you see? A straight tumble. No messy entanglements. I need not worry about lies and betrayal, because nothing she can do to me can hurt me. Only bring me pleasure. She's quite good at that."

  Sorcha gave the other woman a look of supreme distaste. If she'd spat on Grainne's floor it wouldn't have surprised him.<
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  He pulled his plaid free and tossed it aside. He wore only his shirt, shoes, and stockings now. He kicked off his shoes and bent to remove his stockings. Both women watched him in utter silence. Fury radiated from Sorcha, but what was Grainne thinking? He looked up at her to see that her gaze had turned speculative. Did she comprehend his motives or did she believe she was about to be fucked while Sorcha looked on? He rose to standing once more, untied the laces closing the neck of his shirt, and lifted the linen material over his head before tossing it aside into the small pile of clothes. Generally he wasn't self-conscious before women, and he didn't care about his nudity in front of Grainne, but Sorcha's gaze dragged over his skin like a rake over hot coals. The prickling intensity of her stare roused his cock from its deep slumber, and it hardened under her scrutiny.

  The look on her face barely masked the misery simmering beneath. She sat very still, her spine straight, every muscle in her body rigid as she perused his form. Her heated look contrasted with the tightness of her features, the sharpness in her expression, and the look of pain deep within her eyes. The very air they breathed vibrated with tension.

  The blanket slipped from Grainne's shoulders, and she stood bared before them both. Her nipples had darkened and tightened into puckered peaks, but the cabin was no longer cold. The heat of their bodies, and of their anger, had warmed it. Alan pointed at the floor in front of him. "Come here, Grainne. Come and kneel before me."

  Grainne's eyes nicked to Sorcha, then back to him. For an infinitesimal moment, she appeared indecisive. Then she glided closer and dropped to her knees. Alan looked down at the whore. The next step was to command Grainne to take him into her mouth.

  Silence stretched.

  Goddammit. He couldn't do it. It wasn't her mouth he wanted closing over his cock. Before he could step away, Grainne's shoulders rose as she took a deep breath. She lifted her hand and ran her long fingernail down the length of his erection. His wayward member jumped, hardening even more beneath her teasing touch.

  She leaned forward to press her lips to the head. Alan clenched every muscle in his body to prevent himself from thrusting her away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sorcha's frozen body came alive the second Grainne touched her husband. She lunged for the scythe, grabbed its handle, and sprinted the short distance to where the whore knelt. By God, she'd cut the bitch in two before she let her have him. Alan was too fast. He leaped in front of Grainne, protecting her, catching Sorcha's wrist as she began to swing the long, curved blade, and squeezing tight. Sorcha's fingers opened, and the scythe clattered to the floor.

  "I hate you," Sorcha hissed.

  She tried to wrench away, but he pinned her body against his. His solid rod pressed against her belly. The cock that was hard for a whore. Not for her. "Let me go!" Sorcha cried, struggling, clawing at him. "Damn you! I hate you!"

  "No," he growled into her hair. "You don't hate me, you damned little fool."

  "I do," she sobbed. "You and your bloody whore."

  "She's not my whore," Alan rasped, still holding her tightly. "She's Cam's."

  "What?" It made no sense. She twisted and writhed, trying to escape his iron grip. "Let me go, I said."

  "No."

  "Tis true," the whore said from behind him. Sorcha stilled as the woman continued. "I'm not too proud to admit defeat when it's staring me in the face. I am Cam's, love. Alan MacDonald doesn't want me. You're the one he wants, and I daresay you want him, too." She made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Our poor earl is utterly wrong. You're not the one for him, not at all."

  Alan flicked an icy glance at the whore. "Leave. Now."

  "You command me to leave my own house?" She sounded astonished.

  "This is my house, and my land. You are merely a tenant, Grainne. And if you hesitate one moment longer, I will throw you out by the scruff of your neck and never allow you shelter on my lands again."

  At that, the woman threw back her head and released a gale of laughter. As Sorcha gaped at her in confused disbelief, the whore's guffaws gentled into hiccupping chuckles, and she collected her clothes. Finally, she grabbed a thick cloak from the hook beside the door and strode out, the door banging softly behind her.

  Damn them both. They were trying to manipulate her. She didn't believe a word either of them said. Sorcha rounded on Alan, her rage renewed.

  She slid her hand between their bodies, pushing downward until she found what she was looking for. "I'll squeeze your ballocks until they explode, you bastard. Now you let me go."

  Alan didn't release her. Instead his hands moved to her face. Cupping her cheeks, he tilted her head up to face him. She met his steely blue glare with equal ferocity. She curled her fingers, digging them into the sensitive skin encasing his testicles. "I've got you by the balls, Alan MacDonald. I'll make you suffer. I'll make you hurt like you've made me hurt."

  "Do you feel the come boiling in my ballocks, Sorcha? That's for you. Not for her. I don't care about the damn whore."

  Sorcha tightened her hand. The coarse hairs on the underside of his sac rasped oyer her fingertips.

  "I hate you," she said, but with less conviction than before. Confusion swirled in her chest. Was he deliberately driving her to madness?

  "Did you honestly think I'd touch her? Could you really think I'd come up here to seek carnal fulfillment from another woman?"

  "What else could I think?" she sobbed. Lord, she was losing her mind. "You leave me every day. She was naked when I walked in. She was going—going to s-suck your ..." His fingers moved in her hair, threading into the strands. "I haven't had a woman since I took you on our wedding night."

  "You lie."

  "No."

  Before she could react, he captured her wrist in his hand, and her fingers were no longer wrapped around his ballocks. He closed his arms around her, hefted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.

  From the cocoon of softness, she stared up at him in shock.

  "I'm going to bed you now," he said, but his voice was more like a snarl. It was clear enough he wanted her. A filmy bead of fluid dripped from the tip of his thick shaft, and the head of his cock was flushed and swollen.

  Sorcha couldn't speak for the tremendous lump in her throat, but she challenged him with her look.

  Alan crawled onto the bed. Loomed over her.

  "You want me, don't you?" he growled. His hand dove under her arisaid and his thumb flicked over a nipple that beaded hard, straining against her bodice. "As much as I want you?"

  More, she wanted to say. A thousand times more, a million times more. He reached down and found the hem of her dress. His fingertips brushed over her stockings as he yanked her skirts upward.

  His hands slid into the vee between her legs, diving between the lips of her sex, finding it hot and wet. Ready. She arched into his touch, releasing a low moan. Without preamble, he moved into position above her. And then in a long, hard thrust, buried his cock inside her body.

  Sorcha groaned.

  There was no tenderness in him tonight. In fact, it wasn't lovemak-ing. It was fucking, pure and simple. He took her with a savage ferocity, thrusting inside her so forcefully he pushed the air from her lungs. Then he yanked himself out until his head hovered at her entrance and he repeated the motion, burrowing himself as deeply as her body would allow. He rested his weight on his forearms, hovering close enough that his lips brushed hers with every thrust. His breath puffed hot over her face.

  Sorcha closed her eyes and curled her stockinged legs around Alan's thighs. His muscles flexed and worked beneath her heels.

  Hot and hard and heavy, he dug himself into her and dragged out again. So hard she felt as if he tore her to pieces and remade her—she could feel him in every part of her being, from her skin to deep inside her soul.

  She wrapped her arms around him, tightened her legs, squeezed her eyes more tightly shut.

  He took her spiraling into a black abyss of pleasure and pain, hot as spun sugar and jus
t as sweet. He rode her body until it clung to him, molded against him, shaped itself to him, took and accepted him.

  Sorcha sobbed. Sharp lights exploded beyond her closed lids, and her body bowed and undulated in a rolling motion she couldn't control. All around her, Alan was stiff, as hard as metal molten and then cooled to fit perfectly against her body. His muscles quivered, then quaked, and with a long, low groan and one final, violent thrust, he jerked out of her and poured his seed onto the fine silk bed covering.

  Alan came slowly back to himself. Sluggishly, his mind recalled where they were and what had happened. He was slumped over

  Sorcha's small body, the thick layers of her arisaid and petticoats and shift crushed between them. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and perspiration gave her face a shimmering pink glow in the dim, flickering light of the cottage. He brushed a lock of dark hair away from her mouth and then rolled away, tugging her skirts to her ankles as he did so.

  Alan moved down Sorcha's body. Slowly, gently, he removed the shoe from her foot and untwined the bandage from her arch. There was no blood, and the scab was still intact. Despite the small amount of swelling no doubt caused by all the walking, her wound hadn't reopened.

  "Thank God," he murmured, replacing the bandage and her shoe. He didn't say more, though he wanted to reprimand her again for her foolishness in walking all this way with her foot not completely healed.

  With a final kiss on Sorcha's shin and a squeeze on her forearm, Alan heaved his body off the bed and strode to the hearth, where he pulled on his shirt and belted his plaid, but left his pistol, dirk, and sword.

  He went to the door and saw Grainne waiting beneath the tiny awning, now fully dressed. Rubbing her arms, she cocked an eyebrow at him. "1 hope you're finished. It's bloody cold out here."

  He tilted his head in acknowledgment and held the door wider. She marched in and headed toward her small kitchen area, where she set a pot over the fire and knelt over a bucket in the corner.