Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  "Why did the earl put you up to this, Grainne?" he asked. She stopped and turned, the ladle she carried dripping milk. "Och, he didn't put me up to it. Not at all. It was my own idea. And"—she glanced thoughtfully at Sorcha, who'd curled herself into a ball on the bed—"a foolish one at that." Grainne liked his wife, Alan realized, and an odd feeling panged in his chest. It was strange that the whore would acknowledge a lady like Sorcha after what had just occurred... but Alan understood.

  The fire in Sorcha demanded respect. He still felt the scorching heat in her eyes searing down his back to the base of his spine.

  "Was Cam aware of your plan?" Alan asked Grainne, his voice hard. She looked away, licking her lips. Then she met his eyes levelly. "Aye. He was." He nodded, but his neck felt stiff. The languor of his orgasm dissipated, and his muscles once again hardened and stiffened. The knowl-edge of what he must do flooded through him, cold as ice. He must end this. Once and for all.

  Turning from Grainne, Alan retrieved Sorcha's kertch from the floor and took it to her. She clasped her knees close to her chest, her body still trembling in the aftermath of his savage lovemaking.

  "Sorcha?"

  She pried her eyes open. "Aye?"

  She shuddered, and he held himself in check, restraining himself from taking her into his arms. Instead he satisfied himself with a soft stroke of his knuckles down her cheek.

  "I'll take you home, but first—"

  "Your men," she said softly. "They're out in the cold."

  "They followed you up here?"

  She nodded.

  Alan nearly smiled. Of course they had followed her, but his men could manage the cold, or if they chose not to, there were many warm, welcoming beds nearby. "Stay here. I'll be back in a moment."

  He slipped into the foggy night and called his men to him.

  Grainne poured a measure of warm milk into a cup and brought it to the trembling woman curled on her bed.

  "Come, lass," she said softly, reaching out to take Sorcha's hand. "Here's a posset for you."

  Sorcha stared at the offering, her eyes narrow with distrust. "Why did you bring Alan here?"

  Sighing, Grainne sat on the edge of the bed. "I am an old friend of the Earl of Camdonn's. I knew him when he was a youth. He has... been very good to me." He'd saved her, really.

  She gazed down at the beautiful young woman lying on the ivory silk. She looked so young, so vulnerable. So hurt and confused.

  Grainne had once been a young bride, too. In love, starry-eyed and optimistic, until her husband showed his true side. He began to flaunt his whores in front of her. Made her watch as he fucked them— sometimes four or five at a time—men and women. He'd tied her to the bed as she sobbed, begging him to release her. Then he began ordering the men to use her, sometimes violently, as he watched.

  Before all that began, she'd loved him. Truly loved him. She'd dreamed of building a life with him. A family. But for three years he tormented her, tortured her .. . and finally she'd had enough. She escaped from their rooms in Inverness. She ran and ran until she came to the mountain. The women here, each of whom had her own story, some even more terrible than hers, took her in, showed her how to live, how to be happy. They'd remade her, become her family.

  Then Cam, the wide-eyed and innocent English schoolboy, had come to her. He'd come home from England for a holiday, and with a flush rising on his baby-soft cheeks, he'd candidly said he wanted to learn from her. Learn everything. As they spent more time together, she'd grown to know him and to love him—to the extent her jaded heart could love. Ultimately, he was the man responsible for restoring her faith in mankind. Now, she realized, he'd been led astray, but he was too blind to see it. The young bride lying before her belonged to Alan MacDonald, and though neither of them knew it yet, the laird belonged to her as well, heart and soul.

  They would discover it, Grainne hoped, in time. But she wouldn't interfere anymore ... not in something that could lead to true happiness between two people whose compatibility shone like the brightest star on a clear summer's night. Sorcha shook her head and her dark brows furrowed. "You brought Alan here ... for Cam?"

  Grainne shrugged. "Cam wants you, love."

  The poor chit still looked confused.

  "I meant to seduce your Alan," Grainne said patiently. "To show you how men are."

  "And how's that?" Sorcha breathed.

  Grainne ticked the traits off on her fingers. "Fickle. Untrustworthy. Lustful. Unworthy. Unfaithful."

  "You dislike men."

  "Oh, no." Grainne chuckled. "I adore them, but they're such weak creatures."

  "Unlike women?"

  "Exactly." She smiled. "We are the stronger sex, my dear, though men spend their lives attempting to convince us otherwise. Only a strong woman, and only the right woman, can save a man from his baser nature."

  This young beauty was undoubtedly that woman for Alan Mac-Donald. But not for Cam. Grainne thought of Cam, how weak he was, how deeply he needed to be loved. In an abstract way, Grainne wished she could be that woman to him, but she'd never be fool enough to think it possible.

  Sorcha huffed. "I still don't understand why you'd wish to seduce Alan." Grainne suddenly felt tired. It had been a long day, and a sadness crept through her, lodging deep in her bones. "I care deeply for the Earl of Camdonn, lass. I'd do anything for him. If there was hope for him to find happiness with you, I wanted him to have it. If I seduced Alan MacDonald, it would prove to you that your loyalty to him was misguided."

  "You meant for me to find you here?" Sorcha asked, her lips parted in shock.

  "Well, not tonight, lass." Grainne smiled. "Your appearance rushed things more quickly than I'd anticipated."

  "You meant to develop a liaison with my husband so when I discovered his infidelity, I'd run back to Cam?" Sorcha frowned, then shook her head. "If that happened, I'd be more likely to return to my da and never go near another man for all my days." Grainne chuckled.

  Sorcha shifted to a seated position beside her and took the warm cup of milk from her hands. Taking a deep swallow, the lass gazed expectantly at her. Grainne lifted a shoulder. "I had to try, you see. For Cam's sake." She shook her head ruefully. "But you are cut from the wrong cloth altogether. Cam is not the one for you, Sorcha. Alan MacDonald is. I know men, love, and that one'll have none but you." Sorcha smiled, the first time Grainne had seen her lips curl into any expression but a sneer. "I think you are an odd sort of matchmaker," she said over the rim of her cup. Just then, the door opened and the laird stepped inside. Shaking snow from his shoulders, he cast a soft look at Sorcha, then narrowed his blue eyes on Grainne.

  "Do you have parchment and ink?" he growled. "I must write a letter." Sorcha rested against Alan's chest as they rode down the mountain. They traveled slowly, for though it had stopped snowing and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, it was still dark and Alan allowed Eachann to pick his way cautiously over the wet terrain. He had tucked his plaid around them both, and despite the wind whipping at her hair, she was comfortable in the tight cocoon of wool. His strong thighs cradled her behind, and he wrapped his arm solidly around her middle.

  For the first time since they'd married, she felt safe.

  Sighing, she snuggled more deeply against him, sinking into the feel of his flexing muscles against her body.

  Something had changed tonight up on the mountain. Alan wanted her fiercely—he'd wanted her all along and had never intended to betray her. Grainne had witnessed the flaming passion Sorcha and Alan had for each other, and Sorcha hoped she'd take that message back to the earl.

  Alan pulled gently on the reins, and Eachann drew short. For a long, silent moment, they stared down at the valley. Fog swirled over the roofs like swirling tentacles, and in the muted moonlight, the grass shimmered midnight green. Beyond, mist rose from the loch, its waters a deep and fathomless black. The damp air smelled of cut wheat and heather.

  "It's lovely," Sorcha breathed.

  His hand tightened mi
nutely over her waist. "I was thinking," he said into her ear, "of building a house up here."

  She remained silent.

  "We are standing on its foundations. It would be a modern stone house, with a proper kitchen, a drawing room, and bedrooms. Servants' quarters too."

  "A fitting residence for the laird," she said softly.

  "Aye," he said. "To be seen as equal to the rest of the world, we must bring ourselves into this century."

  "It would be a beautiful house. In a beautiful setting." Alan released a breath, and with it, she could feel some of the tension leave his body.

  "The stables would be down the hill," he said. "Where the cottage is now. The other cottages might house some of the staff."

  Gazing down at the small cluster of buildings, she nodded. The fog had drifted away, leaving a clearer view of the thatched roofs.

  She could easily picture a house standing in this spot. In her mind's eye, she stepped out the front door to gaze down at Alan exercising his horses in the clearing below. It was a comforting vision.

  Alan clucked at his horse, and they resumed their slow walk down toward the cottage. Moments later, they pulled up before the door. Alan unclasped the brooch holding the plaid wrapped over them. Instantly, cold air seeped straight through the wool of Sorcha's jacket, and she shivered.

  He dismounted and lifted her off. With a light pat on her rump, he said, "Go on to bed. I must brush Eachann down, but I'll be right along."

  Cam paced before the fire in his study.

  Again, he'd been an impulsive fool, thinking with his heart rather than his head. Even if Grainne did succeed in seducing Alan—and in retrospect he doubted she would, knowing Alan and his old-fashioned Highland sentiments on honor and marriage—what then? It was not a given that Sorcha would come running to him.

  He pushed his hand through his tangled hair. He felt like a caged lion trapped in this infernal prison of desire. Sorcha was his keeper, and nothing, save her, could set him free. He needed to formulate a plan to turn her away from Alan. If that didn't work ... Hell. He'd kidnap her again. He'd prefer her to come on her own accord, but if there was no way . . . Yes, he'd take her. This time he'd make sure he kept her. She just hadn't had enough opportunity to grow accustomed to the idea last time. If she hadn't escaped, he would have let her go, and she would have realized he was an honorable man. Just as honorable as Alan.

  He stalked to the window, fists clenched. What was he thinking? Was he simpleminded? As if repeating the same mistake would make her love him.

  He reeled around and stopped at the fire to gaze moodily into it. No matter what he did now, she would think him less honorable than Alan.

  Worse, she was right—he was less honorable than Alan. He'd wronged them both. Not for the first time, regret washed through him.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and he jerked around to face the heavy wooden planks.

  "Come," he barked.

  It was Duncan. Standing behind him was a younger MacDonald he recognized as Alan's cousin and current heir. Gam narrowed his eyes. "Yes?" he said in his most disdainful English lord voice.

  "Forgive me, milord. But I've brought Bowie MacDonald—he says he has a message for you." Duncan stepped aside so the man could enter.

  Bowie's youthful face was completely blank as he held out a folded sheet of parchment. Cam took it and went to stand by the light of his desk lamp to read. Lord Camdonn,

  As you have breached my honor countless times, I now have no recourse but to demand the satisfaction entitled me as a gentleman. We will meet with swords at the place and time of your choosing.

  Alan MacDonald

  Cam stood motionless for a long moment, rereading the brief note several times. He didn't know what to think.

  How could he fight Alan MacDonald? The man was like a brother to him. He had forced his friend's hand, given Alan no choice. Of course Alan would feel there was no other way to reclaim his honor. Cam had offended him in the basest fashion—by coveting his wife and then attempting to trick him into adultery. For either one of those transgressions, Alan's honor would demand a challenge.

  Drawing in a breath filled with the close, smoky air of his study, he glanced up at Bowie.

  "Please wait whilst I compose a response."

  "Before you do that, it's my duty as the laird's second to determine the source of the misunderstanding and to attempt a reconciliation."

  Cam raised an eyebrow at the lad. "Is it?"

  "Aye." But the boy had nothing further to offer, and Cam just stared at him.

  "So," Cam finally said. "You know it wasn't a misunderstanding, don't you?"

  "Aye. I know it well."

  "You believe there is no hope for a reconciliation, don't you?" Bowie shrugged. "Have you any ideas to offer?"

  "No. None."

  "Very well." Bowie crossed his arms over his chest. "Go on and write your response, then."

  Could Alan really trust such a young lad as his second? But Bowie was seventeen, eleven years younger than Alan—man enough to go to war, and man enough to be his kinsman's second. Cam didn't doubt that Bowie would represent Alan with the dedication of kin-ship and clan.

  Before he'd abducted the man's wife, Cam undoubtedly would have been Alan's foremost choice as a second in any duel he fought. They'd even discussed it once and had agreed to back each other up should they mistakenly offend someone.

  But who would serve as Cam's second? So entranced had he been by Sorcha since he'd set foot on the grounds of Camdonn Castle upon his return from England, he'd scarcely paid attention to his reputation. It was his own fault the Highlanders kept their distance. He hadn't done a thing to earn their respect, after all. He had only tried to earn Sorcha's—and look how that had turned out.

  He'd lost her to his best friend. His rival: The man he most admired in the world. A sullen part of him thought on how easy it was for Alan to saunter home from England and have the villagers and his few tenants and even his stranger of a wife instantly fall to their knees in loyal adoration. Despite his mother's English blood, Alan was a Scot through and through. He held himself like a Highlander. He spoke like one, his Gaelic fluent and perfect.

  Cam had always preferred to speak the more comfortable English. His English ties were what guided him as a child. When he went to England for school, he pretended to be one of them, while Alan stood apart, never feeling the need to shed his plaids or his Highland ways. And when Alan was challenged—rare once people got to know him— he proved his mettle with his fists.

  Cam had wanted respect. He'd wanted to fit in, so he'd ignored his background and had used his English title, Viscount Manderly. He took on the accent, the posture, all of their

  "civilized" ways.

  After all that, Cam had only gained the respect of social climbers. Alan earned more friends, more esteem, and more admiration with seemingly no effort. Even Cam's father preferred Alan to his own son. Once when Cam was fourteen years old, his father had come to London. Alan had joined them for dinner one night, and afterward the earl said Cam should study Alan to learn how to behave like a man.

  Cam didn't understand exactly what his father had meant, but he did know Alan had lost his virginity to a willing girl just a few months before. So when he'd gone home with his father on the next holiday from school, he made it his first order of business to go to one of the whores on the mountain to learn about the carnal arts. He was certain that his own loss of virginity would turn him into a man in his father's eyes. It hadn't worked. It seemed no matter what he did or how hard he tried, Cam still wasn't good enough.

  And now he realized his father was right. There was no doubt of it: Alan was the better man.

  Cam suppressed a sigh and pressed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. Hell, he needed to choose a second. He had no close kinsmen left in Scotland—his cousins all lived in England. He had no real friends other than Alan, and that was over, ruined by his own impulsive actions. The only reasonable choice would be
the blockheaded Angus MacLean.

  He'd prefer young Bowie. '

  Wearily, Cam walked to his desk and lowered himself into the ornately carved chair behind it. He pulled out a blank sheet and dipped his quill into the ink to compose his response.

  Tomorrow, Alan. We will settle this tomorrow.

  Relief washed over him. Thank God. It would all end soon.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alan brushed his horse's flank and tried to cool his heated blood. His cock was at full stand, eager to claim Sorcha again. He wanted her, and he'd take her again inside the comfort and privacy of his home. But he'd be damned if he'd lose all control this time. He wished to give her pleasure too.

  "Alan?"

  Alan jerked his head to see Bowie enter, his cropped blond hair standing in damp spikes across his head. "Back already?"

  "Aye, and with a response from the earl." Grimacing with distaste, the boy held out a folded, sealed paper between two fingers.

  Alan took the letter, broke the wax of Cam's seal, and quickly scanned the contents. Cam had acknowledged his challenge. They'd settle it tomorrow at daybreak, on Glenfinnan Moor. He glanced back up at Bowie. "As I expected. Tomorrow, at dawn." With tight lips, Bowie nodded. "You must get your sleep tonight, Alan."

  "Aye, I will, and you too. Meet me at Glenfinnan by the water's edge an hour before sunrise."

  "Aye." With an incline of his head, Bowie strode outside and left him alone. Alan turned back to Eachann and finished brushing him down. The animal blew out the occasional contented breath between his lips, but otherwise Alan worked in silence. When he finished, he hung the brush and left the horse with some oats. He went outdoors and strode past the cottage to the loch. Steam drifted across the surface of the water, spreading ghostlike tendrils to curl like clutching fingers over the black pool.

  Alan removed his plaid and shirt, gritting his teeth against the frigid air. Dropping his clothes on the grassy bank, he walked in, sucking in his breath at the frozen bite of the water, until he was waist-deep. He ducked his head and scrubbed the smell of horse from his body. Steeling himself against the cold, he waded out, grabbing his .clothes on the way to the cottage.