Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  Pushing her knees from under her, Sorcha dropped to her stomach, then turned to face Alan, who had lowered himself at her side. His arm came up to her waist, stroking idly.

  "I'll get you a cloth to wash." He turned away, but Sorcha caught his arm.

  "No. I want to leave your seed on me."

  Alan's eyes flared—but she could not read into why. She hoped it was a flare of possession. He'd marked her like some primitive creature, and the last thing she wanted to do was wash it away.

  She wanted to be his.

  Awakened from a deep sleep, Sorcha opened her eyes drowsily. It was still dark, and Alan hovered over her, nudging her legs apart. He pushed himself into her without preamble, and Sorcha released a gasp as her body adjusted to his size. They made slow, sweet love, and when it was over, Sorcha trailed her fingers through his seed on her belly before she pressed her body against his.

  Nobody had ever made her feel like Alan did. Never had she felt so absolutely perfect in someone's embrace. Never had she felt so at peace.

  Everything was going to be all right. They would live in the cottage until their house was built up on the hill. They'd be happy.

  She had cared for the Earl of Camdonn. She'd been infatuated with him, perhaps. She'd certainly lusted for him. But those feelings combined were nothing compared to her feelings for the man who held her safe in his strong arms.

  Earlier today she'd told him she didn't love him. But so much had happened since then. So much to burn away the cloak of fear shrouding her heart. Now the truth was exposed, and it was so sweet.

  She loved Alan MacDonald.

  Love was a beautiful thing, swelling her heart so full, she thought she might burst with it. With a peaceful smile curving her lips, she fell into a dreamless sleep. When she woke hours later, it was still dark. All was quiet. And Alan was gone from her side.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Perhaps he hadn't been able to sleep and had gone for a walk, Sorcha rationalized. Yesterday had been a trying day for both of them.

  She checked the clock and saw it was nearly dawn. Knowing she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep—not without Alan—she washed up, stoked the fire, and headed outside to check the stables. She released a sigh of disappointment when she saw Eachann's empty stall.

  She turned away and leaned against the stable's doorframe to stare out across the loch. The predawn light spread across the water, giving it a sparkling, pearly hue. She gazed up the dark hill at the plateau where they'd paused last night on their way home from the mountain—the spot where Alan intended, to build his grand house. Alan was softening toward her—dare she even think he was beginning to love her? She could only hope. And pray.

  Surely the Earl of Camdonn would soon move on to other pursuits. Surely he understood that his continued obsession with her would only bring more pain to all of them. Having an earl look at her the way Cam had once looked at her was a girlish fantasy come to life for a brief time. But things would have never worked between them—they were far too different from each other. Clearly Cam had always known that—at least before he'd abducted her on her wedding night—otherwise he would have stopped her marriage to Alan before it happened. Deep in his heart, Cam knew that this was the life destined for her. The life that could fulfill her.

  Yet there was still so much uncertainty. The uprising loomed on the horizon like a dark cloud. Soon it was likely Alan would lead the MacDonalds to war. He'd never send his men to battle without a leader.

  She closed her eyes, afraid for them all.

  "Sorcha!"

  Startled, Sorcha turned toward the sound of her sister's voice. The door to the cottage was ajar, and she saw a flash of dark material as Moira searched for her inside. What in Heaven's name could her sister be doing here so early? She picked up her skirts and hurried to the cottage. "Moira? I'm outside."

  Moira, pink-cheeked and flustered, appeared at the door just as Sorcha approached it.

  "Thank the Lord you're all right," Moira burst out; then she looked down at Sorcha's feet.

  "How is your wound?"

  Alarm bells shrieked in Sorcha's head. "My wound?"

  "Your foot. You haven't reopened the cut, have you?"

  "No, no, I haven't." She grabbed her sister's hands. "Why are you here? What has happened? Is it Alan?"

  Her sister's freckled face turned grave. "Oh, Sorcha. Da forbade me to come, but I thought Alan might keep it from you. I came as soon as they all left."

  "What are you saying? Keep what from me?"

  "Alan has gone to duel with the Earl of Camdonn. They are to meet at the loch's edge at dawn."

  Sorcha stared at her sister. "How do you know this?"

  "You know how quickly word travels in the valley. Bowie Mac-Donald told his friends before he left to serve as Alan's second, and they spread the word, starting with our own da."

  Sorcha's mouth dropped open as her sister continued. "Everyone has gone down to watch."

  "No," Sorcha whispered. No, no, no.

  The thought of Alan hurt, of Cam hurt, of either of them killed by the other ... She couldn't stomach it. She brushed past Moira, who spun around and followed her into the cottage.

  "What are you doing?" Moira cried as Sorcha pushed her feet into her shoes.

  "If I run, I might be able to stop them." God knew nobody else would. Curse men and their bloodthirsty nature.

  "You must not! Your foot, Sorcha!"

  She glared at her sister as she shoved her second foot into her shoe. "You just try to stop me, Moira Stewart! I am going to prevent my husband and the Earl of Camdonn from killing each other. And you tell me I shouldn't go because I've a scratched foot?" Moira bit her lower lip and wrung her hands. Sorcha buttoned her jacket and pinned her arisaid. As she reached the door at a run, Moira rushed to follow. "Wait! I'm coming with you."

  "Then hurry." Sorcha picked up the pace, lifting her skirts. Already wet from the dewy heather, they slapped heavily against her bare calves.

  It was freeing to run. To glide over the cool, damp landscape, exhaling puffs of steam with every breath.

  She felt the slight tear when the wound on her foot reopened, but she didn't slow her stride. Moira could sew it back up later. Sorcha glanced behind to see her sister following at a distance, her face red with exertion.

  She would catch up. All that mattered was that Sorcha reach Glenfinnan Moor in time to stop Alan and Cam. She leaped over a rock and sprinted toward the glen.

  * * *

  The location Cam had selected was a flat plain bordering the loch at the mouth of the valley near Glenfinnan. Alan, standing knee-deep in heather, smiled at Bowie, who glanced over at Cam taking practice .swings at an imaginary opponent. The wide, sweeping arcs of his broadsword whistled through the air.

  A strange peace had settled over Alan. The past ten days had perhaps been the most difficult of his life. His honor had been crushed under the Earl of Camdonn's heel, but he was about to reclaim it and rebuild it into something stronger. Win or lose, at least he would be a man once again. Worthy of the name of MacDonald.

  He scanned the crowd of men from the village and Camdonn Castle who had gathered to witness the duel. It didn't surprise him that they'd come, but it unsettled him to see the grave looks on everyone's faces. The crowd was quiet, waiting with bated breath to see who would be the victor . .. and whether quarter would be given at the last. He'd give Cam quarter. He did not intend to murder the earl, only to achieve satisfaction, and he didn't need to kill to do that.

  But seeing Cam this morning, Alan wasn't sure of the other man's intentions. Cam was dressed in dark breeches and a white shirt, and his scalp already shone with perspiration from his practice. He made a show of his preparation as Alan stood by his horse, sipping water and occasionally speaking in low tones to Bowie.

  Alan glanced at the sky. It was as bright as it was ever going to be. Time to get this over with.

  "Alan?"

  "Aye, Bowie. It's time. Go on and speak w
ith the earl's second." Taking a deep breath, Bowie straightened, then jogged across the grass to speak with Cam's second, Angus MacLean, whose broken gut had apparently healed quite nicely. From the distance, Alan saw the giant nod as Bowie spoke to him, then they both approached the earl.

  Bowie jogged back to him. "We'll begin in two minutes." Alan leaned against the spindly tree trunk. He shut his eyes and cleared his mind. It seemed like only seconds passed before Bowie tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Alan?"

  "Aye, lad."

  "They're waiting."

  He nodded. His mouth dry, he took a long drink of plain water from the flask he had brought. He checked both his broadsword and his dirk one final time. Then he moved to the center of the circle formed by the onlookers.

  It was all a blur. First the giant spoke and then Bowie, but Alan didn't hear a word they said. He gripped his hilt and waited until both men moved aside, leaving him face-to-face with Cam for the first time since his wedding night.

  With a dark, intent expression, Cam reached for his sword. Someone shouted, signaling the start of the duel, and a whistling noise sounded from both men's sheaths as they drew their weapons.

  Immediately on the defensive, Alan raised his broadsword to block an arcing thrust aimed for his chest. Cam swung around, reaching for the other side, but Alan blocked again. The swords clashed in the crisp early-morning air, startling a flock of birds from their perches in nearby shrubs. They rose, wings flapping, squawking with annoyance. Alan's senses sharpened. Though he was aware of the birds and the gasps of the crowd, his focus riveted to the earl. It was almost as if he could predict Cam's next moves from the subtle hints of muscles tensing behind the billowing white shirt. He blocked a low jab, then a high one, and finally was able to offer his own attack, a sweep to the side, which the earl parried instantly.

  Cam danced forward, pushing Alan back until they skirted the edge of the crowd. The clang of their swords echoed in Alan's head. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of Cam's face.

  He blocked and parried ten times for every one of his own slices at Cam. But he took solace in the fact that each of his swipes was carefully placed and powerful. If Cam faltered once, it would be over.

  The sweeping arcs of Cam's sword, on the other hand, were fast but light. If struck, Alan would be scratched but able to continue.

  Nevertheless, Alan couldn't count on Cam faltering. Neither of them was a fool with a sword—it was why he had chosen this particular weapon. And though sweat cooled his skin, Alan knew Cam possessed the endurance of two men.

  Cam's sword whooshed through the air. Low then high, right and left. It developed into a pattern, and it was Alan who grew lazy. Two sweeping slashes from the right threw him off guard, and on the third swipe, Cam's sword sliced through Alan's shirtsleeve and scratched his arm.

  It hurt more than Alan could have predicted. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he blinked hard to make them go away. He tightened his fingers over his hilt and concentrated. Though Cam had struck him, he had not paused in his assault. To lose concentration now would be Alan's undoing.

  He tried not to think of the blood dribbling down his arm. How he wanted to clutch the wound to staunch the bleeding and soothe the sting.

  No sooner had Alan regained his focus than Cam took him by surprise again. He slowed, adding power to each thrust and swipe of his sword.

  Alan realized that whatever had happened before was merely a warm-up. Now Cam was serious.

  As soon as Alan comprehended that, Cam struck again.

  Sorcha heard the loud clang of swords long before she could see them. A sob tore through her chest and she sprinted hard down the hill before she reached the flat of the moor, ignoring the hot pain now pulsing through the bottom of her foot. Cam. Alan. Cam. Alan. Her mind cried the name of each man with every stride. She drew up short as she reached the clearing. Alan and Cam slashed at each other in the center of the crowd of men. Alan's arm dripped blood. Oh God, he'd been injured.

  "Alan!" she cried, rushing forward. But strong arms grabbed her and yanked her back.

  "Alan!" she screamed again, only to have a meaty hand close over her mouth. She bit down with all her might.

  With a roared curse, her captor pushed her away. "Bitch!" She didn't look at hirh; instead she sprinted once again onto the clearing. Somehow, she had to stop them. She could only pray she wouldn't distract one of them only to have the other take the advantage ...

  "Alan," she called. "Gam!"

  Both men paused in midmotion. But then, once again, male hands grabbed at her. She fought with everything she possessed, trying to twist free. This time, though, there was more than one man, and one of them was her father.

  "Sorcha!" he snapped, his face ground into a furious mask. "Do you want both of them to die? Stop this madness at once!"

  "No, Da, no! Alan's hurt. Please, make them stop."

  Her father's callused hands rounded over her cheeks. "Look at me." She opened her eyes and gazed into his. People always said they had the same eyes. But his were older . . . and they had always struck her as so much wiser. She'd always obeyed her da. It was one reason she'd gone to such lengths to keep her affair with Cam a secret. As reckless as she'd been, she'd not wanted her father to know. He'd be so disappointed in her.

  "You must let them finish this, lass."

  "No." She cringed as somewhere behind her the swords clashed again.

  "Listen to me," he said in a low voice. "Alan needs this. A chief must retain his honor. There is no other way."

  "They'll kill each other!"

  "Better that way. Better to be a dead man with honor than a living man without."

  "That's stupid," she spat. But even as she spoke, she understood with all her heart. In either man's position, she'd have done the same.

  "It is your choice," her father murmured, his eyes hard. "I'll have the MacDonalds drag you away from here, or you can remain and keep your fool mouth shut." She glanced beyond her father's shoulder where a group of Mac-Donalds glowered at her, annoyed at being torn from their entertainment. They gave her no choice.

  "I'll watch," she ground out.

  By the clanging of the men's swords, she knew the duel continued. She wrenched out of her father's grip and straightened her spine. Holding her head high, she turned away and limped back to the crowd, pushing her way through the men. Her foot bled profusely, soaking her shoe.

  Alan's shirtsleeve was also soaked in blood—his injuries appeared much worse than her own, but the motion of his sword was strong and precise. If he felt pain, he didn't show it. Moira finally appeared. She pushed in beside Sorcha, but Sorcha ignored her wheezing sister.

  Blood dripped from Alan's sleeve. Still, he fought with complete control, heedless of the injury. He blocked two quick jabs aimed at his stomach, then went on the offense with a high, powerful swipe of his blade, which Cam parried easily.

  Clenching her fists at her sides, Sorcha watched, aware of the men surrounding her, aware of her father hovering behind her, all of them ready to haul her away if she so much as made a peep.

  You caused this, Sorcha. They've the killing rage in their eyes. You will be responsible for the demise of one of these men. Just as she ignored the throb in her foot, she ignored the tear that leaked from her eye and began a slow, hot descent down her cheek. This was her fault. The blood on Alan's arms was her fault.

  She would never forgive herself if one of them died.

  Please, God, she begged. Forgive me. Let them live. Whoever is the victor, make him offer quarter . . .

  Cam lunged forward, taking a low slice at Alan's leg. The sharp point of his sword cut through the wool of his plaid and Alan grunted as the blade nicked his thigh. Sorcha stood on wobbly legs, her fists clenched at her sides. She would not let them die. Either one of them.

  With a growl emerging from low in his throat, Alan spun away from another of Cam's jabs, ending a step behind him. Cam misjudged a powerful thrust aimed for his torso, and in
stead of parrying, leaned toward the oncoming weapon. Alan's sword sank deep, and Cam cried out hoarsely.

  Alan yanked his blade from Cam's side. It was slick with blood. Cam's blood. Cam raised his sword to parry again, but when he lunged forward, he swayed. Alan stepped back toward Sorcha, as if in shock.

  Blood poured like a waterfall from Cam's side, and he lurched drunkenly. His free hand went to his side. Blood gushed between his fingers. Ever so slowly, he sank to his knees. Then he toppled over like a rock.

  Oh Lord, no.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sorcha sprinted to Cam and dropped onto her haunches when she reached his side. He trembled all over. Sweat sheened the pale skin of his face, and blood stained his shirt a deep crimson. The pink of the gash in his flesh gaped through a long tear in the linen. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he blinked, struggling to maintain consciousness. He focused cloudy eyes on her. "Sorcha?"

  "I'm here." She pressed her palm to the wound. She didn't know how else to staunch the flow of blood.

  "Sorcha. Please stay with me."

  "Aye, Cam. I will."

  His lids fluttered closed. Sorcha bit her lip hard, staring at the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He had only fainted, thank God. But he wouldn't survive for long if she didn't stop the blood from pouring out of him. Her hand was doing nothing.

  She glanced behind her and saw Alan on his knees. A man was wrapping a handkerchief round the wound on his arm. The slit in his plaid exposed his thigh. She searched the faces swarming around her. "Moira! Where's my sister?"

  "She's here, lass," someone said, and in a moment the crowd parted to reveal Moira standing alone, her face blanched, wringing her hands.

  "He's too badly injured," Moira whispered. "I can't—"

  "You must." Sorcha gave her sister a hard look. "Come help me. We have to stop the bleeding."

  "Call for Mary MacNab!" The shout came from behind her, and she didn't turn to see who it was. "The earl's in a bad way. Hurry!" '