"I will," Sorcha murmured. "Thank you."
She didn't know why she thanked him. Nothing this man did seem to help Cam. Nodding brusquely, the doctor followed his beaked nose out of Cam's bedchamber. The two maids who had helped him shuffled behind, one of them carrying the bucket of fat leeches.
Sorcha stared at Cam's still body. He hadn't moved once or made a single noise of complaint throughout the whole procedure. Was he so far gone he couldn't even feel the leeches pulling away his lifeblood?
Suddenly, Cam's body arched upward, and he began to twist and convulse. Sorcha lunged toward him. Cam's head whipped back and forth. His body undulated on the bed. She grabbed on to his hand and gripped it for all she was worth, even though he flailed away. "Cam," she cried, "you must stop this!" As his body fought the fever, she went on, her voice lowering to a murmur. "You must live. Please live. I need you. I love you. Alan needs and loves you. Your people need you too. They need your kindness, your depth of feeling, your care. Please, Cam. Please don't go."
She continued to speak of love and need and passion, and how great a loss to the world it would be if he died. She tore off the blankets and swabbed his furnace of a body with cool water as she murmured her gentle words.
Much later, the convulsions settled and Cam's body stilled. Sorcha took his pulse and found it quick and irregular. But he was alive, his breaths weak and shaky. His body as hot as a burning lump of coal.
Exhausted, she crawled into the bed beside him, wrapped her arms around him, kissed his burning cheek, and slipped into a fitful doze.
"Damn fool doctors," Mary MacNab muttered as they approached the living quarters of Camdonn Castle. She snorted. "Bleeding a man who's already nearly bled to death. And those idiots think themselves so damned superior."
Moira, who appeared nearly a foot taller than the old woman, smiled at Alan over her head. Alan couldn't help but to smile back.
He understood Mary MacNab's old medicine—at least in theory. He'd seen with his own eyes what it could do. Passed on by oral tradition through generations of women, this knowledge was something he couldn't deny. Some of Mary's ancestors, he knew, had been burned at the stake for using their forms of medicine, but such a thing would never happen to Mary. Even the old Duke of Argyll had called on her to administer to his son when he had once taken ill as a boy.
Alan carried Mary's medicine chest, an ancient-looking wooden box filled with herbs and medicines and special pagan concoctions made by Mary with Moira's help. They walked into the living quarters. None of the servants so much as batted an eyelash as they trudged upstairs in a line, Mary in the lead and Alan following Moira. When they reached the landing, Mary turned to him.
"Which way?" she snapped. "I've forgotten."
"To the left, Mrs. MacNab."
Mary turned down the hall and paused at Cam's closed door, cocking her head against the smooth wood planking.
"Doctor's gone," she murmured. "Least I can't hear his damn fool blathering."
"Good." Alan pushed open the door.
He froze when he saw Cam and Sorcha on the bed. Their arms were wrapped around each other and both slept like babes. Something panged heavily in his heart, and the resulting tremor rumbled through his entire body.
Mary MacNab chuckled behind him, and Moira gasped in horror.
"Don't fret, lass," Mary said cheerfully. "Naught is amiss. She comforts him, as is her wont."
Alan's eyes widened as he stared at the bead of sweat rolling down the side of Cam's face. His heart pounded with excitement. "Has his fever broken?" Mary marched up to Cam and slid her hand under his shirt, pressing her palm to his chest.
"Aye," she confirmed. "He's cool."
Alan blinked hard in relief, and Sorcha stirred on the bed, stretching and yawning. And then her eyes opened, and her gaze alighted on the three of them. She yanked her arms away from Cam and shot up to a seated position. "He was—" She looked down at Cam, then at Alan. "Oh, Alan. He was shaking... and... and ..." Her lip quivered and teardrops hovered on her lower lids.
Alan strode to his wife and gathered her into his embrace. "His fever's broken, Sorcha."
"What?"
"His fever. It's gone."
She went limp in his arms. "Oh Lord. I thought—1 thought..." He stroked her back and she clung to him, her body heaving with emotion. "He was trembling and shaking. I thought he was dying, Alan. I—I talked to him. I told him how much we all cared. I begged him not to die ..."
Alan comforted his wife as Moira and Mary administered to Cam. Mary ordered water from a maid and spent several minutes dabbling in her chest as Moira crouched beside her, focused and following each direction with precision. Side by side, the two women thor-oughly cleaned Cam's wound and applied a warm healing poultice. Sorcha turned to watch them. "Has his fever truly broken?" Sweat beaded on Cam's forehead then rolled in streaks down his face, matting his hair to his skin.
"Aye, lass." Mary didn't bother to turn from her work. "He'll need liquid, lots of it, to recover. Make certain he drinks plenty, and not too much of it whisky, eh?" Sorcha took one of the towels on the bedside table and climbed back on the bed. She pressed the soft linen against Cam's sweaty face. She turned back to Alan, her green eyes shining. "It's true. The fever is gone."
Cam groaned softly, and his eyes fluttered, but he didn't wake. Mary MacNab rose and turned to Alan. "Give him this when he wakes. It's made from silvered water." She thrust a foul-smelling brown liquid concoction beneath Alan's nose, and he fought to keep from gagging. The wrinkles in her face deepened. "Damn fool that he was for dueling to begin with."
She narrowed her little eyes at Alan. "And," she continued. "Feed him fresh bannocks soaked in cream. It'll help him heal."
"Aye, Mary," Sorcha promised from the bed. "Thank you. Thank you so much for saving him."
Though, Alan thought, Mary had done little to save him. And Alan was fairly certain the doctor hadn't done a damn thing, either. He gazed at his wife as she clasped Cam's hand, her eyes shining with relief... with love.
Cam would live because of Sorcha—her sweet words and her healing touch. Cam woke to the sound of birds chirping and Alan's light snore. Turning toward the direction of the noise, Cam saw with surprise that
Alan slept in a pallet beside his bed. He didn't remember the bedding being placed there. How long had he been ill?
"Good morning."
Cam swiveled his head at the sound of Sorcha's voice. Too quickly. He had to close his eyes against the onslaught of dizziness.
"Ungh," he groaned.
She chuckled softly.
"You're still weak. But the fever's gone."
There was relief in her voice. A lightness he hadn't heard since long before her wedding. Before their affair, for that matter, when he'd first returned to Camdonn Castle to find his factor's daughter full-grown and desperately alluring. When she'd looked at him with those fiery green eyes, his skin had prickled from head to toe. He'd wanted her instantly. Only later had he grown to love her.
He opened his eyes to see her gazing down at him, her smile so wide, a deep dimple appeared in one cheek.
"How long?" he whispered, his voice rough from disuse. Her smile faltered. "Five days. We've missed the festivities of Sam-hain." Good God. "You've been here five days?"
"Aye. Alan and myself both."
Cam let his eyes drift shut again, lest she should see the emotion swirling in them. They had remained by his side as the fever gripped him. They were the only ones who'd stayed beside him—the only ones he would've asked for before he'd damaged everything between them.
"Did you sleep here?"
"Aye. Alan had the pallet brought in." She cleared her throat. "It isn't wide enough for both of us, so we take turns at night. I wanted one of us awake at all times, in the event..
."
Her voice dwindled, but Cam knew. In the event he grew sicker. In the event he died.
"Thank you" was all he could murmur.
What had he done to deser
ve the forgiveness of these two people? As much as he claimed to care for them, he had betrayed them both, hurt them both. In return, they restored his honor, then remained by his side in his darkest hours.
Opening his eyes, Cam glanced at Alan, remembering how Alan had called him brother before he'd fallen into delirium. After all that had happened, once honor had been restored, he treated him as no less than a kinsman.
He turned to Sorcha. Even now, he couldn't look at her without wanting her. The attraction was a fierce pull in his chest, in his groin. Just the sight of her made his cock grow beneath the blanket. It didn't matter that he'd spent days on his deathbed and all he could smell was the stench of his own sickness. He wanted her.
But the devil himself would take him before he'd touch her again. Without Alan's permission, that was.
A vision of Alan watching them together, a benevolent smile on his face, flashed through his mind, and he almost laughed out loud. Only in his debauched dreams.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Tired," he answered honestly. "But you must be tired too." She shrugged, but he saw the light blue-black circles beneath her eyes.
"Do you want to go home?"
She hesitated. "We'll go home if you wish it. But I'd rather stay until you're on your feet again."
He exhaled in relief. "I'd be honored if you stayed. Both of you." Sorcha looked past him, her smile faltering slightly, and he turned to see Alan stretching on the narrow pallet.
"Good morning," Sorcha murmured.
Alan rose to a seated position, arching an eyebrow at Cam. "So you're awake, are you?"
"Yes. And lucid, I suppose."
A smile skittered over Alan's face before the resident seriousness returned. He swung his legs over the side of the pallet and stretched. "It's been a difficult few days. We thought we might lose you."
Cam's side thudded, a reminder that he was facing the man who'd injured him—who'd almost killed him. Yet he couldn't blame Alan. Nobody could. Alan had only defended his own honor, and his wife's.
"How is your wound?" Alan asked, his features carefully schooled.
"Hurts," Cam said. His side throbbed in agreement. It didn't burn like it had in the past days, but damn, it hurt. If he stretched or turned or moved in any way, it complained. Loudly.
Alan nodded, but no sympathy edged into his expression. Both he and Cam knew he deserved whatever pain Alan had wrought upon him with his broadsword.
"I'm so sorry," Sorcha whispered.
Cam frowned at her. "Why?"
"I—I didn't wish this upon you."
"I know, Sorcha." There was a long, pregnant pause. "But we all know it was justified. You must hate me for what I did to you."
"No," she said. "I was angry, yes. But I never hated you."
"I think she's incapable of hate," Alan said.
Flushing, she glanced at her husband and something passed between them. "Maybe so," she admitted. "Even when I claimed to hate you, it was a lie." Alan's lips curled. "I know."
Sorcha bowed her head, and Cam turned to Alan. "Thank you for staying with me."
"It was the least we could do."
Humbled, Cam said, "I'll have the servants prepare the state bedchamber for you." He found it difficult to form words, he was so tired. But they needed their privacy. It was ridiculous to ask them to stay as close as they had, sleeping on that uncomfortable pallet. Both Sorcha and Alan looked exhausted.
He felt Sorcha's hand close over his. "Rest, my lord. We'll be here when you wake."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Days passed. Cam recovered quickly—as a healthy man in his prime, he wasn't easily cowed. Within the week, he was walking the castle grounds.
He stood at one of the stall doors in the stable, looking down at a newborn foal wobbling as it tested its weak, spindly legs. He could empathize—he'd never felt as weak as he had in the past few days.
Sensing a presence beside him, he turned to see Alan gazing at the foal.
"He'll be a beauty."
Cam smiled but didn't answer. Alan cast him a sidelong glance. "You all right?"
"Yes. I feel fine. Considering."
Alan nodded. "Good."
He stared at Alan, assessing the other man. "Don't you wish you'd killed me?"
"No," Alan said easily. "I'm glad you're alive. Honor has been redeemed, and I didn't have to kill my friend in order to do so."
"After all I've done ... how can you still consider me a friend?" Alan gazed at the foal, which was nuzzling up to its mother, one of Cam's finest mares.
"Aye, you've tested my limits. But we had a long history prior to the past few weeks. You must have suffered a lapse in your memory." Alan turned back to Cam. "But can you remember all those years now?"
Hell yes, Cam remembered. Standing up to the English... they used different methods, but together, they'd survived. It had been the two of them against the world. And then later, at the university, explorations into adulthood. Experimentation, mistakes, close calls. Just about everything that formed them into the men they were today, they'd experienced together.
"You're right. I did forget." He sighed. "I'm sorry for it, man. Forgive me for betraying you."
His behavior had far surpassed the limits of acceptability, but Alan and Sorcha showed him the true meaning of friendship. Of love. He'd never forget. Not this time. Alan clapped him on the shoulder. "It's over. It's time to move forward." How? Cam wanted to ask. It was a stupid question, because deep inside, he knew the answer. He had to take a scrubbing cloth to his mind and heart, and scour away all trace of Sorcha MacDonald.
But was he strong enough?
Alan struggled to keep his jealousy in check. It was clear Sorcha cared deeply for Cam, had always cared deeply for him.
Working and living beside her as the days went by, Alan's affection for her grew, along with the painful realization that she loved another man. Alan now knew she would remain faithful to him, but at what cost? Would they both be miserable knowing the object of her desire lived mere miles away in Camdonn Castle?
Sorcha treated Alan with deference and respect. She slept with him in the big state bed at night. He held her close, but he didn't touch her beyond that.
However, he did observe her touching Cam, and each time her skin made contact with the earl's, Alan saw the spark snap between them. Their attraction for each other was palpable, and yet out of their loyalty to him, neither acted upon it. He trusted both of them not to act upon it now.
Alan knew Cam, knew how humbled he'd been by their show of solidarity during his illness. And he was beginning to understand Sorcha. Her beauty—which he'd originally thought of as mere surface— came from deep inside. She was fierce in her loyalties, resolute in her personal divisions between right and wrong. She was dedicated, honest, and fair.
Alan didn't know what to do. His love for his wife was growing, but how could he live with a woman who loved someone else? More confusing, when he saw the arousal between her and Cam, Alan felt the spark resonate within himself. A humming heat that lit a fire in his groin. Against his will, he lusted after the idea of watching Sorcha make love to Cam, even while his mind rebelled wholeheartedly against it. He leaned against the carved headboard of the elaborate state bed in the tower room where Cam had insisted they sleep. Alan would have been just as happy making a bed above the stables, but he'd humored Cam by agreeing to stay here. Sorcha stood across the room washing in the basin. Her slender arms moved as she dried her face and then reached back, her shoulder blades squeezing together, to braid her silky black fall of hair.
Beautiful Sorcha. He couldn't really blame Cam for being unable to resist her pull. Her body sang to him, the sweet song of a siren. She didn't seem to notice how she affected him, which made her all the more alluring.
He and Cam had always shared a similar taste in women, Alan thought with a sigh. It was time to discuss the inevitable. Cam was nearly well.
"We must return home soon," he said in a low v
oice. "My men have been watching the valley for me, but there is much to do, and I can no longer avoid this rebellion." Her hands faltered, but then she started braiding again, one strand over the other. "Yes. Cam is on the mend. He's no longer at risk."
"Unless, of course, you'd prefer to stay with him."
She was quiet as she finished, using a small ribbon to tie off the braid. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath, then slowly turned to face him.
"I don't wish to stay with Cam. I wish to stay with my husband."
"I won't abide a wife who's in love with another."
Her lips parted. "Is that what you think?"
"What should I think, Sorcha?" he asked quietly. "I see how you've cared for him. How you touch him."
"I'd care for and touch my brother in the same way if he were injured." Alan didn't think so.
He pushed his fingers through his hair. Goddammit. He wished he could believe her, but how could he ignore the meaningful looks and touches and intimate conversation that passed between his wife and the earl?
"Which of us do you want, Sorcha?" he finally ground out.
"You." The answer came instantly, almost overlapping his question. "Only you."
"Because I happen to be the one the minister married you to." Her lips firmed. "No."
"Why, then?"
"Because you are the man I'm meant to be with."
He couldn't see how that was any different.
With her chest rising unevenly, she pulled on the ties of her nightdress, revealing the creamy skin between her breasts. She pulled apart the edges of the gown. "When I'm with you, I'm overwhelmed. By desire. By pleasure. By the need to please you, to earn your love."
She'd already earned it, but he kept his mouth shut, watching.
The thin garment slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stood there, staring at him. Shivering. "I never felt this way with anyone else. You've settled into the deepest recesses of my soul, making me hungry for more. Being separated from you would be like being torn in two."
She looked at her toes, crossing her arms over her chest. Alan stared at her curvy, feminine form, hardly containing the urge to jump out of the bed, lower her to the floor, and take her right there.
Highland Obsession Page 19