Highland Surrender

by Dawn Halliday

  Elizabeth needed him. No one else was capable of giving her what she needed. And if anyone tried . . .

  Mine.

  He squelched the rage that built in him at the thought. He tamped down the possessiveness rising like a powerful tide within him, growling, Mine, mine, mine!

  Forcefully, he turned his attention back to the body writhing under his touch. She was so open, so willing. So trusting.

  Why did she trust him? What had he done to earn this woman’s trust?

  “Turn around.”

  She turned, and he pressed her back against the rock face. She shuddered at the contact, for the rocks against her heated skin must feel like blocks of ice.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Her lids rose, and she gazed at him, the blue orbs hazy with a combination of lust and trust that sent the blood roaring through his veins.

  He let her stand alone, panting, as he studied her. Assessed her. She stared up at him. Completely open.

  Her trust staggered him, humbled him. He released a breath through his teeth and gathered her against him. She shuddered in his arms, held him, touched him from head to toe as if she sought to get even closer. To crawl under his skin and stay there.

  He pushed his hand between their bodies and yanked up the fabric of his plaid. His cock sprang free, granite hard and hot as a torch. She rubbed her belly across it as if she couldn’t get enough of the feel of his burning need against her skin.

  He reached under her arse and lifted her. She was so small, light as a feather. Positioning his cock at her entrance, he lowered her onto him. Her eyes widened, and she gasped out a breath as he sank deep into her body. Then he pushed her back up against the rocks again as she wrapped her legs around him and clung to him.

  Standing still, he stared down at her as her body clasped his cock, shuddered over him, clenched him in a fiery grip.

  “Hold me,” he murmured unnecessarily, because she already clutched his shoulders as if her life depended on it.

  Still, she held him tighter. He stared at her face as he began to move within her, seeing nothing but passion and need reflecting his own. After two thrusts, he gave a long, low groan. He couldn’t control the hot tremors erupting through his body.

  He let go. Gave free rein to his lust, to his need. Allowing the rock face to support most of her weight, he held her with one hand. With the other, he touched her. Her soft stomach, her rounded breasts, her tight, small nipples. Her long, creamy neck, where he found her pulse beating wildly. Her parted lips, which sought his fingers and sucked his thumb into the wet cavern of her mouth. Her soft cheek and oval jaw, her arched brows, her silky hair. God, she was beautiful.

  She was beautiful, and she was his.

  Curling his fingers in her hair, he pulled her head to the side, exposing her throat. He lowered his head, continuing to sink his cock deep within her, thrusting hard and then retreating as he sampled her English-rose skin.

  The need had been boiling within him for too long, and when she cried out and bucked in his arms, the rush of his orgasm came at him like a cattle charge. He retained some semblance of sanity, some discipline, for he managed to wait until her tremors began to recede. As soon as her head slumped forward, he yanked out of her, then gathered her against him as wave after wave of bliss rushed through him, pulsed out of him to smear between their bodies.

  When the spasms jabbed him with interspersed ripples of pleasure, he gently lowered her legs but kept her body pressed against his, her face buried in his shirt. Reverently, he kissed the top of her head.

  After several minutes, she looked up at him, blue eyes glistening.

  “I never thought it could be like that.”

  “Nor did I,” he said in all honesty. He brushed a bit of hair away from her mouth, then slid his fingers under her chin to keep her looking up at him. “Why? Tell me . . . why do you trust me?”

  “I . . .” She shook her head. “Maybe . . . Well, I think it has to do with the first time we met.”

  “What of it?”

  “You were different from anyone I’d ever seen. You didn’t care that I was an English lady. You didn’t care that I was the daughter of a duke, the niece of a duke. You saw through me; you saw me. No one does that, ever. You were the first.”

  “What do you think I saw?”

  “You saw a haughty, spoiled girl. Someone who thought more highly of herself than she should.”

  He firmed his fingers beneath her chin. “Aye, I saw all that. But I saw more.”

  “What more?” She shrugged. “That’s who I am. Who I’ll always be.”

  “Even you know that is a lie,” he murmured.

  Her expression turned soft. Vulnerable. “What else did you see?”

  “A bonny woman,” he said. “A woman who needs to be touched. Who needs to be loved. Who deserves both.”

  “No . . .”

  “Aye.”

  Darkening with guilt, her eyes slid away. “You don’t know anything about me, Robert MacLean. You don’t know the extent of my sins—”

  “Whatever happened before you came here doesn’t matter,” he said. “You were a lass then. Now you are a woman. Now you must take responsibility. Whatever happened before were the actions of a frightened, unloved child.”

  “I . . .” Sudden tears formed in her eyes, and she tore her chin from his light grip. “No. You don’t understand. You cannot.”

  He sighed and pulled her into his arms despite her feeble attempt at struggling, thinking it was she who didn’t understand.

  He was falling in love with her.

  Hell, he had already fallen.

  What had led him here? Cam had held the reins, but he hadn’t consciously directed the horse anywhere. He’d just needed to ride alone and without guards, to get as far away from Camdonn Castle as he possibly could.

  He’d followed Rob most of the way down the cliff. Then he’d stood there, his body pressed against the rocks, and listened. To all of it. From Rob denying Elizabeth because he couldn’t bear to hurt his brother, to Rob taking Elizabeth against the back of the shallow cave.

  Robert MacLean and Elizabeth: lovers. Robert MacLean and Cam: brothers.

  Brothers. Lovers. Brothers. Lovers. The words flip-flopped in his mind until he couldn’t distinguish one from the other. One of the revelations he might have withstood in rigid silence. But when he put them together, his mind couldn’t digest it. It was unreal, impossible.

  Sweet, young, innocent Lady Elizabeth? He’d never understood her at all. Had he even tried? No, he’d made assumptions and conclusions based solely on her upbringing and her outward behavior. He’d never really tried to dig deeper—he’d assumed there was nothing beyond the shallow English facade. As always when it came to women who were important to him, he’d been a fool. Perhaps this was just punishment for his past sins, his indiscretions and unforgivable behavior with Sorcha.

  And Robert MacLean. His stable master, his intended bride’s lover, his brother?

  Holy hell. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. It was incomprehensible.

  And now the thatched roof and stone walls of Ceana MacNab’s cottage had come into view. Cam slowed the horse to a walk and stared at the humble structure. He should turn away. It was dangerous to approach Ceana in his current state. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to change course, and his mount plodded inexorably closer.

  Thin wisps of smoke curled from the thatch, and all was silent as he approached, the horse’s hooves making the only noise as they crunched over the bracken on the cleared path leading to the small structure.

  Finally, mere feet from Ceana’s cottage, the horse came to a tentative halt. Cam stared at the door. Moonlight slanted across it in silvery invitation.

  Why did she burn a fire this late at night? Shouldn’t she be abed by now?

  He pushed his hand through his hair. Should he go away? Should he tear down the door and fall into her arms? The indecision was agonizing. How could he make any rational decision in
the face of what he’d witnessed tonight?

  And then a bloodcurdling scream tore through the placid night, and Cam jerked into action. He leaped off the horse and threw open Ceana’s door, fists clenched in preparation to kill whoever had hurt her.

  What he saw made his hands go limp at his sides and his mouth gape open.

  Ceana, who crouched over the curled-up figure on the bed, whipped her head around. “Cam! What are you doing here?”

  He looked from her to the woman on the bed. “Sorcha?”

  Ceana blew out a breath, and curls flew around her face. “Where are Alan and Moira?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Damn it,” Ceana spat. “Come here, then. Sorcha needs you.”

  “Cam?” Sorcha asked in a weak voice.

  Cam swallowed. “Is she . . . Is it . . . Is the babe . . . ?”

  “Aye, she is, it is, and the babe is,” Ceana said. “So come here and hold her hand!”

  “Another one,” Sorcha groaned, and the groan deepened and became louder and finally transformed into a keening sound that made Cam’s feet itch to run for the hills.

  “Good God,” he said, petrified. “What’s happening to her? Is she . . . ? Is she . . . ?”

  “No, she’s not dying, for God’s sake. She’s having a baby,” Ceana said tiredly.

  “I must go.” This damn sure was no place for a man.

  “No. You will stay. I need you.”

  Sorcha’s pain seemed to lessen, leaving her sobbing softly. Cam gathered himself and dragged himself to the side of the bed. He looked down at her, and she stared up at him.

  “Uh . . .” He glanced at Ceana. “Alan . . .” Cam gulped. “Ah . . .” He looked guiltily away as Ceana flipped the blankets over Sorcha, leaving her round, bare belly exposed.

  “Oh, come,” Ceana snapped. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  Before he had an opportunity to argue that point, Sorcha said, “If you don’t wish to stay . . .”

  He returned his gaze to her, keeping it steady on her face rather than the exposed parts below. “Do you want me to be here?”

  “Please . . .” Sorcha grabbed his hand. “It hurts so much, Cam. I’m so afraid . . .”

  He closed his eyes, remembering that her mother had died in childbirth.

  “Just let me look at you . . .” But she couldn’t speak anymore, for pain had gripped her again. She managed it more quietly this time, but her body writhed helplessly on the bed.

  He met Ceana’s eyes as she looked up from between Sorcha’s legs. “She’s doing very well,” Ceana said. “The babe is a bit early, but everything is progressing nicely.”

  He looked back down at Sorcha. A sheen of sweat covered her face, and she was paper white. Even her lips were pale. This was well?

  Pain racked her body once more. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and she squeezed his hand so tightly, he thought she might break the bones of his fingers.

  If this was usual for childbirth, he resolved to never impregnate a woman.

  But this woman, a woman he’d once loved and who would always be dear to him, needed him right now. He’d do whatever he could to help her through it.

  He bent down and brushed his knuckles over her clammy cheek. “I’m here, Sorcha. You have nothing to fear.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ceana looked up over the slope of Sorcha’s belly. Sorcha had labored through a long, exhausting night, but now Ceana’s blood thrummed with excitement. She glanced at Cam, who smoothed a wet cloth over Sorcha’s brow. Cam had been a great help—she only wished he’d come earlier. Where were Alan and Moira? They should have been here hours ago.

  She smiled at the mother-to-be. “The baby’s crowning, Sorcha.”

  “Wha-what does that mean?” Sorcha was pale and listless, for laboring with a child was just that: hard work. And Alan had been coddling her, not allowing her to perform her regular activities and duties. He’d insisted his wife go soft, and that had made it more difficult for her.

  She waited patiently as Sorcha endured another contraction. When it settled, she knew she had only a few seconds before the next one struck. They were coming one after another now.

  “On this next one, if you feel like pushing, go ahead and do it,” Ceana said.

  Sorcha barely seemed to hear her, but when the contraction hit, she bore down. The dark crown of hair grew larger but receded with the cessation of the contraction.

  “One more, Sorcha,” Ceana said in her most encouraging voice. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the duties of a midwife. She’d delivered a few bairns in her time, and she’d studied some of the techniques of birthing at Aberdeen. Yet when she’d arrived at the Glen, she’d kept to general healing and, unless there was an emergency, left the birthing to the midwife and Sorcha’s sister, Moira.

  Sorcha was bearing down in the midst of another contraction. Ceana focused on the emerging head, and when the contraction tapered, the head disappeared.

  “Is he out yet?” Sorcha screeched.

  Cam looked at her in alarm, and Ceana grinned at him. “Almost, Sorcha. One more big push with the next one, and the head’ll be out. I’m sure of it.”

  Still smiling, she met Cam’s eyes, and something sweet passed between them. They were helping Sorcha through this together.

  Sorcha moaned, and Ceana returned her focus to the tiny head. This time, Sorcha succeeded, and the small, damp round face appeared. Gently, Ceana adjusted the head to align with the body. “The head’s out,” she said on a breath. “One more push, Sorcha. You’re doing it!”

  With its mother screaming out her lungs, the babe slid out with the next push. Ceana gathered the tiny new human in her arms, quickly wrapping a blanket around the little body and working to clear out its breathing passages.

  Cam was speaking in low, excited tones to Sorcha, but Ceana was too focused on the babe to hear his words. Finally, the infant took a shuddering breath and released a reedy wail. Sorcha’s voice emerged from the haze.

  “What is it, Ceana? Tell me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A lad or a lass?”

  Ceana’s frown deepened. “Oh . . . I don’t know.” Carefully, she opened the blanket, then smiled up at the two expectant faces. “A lad, Sorcha. A braw, healthy baby boy.”

  She cut the cord and then placed the squalling infant into Sorcha’s arms. Sorcha stared down at him in awe. “He looks just like Alan.”

  “But he has your coloring,” Cam murmured.

  Ceana listened to them murmur over the babe, counting his little fingers and toes and making certain he was perfect. She cleaned up and administered a tincture of shepherd’s purse and vervain to Sorcha to promote healing and slow the bleeding. Half an hour later, all was serene in her cottage. She glanced at Cam to find his eyes glowing as he stared down at mother and child, and happiness swelled within her. He’d probably never thought to witness such an event. To most, having a man present at a woman’s labor and delivery bordered on blasphemy, but Ceana thought it appropriate. Why not? Men did this to women, so they should be allowed to see what a woman went through to bring a child into the world.

  She was far too radical in her philosophies—but then, she always had been. She trod carefully through life, acutely aware that people would believe she was a witch in truth if she allowed her authentic self to show. At least tonight she had good reason for allowing a man into a world reserved for women. With Moira and the midwife nowhere to be found, she’d needed his help. Of course, she could have managed without it, but no one had to know that.

  She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, watching them. Cam glanced up at her. “You look tired.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.” In fact, the opposite was true. Easy births always infused her with energy. She felt like she could stride outside and take flight, run all the way to Glenfinnan. Or even Inverness.

  Cam’s smile widened, and a look of understanding flared in his eyes. “Nor
am I.”

  “But you look it too.”

  “I am tired,” Sorcha said on a yawn.

  Ceana’s heart clenched at his tender expression when his gaze moved to Sorcha. “You should be. You worked hard. And look at what you’ve done.”

  “Aye, look.” Sorcha looked down at her dozing infant. “And I survived it.”

  “Of course you did.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “I wasn’t certain I would.”

  “Here, I’ll take him.” Cam removed the bundle from Sorcha’s arms. There was something very sweet in seeing a man as tall and masculine as Cam handling a tiny newborn babe with such delicacy.

  Just then, the door crashed open.

  “Sorcha!” Alan rushed to the bedside. “God. Margaret said the baby was coming. I’ve sent a servant to the village to collect Moira and the midwife.”

  “Oh, Alan, what took you so long?” Sorcha asked.

  He cradled Sorcha’s hand in his own. “Margaret hurt her ankle and didn’t get to the house till late, and I’d already had half the Glen searching for you. I was on my way home from Glenfinnan when they found me, and by that time it was near midnight. I came as soon as I could, love.” He pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and lowered his voice. “Are you well? Are you in pain?”

  She smiled up at him. “Not anymore.”

  “No?” Alan cast a questioning glance at Ceana, and in turn she gestured at the tiny bundle in Cam’s arms.

  Cam rose and moved to the end of the bed. “Alan. Your son.”

  “My . . . ?” Alan’s blue eyes flitted wildly from Sorcha to Cam. “My son?” he whispered. “There’s . . . It’s . . . There’s already a baby?”

  “Aye, Alan. Our son,” Sorcha murmured.

  “He’s sleeping,” Cam warned, a protective note in his voice. “Be gentle.”

  Alan took the lad, a trifle more awkwardly than Cam had, and stared down at the sleeping face of his son, his eyes watering. His mouth moved, but he seemed at a loss for words.