Highland Surrender

by Dawn Halliday

  Cam cleared his throat. “Have you learned anything about the highwaymen?”

  Rob shook his head. “No. I’ve questioned Bram MacGregor. He claims he knows nothing of the attack, but—”

  “Do you think he is the one who tried to kill me?” The thought had already crossed Cam’s mind. Several times, in fact, but he couldn’t accuse MacGregor of anything when he had no proof beyond the disrespectful way in which the man addressed him.

  Rob steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “It is possible. He isn’t overly fond of you. Or your politics.”

  “Neither is anyone else in the Glen,” Cam said dryly.

  “Aye, well, true enough.”

  “MacGregor is simply more open about it than the others.”

  Rob nodded his agreement. “The Jacobites respect him. He distinguished himself at Sherrifmuir.”

  “Did he? I wasn’t aware any of my men were at Sherrifmuir.”

  “He was,” Rob said. “He slipped out and joined the MacDonalds when they made their late march south. He reappeared on your lands shortly after the battle, but the MacDonalds speak often of his bravery.”

  “I see.”

  He stared at the younger man sitting across from him. What would Robert MacLean do if Cam confronted him with the truth? Told him he’d witnessed what had occurred between him and Elizabeth last night?

  No. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to face any of that. Hell, he was still unsure what he thought about it. He was still damn uncertain of his own reaction to it. The fact that he didn’t feel any rage unsettled him more than anything.

  Cam rubbed his forehead. Damn it, he didn’t want to be thinking of this now. He couldn’t think of this now.

  He’d come for another purpose. At least he might know how to get to the bottom of this particular mystery. And once armed with the knowledge of the truth, he might have an inkling what to do about Rob and Elizabeth . . . and himself and Ceana.

  Cam steeled himself. He breathed in the smells of leather and peat—masculine, earthy scents.

  “I’ve a theory,” he said in a low voice.

  “About the attacks?”

  “No.” He took a deep swallow of ale. This was more difficult than he’d expected. “Please . . . bear with me. I’ve a few questions for you. It’ll become clear soon enough where this will lead.”

  Rob’s forehead creased. “All right.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Glasgow.”

  “What were the names of your parents?”

  Rob’s features tightened. “Why?”

  Cam grimaced. “Answer the question.”

  Rob swallowed. “My father was Peter MacLean,” he said slowly. “My mother died at my birth. Her name was Marian.”

  It wasn’t proof, Cam reminded himself. He could be Peter’s son, not the old earl’s.

  He stared at Rob, who sat very still in front of him.

  “Who sired you?” Cam asked, his voice strained as it emerged from his tight throat. “Was it Peter MacLean, or was it another man?”

  Rob’s face was immobile as stone, doing a fine job of hiding whatever the hell he was feeling. “I think you might know who sired me,” he said quietly.

  “I think so too.”

  For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other. The peat fire whispered, sending a flickering blue light over Rob’s features, and Cam realized for the first time that they were much like his own. Rob was lighter than him, shorter and wider, but his facial structure—the shape of his bones, nose, forehead, and lips—was similar to his own. Similar to their father’s.

  Cam rose from the chair abruptly. He prowled around the room, analyzing it. This was his brother’s home. He studied the discards of old furniture from Camdonn Castle. He paused at the long workbench against the wall below the rows of tall windows looking toward the keep. He gazed down at the tools as well as the strips of leather and birch that covered it. He glanced at Rob. “What do you do here?”

  “Leatherwork,” Rob said shortly, watching him from his position rooted to his chair.

  Cam nodded. His brother possessed skills he’d never have. Skills supposedly unworthy of an earl’s son. He continued to study the place, taking note of the small pantry stocked neatly with supplies, the trunk pushed into a corner, the shelves containing Rob’s sparse wardrobe. The bed, another secondhand piece of furniture from Camdonn Castle, with scratched wood posts and devoid of curtains. All in all, a serviceable living area, if not a luxurious one. Cam had subsisted in smaller and more dismal quarters at school in England.

  He turned to Rob. “Did my father know?”

  “No.”

  “You came here when he was still alive, didn’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why did you not confront him?”

  “He was not an approachable man.”

  Cam released a harsh breath. He understood completely. “Would you have confronted me, had I not approached you first?”

  “I . . . cannot say.”

  Cam thrust his hand through his hair. “Hell,” he muttered. “I don’t know what to do about this.” He stopped in the middle of the room, at the foot of Rob’s bed. “Are you certain?”

  “Aye. My father made sure I knew, and he never let me forget.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rob still sat stolidly in the chair, his back stiff. “In words,” he replied. “And actions.”

  Again, Cam understood. In a similar way, his own father had made certain Cam knew he wasn’t worthy of being his son.

  “We are brothers.” His voice was a near whisper.

  Rob paused. Then, “Aye.”

  “You’ve known . . . for a long time.”

  “Since I was a lad.”

  An idea struck him. Like a lightning bolt from heaven . . . or hell.

  It was an odd plan, perhaps even somewhat perverse, but an irresistible opportunity to view Rob and Elizabeth together. When he worked in the afternoons, he would bring them to his study on the pretense of spending more time with Elizabeth and teaching Rob about managing the estate. Once they were together, he’d analyze their interactions. Maybe he could learn once and for all whether their passion was an ephemeral thing or whether it went deeper. Maybe then he would be able to decipher the problem of what he must do with them. Whether they’d acted on basic carnal urges or on true feelings for each other. In the end, if Elizabeth truly loved Robert MacLean, Cam could not marry her.

  “I want you to come to my study tomorrow after the noonday meal.”

  “I have duties here,” Rob said quietly.

  “Delegate them to others.” Cam took a deep breath and reined himself in. He was treating Rob like a servant. Nonetheless, he was the elder brother, the earl, the legitimate son. Though he knew he should no longer place Rob in the lowly position he was accustomed to, by rights he still held some sway over the man.

  He stepped closer to the chair where Rob still sat. “I should like to get to know you better. Teach you more about the workings of my estate, among other things.”

  Rob raised a brow, and Cam pressed on. “I should like you to come to my study in the afternoons while I work through castle business with my factor. I want you to watch and learn. If you require another man to help take over your duties here, I will approve whomever you choose. You are illegitimate and by law cannot be the heir to my title and entailed lands, but if you prove worthy—and from my current knowledge of your capabilities and intelligence, I have no doubt that you will . . .” Cam paused. “Well, I should like to raise you higher than a stable master.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rob stood before the hearth, his arms crossing his chest, facing the door where Cam had disappeared almost an hour before. After twenty-four years, his brother finally knew of their blood bond. And in less than two weeks, the man was going to marry Elizabeth.

  What could he do?

  Turning to the fire, he closed his eyes. She was better off without him.
No matter how much Cam intended to raise him up in the world, Elizabeth was a duke’s niece, a duke’s daughter. She deserved more than anything he’d ever be.

  Yet the thought of Cam touching her, being at her side, being intimate, possessing her not only physically but legally, made his gut churn with nausea.

  “She’s mine.”

  Rob’s voice rang quietly through the space of his apartment. He spoke the truth. No matter what happened between Elizabeth and Cam or between Rob and Cam, for better or for worse, Elizabeth was his.

  There was no turning back.

  The question was, could he bear it if everyone else, including the earl himself, believed she belonged to Cam?

  Perhaps he could, as long as Elizabeth knew the truth. If they both understood what they were to each other, he just might be able to endure it.

  But could he endure the betrayal? The deception? Cam intended to pull him into the fold of his home and his family. How could Rob accept that if at the same time he was taking his brother’s intended into his bed?

  In the end, Rob couldn’t live a life of betrayal and deception. He couldn’t tear honor into shreds, throw it into the fire, and watch it burn.

  He heard a sound downstairs, and then footsteps as they ascended the stairs. He turned to the doorway. Cam again? Or Elizabeth?

  It was Elizabeth, thank God. Dressed in her dark wool cloak covering the simple shift she’d worn before.

  She reeled to a halt on the landing, and they stared at each other for a long moment.

  Finally, he said, “I’m glad you came. But you shouldn’t have.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  She nodded. “If my uncle were to find out . . .” Fear clouded her blue eyes. “But I can’t stop myself. I . . . need to be with you. I feel so safe with you.”

  He went to her and pulled her against him. She sank into his embrace.

  “You looked like you were waiting for someone,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest. “Did you expect someone else? Another woman?”

  He raised a brow and looked down at the top of her blond head. “What if I were?”

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “I think . . . I might be inclined to kill her.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” She pulled back, and, looking up, she met his eyes. “But I know I cannot stop you from having a woman here. If you wanted another woman, you’d have her, and there isn’t a deuced thing I could do about it.”

  “I’ve no intention of taking another woman, Elizabeth.”

  “You already have a lover,” she whispered. “Ceana MacNab.”

  “No.”

  She released a breath of relief, but he bent closer, frowning. “How did you know about Ceana?”

  A dark flush spread across her cheeks. “I saw . . .”

  He hovered over her, very still. “Where? What did you see?”

  “I was coming to see you,” she said in a rush. “You and she were at the top of the stairs . . . and I watched.”

  Elizabeth stared up at him, assessing his reaction to her words. God, the way he looked at her tore her open, exposed her. She couldn’t lie to him, couldn’t pretend to be anything other than herself—showing her base, coarse, diseased core. She had always been deathly afraid of exposing herself to anyone, but something compelled her to strip herself bare before Rob.

  He studied her intently. “How did you feel when you watched me take Ceana?”

  “Horrid,” she said. It wasn’t enough. From the expectant look on his face, she knew he wanted more. She took a deep breath and blurted it all out. “Sad. Jealous. Intrigued. Aroused.” She blinked away the sting in her eyes. “I wished it were me.”

  “Do you wish I’d take you over the hay bale, like I took Ceana?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She gazed up at him. “If that is what you wish.”

  With a firm finger, he tilted her chin up. “As long as I have you, I won’t desire or pursue anyone else. That is my promise to you.”

  “I promise the same to you,” she said gravely. “As long as we are together, I will give myself to no one but you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “But you will.”

  “My body I will give to the man I will marry, and only because I must. But as long as I have you, he will never have my soul.”

  He released her chin, and his fingers dipped beneath her hair until he cupped the back of her neck.

  “I wasn’t expecting a woman,” he said gruffly. “The earl was here earlier.” His fingers tightened, digging into her muscles. It was a pleasant sort of pain, and it shot a spike of arousal through her. “Have you told him about anything that has passed between us?”

  She felt her eyes widen. “No!”

  “Did you tell him he is my brother?”

  Shaking her head vigorously, she said, “I did not.”

  His hand released its hold on her neck. “He knew.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was his reaction to the truth?”

  The line between Rob’s brows deepened. “He looked at me like he’d never seen me before.”

  “Perhaps he hadn’t,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I saw you, though. On the first day I met you.” Reaching up, she touched her fingers to his cheek. “I knew that you could be the one to give me what I need so desperately.”

  “And what is that?” he murmured. “What do you need?”

  She couldn’t say it. Why would he make her say it? She had the feeling he knew as well as he did. She needed him. His power, his control. The firmness of his touch.

  His hands curved around her face. He tilted her face up to his, but she closed her eyes, resisting the directness of his stare.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Slowly, she did as she was told.

  “Look at me.”

  She did.

  “Tell me. Tell me while you look me in the eye. Tell me what you want—what you need—from me.”

  She attempted to control her breath, but it was no use. She could scarcely draw in thready wisps of air. “I need you,” she said in a reedy voice, “to touch me.” She fought against the tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.

  He cocked his head as if in question, still staring at her. His hands went tight around her cheeks, and a vulnerable look crossed his face. Still, she didn’t break eye contact with him.

  “There is . . . a darkness in me, Elizabeth.”

  “I know.” That was part of what she’d seen in him that first day.

  “You give yourself to me too freely—” His voice broke and he tried again. “You don’t understand.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I do understand. You won’t hurt me.”

  He shook his head, and his eyes glistened. “How can you be sure? Why do you risk so much by placing yourself in my hands? Why do you trust me?”

  “We fit together, but we work differently. Apart, we are incomplete, broken. Together, we are whole.”

  He shook his head, vulnerability deepening in his expression. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Do you understand it?”

  “It’s what I feel.” She raised her closed fist to her heart. “Deep inside. I know you feel it as well. It frightens you. It frightens me too.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. The feel of his body against hers made her shudder. Everything about him was hard, inside and out. But she’d just seen the crack in his armor. He feared himself. He feared hurting her.

  She didn’t, though. “I want to give,” she murmured. “And you want to take.”

  His hands slid up and down her back.

  “You want my obedience,” she said, her voice shaking, “and I want to obey.”

  “The mistress wishes to turn the tables on the slave,” he murmured.

  “You’ve never been a slave. You never will be.”

  He pressed his lips to her head. “I want
to bring you pleasure. I want to love you—touch you—like no one ever has. I want to see your eyes glaze over in agony. I want you to beg for more.”

  She tried not to squirm, but his words wended their way through her body and buzzed between her legs, infusing her with a sweet ache.

  “Is that what you want?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said breathily.

  “But when I give you all that, I will also take. I will demand.”

  She shuddered.

  “Will you give yourself to me?” he asked in his quiet, lilting brogue.

  Her heart thundered in her ears. “Yes.”

  “Look at me. Tell me.”

  Pulling back slightly, she looked up at him. “I offer myself to you, Robert MacLean. I am yours.” Her legs wobbled, and if he hadn’t held her up, she would have dropped to her knees and bowed her head to his feet, such was the intensity of her desire to be his.

  “Get undressed and go to the bed. Lie on your back and wait for me.”

  Nodding, she pulled away from him and began to remove her shift. He walked behind her toward his workbench, but she focused on her task, quickly stripping her clothes away and crawling onto the bed, then rolling over to her back.

  He turned to her, carrying something black in his hand. As he approached, she stared at it. “That’s what I saw when I came here last night.”

  “Aye.” Dark and possessive, his eyes grazed her bare body.

  “What . . . what is it?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “But we weren’t . . . We hadn’t . . .”

  “I thought of you while I was making it.”

  He held it up for her perusal. It was a strip of birch about a foot long, painted with black lacquer, with several thin bands of leather equally long strapped to its end. He held the end of the birch stick in one hand and brushed the leather bands over his other hand.

  Biting her lower lip, she reached for it, but he held it out of reach. “It is for me to hold. It is for you to enjoy.”

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “It is a flogger.”

  Her breath caught, and uncertainty infused her voice. “Will you . . . will you flog me with it?”