Cam nodded and reached out to take her hand. “Yes, love.” He glanced at Rob, clasped his shoulder, and then smiled at Elizabeth. “A rather inauspicious start to our newly formed family, I suppose. But we will make it work.”
Elizabeth sighed. “We had planned to go to Glasgow, but—” “Of course not,” Cam said. “You’ll stay here.”
“At Camdonn Castle?”
“If that is what you wish.” He gave her a soft smile. “Until your house is built.”
“House?”
“You’re a duke’s daughter.” Cam met Rob’s steady gaze. “You’re an earl’s brother. You’ll require a home of your own. Consider it my wedding present to you.”
Elizabeth glanced at Rob. “As a matter of fact, we already had a place in mind.”
Cam frowned. “Did you?”
“You’ve a little hunting cottage across the loch—”
Cam waved his hand dismissively. “That place is too small for the two of you.”
“No,” Elizabeth murmured. “No, it is perfect.”
Cam paused, then took her hand in his own and squeezed it. “Then it is yours.”
Ceana took Cam’s and Rob’s hands in her own. They formed a solid square at the altar of Camdonn Castle’s chapel. A unit. A family. One that had come within a hairsbreadth of never existing. But, Ceana knew, the four of them were strong together. They’d make an indestructible team.
Happiness so great she nearly burst with it flooded through her soul. She squeezed her husband’s hand, and he leaned toward her, kissing her softly on the cheek.
“Do you believe in curses now, Ceana?” he whispered in her ear.
“Aye,” she said solemnly. “But I believe you’ve broken mine.”
“We broke it together.”
“But what of everything else, Cam?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Your responsibilities—”
“My responsibility is to you first and foremost. Then to the rest of my family.” He glanced at Elizabeth and Rob, who had stepped away and were speaking in low tones to the reverend. “And to my tenants.” Looking around at the clustered people’s smiling faces, he grinned. “I’d say I’m managing my responsibilities rather well.”
“What about the Duke of Argyll? The king—”
“They knew nothing of Irvington’s treachery.”
“Still”—she motioned to herself, from her wild hair to her simple garments to her stained and frayed shoes—“they expected more for you than this.”
“God, no.” Slipping his arm around her waist, Cam drew her close and pressed his lips to her hair. “They expected less.”
Ceana’s lingering doubts and resistance fled. Closing her eyes, she leaned against him, and for a long moment she basked in the bliss flooding through her. Nothing had ever felt so right.
But how could it be? She was married to the man she loved. To an earl. The curse had been broken. Her husband was alive and well.
“Are you certain this isn’t a dream?”
“Come with me.”
She opened her eyes and allowed Cam to usher her out of the front door of the chapel. The sun cast a spring glow over the keep, making it shine silver. Beyond it, tiny sparks, like stars fallen from the night sky, shimmered on the crests of the loch’s little waves. “This,” Cam said, “is yours now. It is ours. It is real.” He gestured at the crowd behind them, smiling at them. “These are our tenants.” He turned to her. “You are mine, and I am yours.”
She turned slowly, taking in her surroundings, expecting it all to go dim and fade away. But it didn’t. The sun continued to shine. The people continued to smile. The loch continued to glimmer.
Cam still stood beside her.
The curse was broken. Never again would she fear losing her love.
“See?” he murmured.
“You were right.” She turned to him, happy tears pricking at her eyes, and he gathered her into his arms. “It’s not a dream,” she whispered against his shoulder. “It is heaven.”
Dawn Halliday has earned degrees in computer science and education and held various jobs, from bookselling to teaching inner-city children acting, but she’s never stopped writing. When she doesn’t have her head buried in a book, you can find her playing video games or posing as a baseball mom in California, where she lives with her husband and three children. You can learn more about Dawn on her Web site at www.dawnhalliday.com.
Read on for a sneak peek of another passionate tale in Dawn Halliday’s Highland romance series,
Highland Obsession
Available now from Signet Eclipse.
Scottish Highlands
October 1715
Cam dismounted and tethered his horse to the spindly trunk of a juniper. Though a full moon had brightened the night sky earlier, clouds had gathered and now a soft mist fell. The horses’ heavy breathing steamed the air and their intermittent snorts contrasted with the whisper of water on the bushes and grass.
Ignoring the needles scraping his arms, Cam glanced back at MacLean, who remained mounted, waiting for Cam’s instruction. The man and his horse formed an inky shadow in the increasing gloom.
The ground sank under Cam’s feet and leaves rustled as he moved to take measure of the small valley below. He scanned the stables and few dark outbuildings hardly visible through the rain, but his gaze came to an abrupt stop when it collided with the largest dwelling in the enclave—Alan MacDonald’s two-room cottage near the banks of the loch.
Sorcha and Alan were inside. Alone at last on the first night of their marriage.
Hours ago, from behind an old cairn, Cam had watched the villagers dance around a bonfire as the lively tune of their fiddles and pipes echoed through Glenfinnan. Cold to the marrow of his bones, he’d stared past the stones down at them, at her. Sorcha smiling shyly as Alan led her in a reel, her skirts swishing around her calves. She looked as a young bride should: beautiful, happy. Innocent.
But she wasn’t innocent.
Her father had tried—and failed—to keep a tight rein on her. Now it was Alan MacDonald’s job. Cam knew Alan would do it better.
Smoke puffed in small clouds from the chimney and light spilled out from the cottage windows onto the water, making it glitter as it splashed gently against the pebbled shore.
Again Cam glanced at MacLean, who sat patiently upon his horse, reins held loosely in his meaty hands. “Wait here. Come only if I call for you.”
MacLean nodded. Cam didn’t allow his gaze to linger on the big man—he didn’t want to see any sign of disapproval, though logic told him MacLean followed him blindly with no interest in separating right from wrong. If Cam saw disapproval in MacLean’s expression, he’d be conjuring it from a blank slate.
Swiping the back of his hand over his stinging eyes, Cam stared at the cottage. He had no choice but to go down there. He had to see it through to the end. Maybe then his obsession with her would end.
“Stay out of sight,” he murmured to MacLean.
“Aye, milord.” MacLean’s rough voice came from behind him, but Cam hardly heard. He was already striding down the wet slope toward the cottage.
Sorcha. Her name rose in his mind, peaked and receded like a delicate wave. How had it happened this way? And why, for God’s sake, did it even matter? He’d thought Sorcha was a toy, an entertaining plaything. A dalliance. Nothing more. How wrong he was.
More than a month ago, her father had left Cam’s service and moved his family to Glenfinnan. The day before she’d gone, she met him in his bedchamber. After they made love, she’d clung to him, and her eyes had glistened with tears as they’d murmured their farewells.
Cam assumed he’d forget about her. He predicted he’d easily find another skirt to amuse him. Instead, he’d thought about her daily. He ached to see her, to hold her again. To touch her silken skin. To see her generous smile, then kiss her into submission.
When he learned of her upcoming marriage to Alan MacDonald, something had snapped in his consciousness. Thoughts
of her began to occupy his every waking moment. He’d tried to stop. He’d schooled himself to restraint and resolutely kept out of her affairs.
Today was her wedding day. And, God help him, today he hadn’t been able to stay away.
He reached the edge of Alan’s cottage and placed his palm flat on one of the cold, wet stones. Slowly, he walked around the back to the closest window, dragging his fingers across the jagged surfaces of the stones as he went. Now completely hidden from MacLean’s sight, Cam peered inside.
There was Sorcha, closer to the window than he’d expected, facing away from him. She stood still, her dark hair a satin waterfall cascading down her back. Beyond her, the large, cluttered space contained a rough-hewn dressing table, several chairs and chests, a long bench, and a bed built into the wall. A peat fire flickered in the fireplace at the room’s far end. Rustic, but comfortable. Nevertheless, far below Alan’s means.
Cam sensed movement deeper within and ducked away, his pulse surging to a frantic cadence.
Breathing heavily, he leaned back against the wall. Out of all the men in the world, why did it have to be his closest friend who’d taken her to wife?
Cam turned his face up to the rain and savored the feel of the stones digging deep into the flesh of his shoulders. What in the devil was he doing, slinking about like a common low-bred thief? Longing for something he could never have? He hated himself for it.
Yet he couldn’t stop.
He turned and looked in the window once again. Alan sat on the edge of the bed now. He’d removed his plaid, and his white linen shirt covered him to midthigh. He spoke softly, much in the same way Cam had seen him calm a jittery horse.
Sorcha took a step away from the window. Cam couldn’t see her expression, only the dark fall of her hair shimmering in the light of the tallow candles as she moved. She wore a thin linen nightdress that shifted provocatively with the sway of her hips.
Alan was ignorant of Cam and Sorcha’s previous carnal acquaintance. If he knew, he never would have married her. Cam was familiar enough with his friend’s personality to know this as absolute fact. It was clear Sorcha hadn’t revealed anything of her experience during the short period of their engagement.
Ultimately, Cam couldn’t blame her for hiding the truth. Her father had placed her in this position, and she would die before dishonoring him. Furthermore, her blasted Highland morals wouldn’t allow her to embarrass or anger Alan, her laird and future husband.
And now they were married. Joined together . . . as one . . . until death. Cam winced. Bloody hell.
Would she continue to play the part of the timid virgin tonight? Would she cry out as she had when Cam took her maidenhead? After she had made that small, frightened noise, he had frozen in place, hating to have caused her pain. But she’d clutched him tight and whispered to him, saying it was all right and encouraging him to continue. Soon she had arched up to meet him, making a little sound of pleasure with each thrust.
Cam would never forget that night. When he had broken through the shield of her virginity, her reaction had been honest. With Alan, it would be a deception. Cam tried to take some comfort in that, and failed.
Sorcha sat on the edge of the bed beside Alan, turning so Cam could see her profile. Her eyes were downcast. A lock of hair fell across her face, and she reached up to brush it away with trembling fingers.
So she did choose to play the pious fraud. Cam grimaced, clutched the windowsill, and watched.
Sorcha couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t that Alan MacDonald didn’t appeal to her—in fact, the opposite was true. He was handsome in a rugged, fierce way, yet there was a kindness about him that inspired trust. Only a month had passed since his return to Scotland after a nearly twenty-year absence, yet the MacDonalds of the Glen already respected their laird as if he’d never left at all.
She was not as quick to trust as her kinsmen. She didn’t know this man at all. Alan had spent so many years on English soil, he was little more than a stranger to her.
She possessed only one memory of him before he and his mother had gone. They’d visited Camdonn Castle to see her parents. Sorcha had been just a small child and he’d paid her no attention, but she’d clung to her mother as he’d cast narrow, furious glances at everyone, his lips turned down in a scowl. Later, she’d been told the poor lad was angry because he didn’t want to leave Scotland. Nobody blamed him.
He’d finally returned to acknowledge his birthright—his lands on the southern side of Loch Shiel, bordered by the Earl of Camdonn’s property on one side and the village of Glenfinnan on the other.
Within a week of his arrival in the Highlands, Alan had met with her father and negotiated their betrothal. Her father was delighted, but Sorcha had never been so afraid. And Sorcha was not the kind of woman who frightened easily.
“Come, Sorcha. Lie beside me.”
Trying to calm her roiling tension, she turned to him and lowered herself to her side of the bed, her body rigid.
Alan scooted down beside her. Facing her, he stroked her hair behind her ear. She shuddered at the intimate contact. Only one other man had touched her like this before, but that was such a different man. Dark where Alan was light. Whipcord lean while Alan’s body rippled with muscle. Everyone was suspicious of the Earl of Camdonn and approached him with anything from guarded wariness to outright hostility, while Alan had earned the clan’s trust in a matter of days.
“Such beautiful hair you have, Sorcha,” Alan murmured. “Soft and silky, and black as a raven’s.”
Would he still think so in ten years when it started to go gray, like her mother’s had? Mama had died giving birth to Sorcha’s brother . . . would Sorcha die in childbed too?
The years stretched before her, brimming with the unknown and now under the control of the man lying beside her. She forced a smile and pushed out a response to his compliment. “Thank you. That is very kind of you to say.”
“I’ll go slowly,” he said. “I know you are frightened.”
Sorcha blew out a breath and nodded, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Yes, she was frightened, but not for the reason he imagined. She had experienced sexual congress in many different forms, in many different places and positions, and she had taken great pleasure from it.
She didn’t fear this man’s inevitable invasion of her body. No, she feared the future. Living with a stranger day in and day out. Would they grow to love or despise each other? Would he be kind to her or cruel? Years down the line there might be a brood of children for her to care for. What would her life be like then? Would Alan take mistresses? Most of the men she knew did. Even her father, though he was always discreet, kept a woman on the mountain.
She would never take another lover. She didn’t know what her life with Alan would be. Nor did she know whether he’d rule her body as Cam had, though she supposed she’d learn soon enough. In the end, it didn’t matter whether Alan satisfied her. She was married now, and she would honor that to the death. She would never bring shame upon herself or her husband.
She feared for her future. For her life. Surely it was not so odd to do so. Would she die a year hence, in this very cottage, in childbirth? Or would she survive it to birth a dozen babies? Would Alan ever return to England? Would he take her with him?
She knew nothing, and it frightened her.
His fingers, warm against her skin, paused at her temples. “Sorcha, we are hardly acquainted with each other, and I was thinking it would be best to wait awhile before I got you with child.”
Sorcha’s breath caught, and she spoke without thinking. “What?”
His palm cupped her cheek. “Are you anxious to have children, lass?”
“No.” She drew in a breath and shook her head, stumbling over her words. “What I mean to say is that I should very much like to bear your sons, of course, but . . .” Her voice dwindled. She felt so awkward, so green and uncertain in her own skin.
He shook his head, reading her easily. “Don’t tell me w
hat you think I want to hear. Be honest with me. Speak the truth.”
“My mother died in childbirth when I was ten years old,” she blurted. She clamped her lips shut. How to explain that she’d held on to her younger sister as her mother suffered horrifically? That she’d always feared a similar fate?
“Aye, I’d heard that, and I’m sorry for it.” Alan’s hand moved to her shoulder and stroked down her arm. Tiny hairs rose in a line on her skin, following the path of his fingers. “It is natural you’d fear it after losing your mother in such a way.”
“But don’t you want a son?”
“I do, eventually.” Alan’s fingers laced through hers, coaxing her clenched hand to open. His soothing touch was beginning to calm her. “I would like sons and daughters. But we have the rest of our lives for that, don’t we?”
Sorcha swallowed hard. “Aye, we do.”
He spoke gently. “How much do you know of how children are made, lass?”
She blinked at him. She knew he thought her a virgin, but surely he didn’t mistake her for a complete innocent. Perhaps he’d languished in sprawling English mansions for too long and forgotten that the people of the Highlands lived in close quarters. She formed her words carefully. “I know everything, I think. Before my mother died, we lived in a one-room cottage. I am the eldest of four children.”
He sighed—it sounded like a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or surprise you.”
After her experiences with the earl, not much Alan could do to her body would surprise her. “Thank you,” she said in true appreciation for his kindness.
This was so different from her first time with Cam. That joining had been rushed and surreptitious, on the floor of an unlocked closet, where anyone could walk in at any moment. Cam had slowed only after he had first thrust impatiently into her, and she had whimpered at the sudden, sharp pain. Stricken with guilt, he had apologized over and over for hurting her as he’d rained kisses upon her face and neck.
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