Highland Obsession (10 page)

Alarmed, she glanced back toward her father and Alan. They were quiet behind her, but she could feel the heat of their gazes—the concerned father and the . . . what? How was her husband feeling? What did Alan think about all this?

She gazed dully at the fire as Moira cleaned the cuts and bruises with painstaking slowness. It hurt more than Sorcha had expected, and she gripped the edge of the table, clenching her teeth against the pain. Finally, Moira held her right foot high, inspecting the underside. No wonder it had bled so profusely—a rock had sliced a gash right across the center of her arch. Moira’s forehead creased in a frown. “This’ll need stitches.”

“Can you do that, Moira?” Sorcha looked from her bloody foot up into her sister’s freckled face.

Her sister nodded. “Aye. Mary MacNab was here earlier, and she taught me how.”

Sorcha’s heart began to race. “Mary MacNab was here?” She forced herself not to look at Alan. Had Cam’s henchmen hurt him?

“Aye.” Moira flicked a glance beyond Sorcha’s shoulder. “Alan was cut as well, but we sewed his back up nice and tight.”

She felt weak. Nausea boiled in her stomach. Alan had been injured because of her. She looked at her sister in despair. “I—I need to dress first.”

“Of course.” Moira supported her as they withdrew into the bedroom, where Moira helped her with her stays, shift, and petticoats, and the striped blue plaid dress she’d worn to her wedding. When she returned to her seat before the hearth, her father nudged a glass filled with amber liquid against her elbow. “Would you like a nip, lass?”

She raised her brows at the whisky, but then she saw Moira rotating a needle over the fire.

Sorcha’s foot hurt terribly, and she winced at the thought of that needle piercing her tender flesh. They’d not see her falter, not if she could help it. She took the proffered glass and tossed back the burning drink in one big gulp.

Chewing on her lip in concentration, Moira threaded the needle, then looked up at their brothers. “Charles, James. Hold her leg down, will you?”

Sorcha closed her eyes, pretending she was somewhere else. Anywhere but in her husband’s room surrounded by her family, with thread being forced through the ticklish part on the bottom of her foot and her new husband staring dagger holes into the back of her head.

No, she was at Camdonn Castle, down in her cave by herself. Day-dreaming.

It was there she’d read the volumes of books she’d discovered in the library after she’d insisted to be taught to read like James. She’d found the books so exciting, so full of exotic places, adventure, and romance and . . . lust.

It was there, in the cave, that Sorcha had discovered her body. All by herself, with the loch swishing at her toes, she’d learned how to make herself come. It took only a few moments. Two fingers rubbing vigorously above the part of her body Cam had later fully penetrated, and a ripple of delicious sensation would pulse through her whole being, making her gasp in delight. . . .

“There now. All finished,” Moira said.

Sorcha blew out a shaky breath, realizing she was trembling. The whisky swirled through her, muting the pain spiking up her leg from her arch. Resting her foot on her knee, she squinted at the tight loops of thread. They felt awful—scratchy and strange—but they were tiny and tight and expertly stitched.

She smiled at her sister, impressed. “Well done, Moira.”

The younger woman beamed at her with pride, but then her smile faltered. “I haven’t the charm stones Mary uses.”

Sorcha shrugged. “Ah well, I think Mary’s skill is just that—skill. It has naught to do with charms or pebbles, I daresay. I’d not put too much faith in that nonsense.”

Moira released a breath of relief. “I thought so too, but somehow the charm seems to finish it.” She narrowed her eyes a little, then rose and embraced Sorcha. “I know what we must do. I’ll be right back.”

She turned away, disappearing momentarily into the other room. When she returned, Sorcha saw that she carried her aunt’s wedding gift, a kertch—the headdress of a married woman. Her aunt had embroidered a beautiful old-fashioned trinity knot on the snowy white linen.

Moira knelt before her, and tears pricked Sorcha’s eyes. Sorcha and Alan had intended to return to Glenfinnan in the morning, where the wedding festivities would continue, and Sorcha and her sister had planned to have the kertch ceremony in their father’s cottage before they began.

Given last night’s events, surely the celebrations would be canceled. Sorcha didn’t even know whether Alan would have her now.

She groaned in despair. “Moira—”

“You’re married, Sorcha.” Understanding softened her sister’s blue eyes. “We must do this.”

“But—”

Moira’s expression firmed. “No matter what happened last night. You’re married to Alan MacDonald, and it’s your duty to wear the kertch.”

Moira could be stubborn at times. She had that look on her face now—her shoulders squared, her lips pressed into a line, and a challenge sparked in her eyes. The men were silent—apparently none of them dared counter her. Even Alan. She reminded Sorcha of their mother.

Blinking back tears, Sorcha nodded.

Moira smiled. “I wish Mama could be here to do this.”

“So do I,” Sorcha whispered.

Moira combed out her hair and then prayed aloud for guidance and wisdom for the new bride. She placed the kertch on Sorcha’s head so the embroidered point went halfway down her back. The men watched in silence as she tied the other two points beneath Sorcha’s chin. She finished by securing their mother’s circular silver brooch at her chest. “God bless you, sister. And your marriage too.”

“Thank you.” Sorcha focused on her sister, too afraid to look at her kinsmen’s expressions and petrified of what Alan’s face might reveal.

Moira flattened her hand against Sorcha’s chest and the sisters exchanged a smile. The moment was broken by their father, who cleared his throat. “Can you walk, lass?”

“Walk?” she breathed, turning to him.

So that was it. Her father would take her home. No sooner had she become a matron than her husband had discarded her.

“Wait just a moment.” Alan’s voice was as hard and brittle as glass. All the eyes in the room riveted to him. “Why should she need to walk?”

Her father stared at Alan, then said in a low voice, “She’ll be coming home with us, and we’ve no horse or cart to carry her.”

“No,” Alan said shortly. “She will remain here. With me.”

Thank the Lord.
Sweet relief, as cool as the waters of the loch in the summertime, swept through Sorcha.

Moira wrung her hands. “She will need someone to look after her injuries. And so will you.”

“We will care for each other’s injuries,” Alan said.

A strange thrill bubbled up from Sorcha’s core as the image of him with her foot cradled in his lap flitted through her mind. But it disappeared as his frown deepened. He was furious. Would he beat her when her family left? Judging from his scowl, it seemed likely.

Her father glanced at her, his expression brimming with questions. She knew if she told him she wanted to leave with him, he’d fight for it.

But she didn’t. She wanted to stay with Alan. To explain what had happened with Cam. To face his wrath, if it should come down to that. She was his wife, and she would not slink away with her da like a spineless maiden.

“I will stay here with Alan. Tell me what to do, Moira.”

Her father looked mildly horrified, and his expression almost made Sorcha smile. She’d kiss him on the cheek if she didn’t know it would embarrass him.

Moira left instructions for the care and cleaning of their wounds and said she’d walk out to check on them later this afternoon. Until then, she commanded both of them to rest. Sorcha, she said, must stay off her feet, and Alan must refrain from strenuous work. A woman and a group of boys were coming later to attend to the chores and the cooking, so neither Sorcha nor Alan possessed any excuse to leave the cottage.

With that, her brothers and sister hugged her. After James said his goodbye and kissed Sorcha’s forehead, Alan took him outside. She watched as Alan thrust aside the lopsided door and closed it with a rattling bang behind them.

Sorcha’s father knelt beside the chair. “I’ll check on you soon, lass.”

“Thank you, Da.”

After they all left, Sorcha sat in silence. She warmed her toes before the fire, dreading what might happen next.

Then the door squealed open and wood scraped over the flagstones as Alan drew one of the chairs closer to the fire. He situated it beside hers and, with a low groan, lowered himself into it.

Another long silence.

Finally, Sorcha couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Biting her lip, she turned to her husband. “What did you say to James?”

“I told him he’s not to touch the earl or demand any sort of retribution. You’re my responsibility now, and I’ll manage the situation as I see fit.”

Sorcha swallowed. “How—how did he respond?”

Alan shrugged. “He’ll do as I say, whether he’s happy about it or not.”

He was right—James would do as his laird said. He was hot-headed but not reckless enough to go against a direct order from Alan. Yet another long stretch of quiet ensued while Sorcha gazed down at her hands clasped in her lap. Finally, she looked up at him. “Are you all right?”

He stared at her for what felt like an eternity. Fury was the only expression she could decipher on his face, and her throat thickened in fear.

“You fucked him,” he said, his voice rough.

“No!” Sorcha winced, not so much at the harshness of his words, but in remembering her vow to be honest to him always. “Not last night,” she amended.

He turned to stare broodingly at the fire. “You are lovers, then?”

“No. Not anymore.” It hurt to tell the truth, especially after the gentle lovemaking they had shared. It hurt to admit she was less than what he had believed her to be. She knew well that such a revelation might destroy everything.

He raised an eyebrow. “For how long were you fucking him?”

“Nigh on seven months.” She brushed an errant tear from her cheek and kept her gaze fixed on the fire. “It ended before you returned home.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Alan’s lip curl in a sneer. “Not to Cam, apparently.”

“I suppose not.” She wrapped her arms around her body and rubbed vigorously. It was unbearably cold today. Sorcha wondered if she’d ever be warm again.

“But you say he didn’t cuckold me last night? After seven months of sharing his bed, you refused him?”

“Aye.”

Alan let out a harsh breath and ran his hand over his head. His fingers curled at the top of his scalp and clenched a clump of hair. “You lied to me, Sorcha.”

“No, Alan, I—”

“You pretended to be someone you weren’t.”

Again, tears pricked at her eyes. “Aye. That I did.”

“After that, why would I believe anything you tell me? How can you sit there and tell me Cam didn’t take his pleasure on you after carrying you naked from my home?”

Sorcha clenched her arms, tightening her fingers until she knew they’d leave pink marks. “I won’t lie to you again, Alan.”

He made a disbelieving noise.

“It is all I can offer. You’ve no reason to trust me after I deceived you, but please believe me when I say I wanted only to make it good for you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I couldn’t touch Cam last night—I wouldn’t. He wanted to bed me, but I fought him. He locked me in his bedchamber and I escaped. To come home . . . to you.”

“Were you aware I knew Cam in England?” Alan asked.

“He—he told me.”

“For once, I wanted to bed a woman who hadn’t been thoroughly debauched—by him or by some other Englishman. I wanted a pure, innocent Scottish lass to share my bed. To be my wife. Someone who could bear my children and be by my side.”

“I can do all that. I will be by—”

He raised his hand to stop her from speaking. “No. I thought I’d achieved all that when I wed you, Sorcha. But you lied to me. Your father lied to me.”

“My father knows nothing of this.”

“He suspected. Why do you think he moved you and your family from Camdonn Castle?”

She stared at him, stunned.

He nodded. “Aye, he suspected what Cam was doing to you. Fucking you. Stealing you into his bedchamber at night? Taking you in the closets and in the cellars during the day?” Alan rose abruptly. “He taught you well, I imagine. Last night you offered yourself to me like a frightened virgin, but there’s more to you, isn’t there?” His eyes narrowed further. “Was it an enjoyable game to play, Sorcha? Playing the innocent to fool your poor besotted husband? Were you laughing inside at your clever deception?”

Poor besotted husband?
She was flabbergasted. Until now, he’d given her no indication that his feelings for her went beyond kindness.

“No.” Sorcha hung her head.
Truth
. Only the truth from now on. “I . . . didn’t enjoy it. I wasn’t laughing.”

“What then?”

“The deception—it made me feel terrible. But last night was . . . special. You—you made me feel . . .” She took a deep breath. “
Desired
.”

“And Cam?” Alan said harshly. “How does Cam make you feel?”

“He makes me feel nothing. Not anymore.”

“How did he make you feel, then? When you were fucking him?”

“Please don’t ask me that.”

He knelt before her and took her chin in firm fingers, forcing her face to tilt toward his. “Tell me, Sorcha. What did he do to you? How did he make you feel?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Did he make you slick between your legs? Did he make your nipples hard? Did he make you ache for the feel of him thrusting inside you?”

“Alan,” she begged.

“Did he make you do things for him? Suck his cock? Stroke his balls? Go on your hands and knees and tilt your arse at him so he could take you from behind? Take you over his knee so he could spank those firm cheeks?” His fingers tightened over her chin. “Open your eyes,
wife
, and tell me. Tell me everything.”