Highland Obsession (14 page)

The Sorcha of the other night—angry, defiant, and finally hopeless, her body willing but her mind completely repelled by him—was not who he wanted. He wanted her beside him in bed, but he also wanted her happiness, and her love. If he took her by force, he’d have none of that.

All his other options exhausted, wretched in mind and body, Cam finally gave in.

He rode to the mountain to see Gràinne.

 

This was hell.

The quiet days Alan had imagined spending alone with Sorcha, learning about his wife, pleasing her and teaching her how to please him, had turned into endless hours of silent, seething tension. Her near desperation to placate him was obvious, but it failed to penetrate the barrier he’d erected around himself as soon as he’d discovered she was a liar.

He’d have been furious to learn she’d given herself to anyone before him, but the fact it had been Cam took him over the edge of hot fury into frozen anger.

As close as he’d been to Cam, an insidious rivalry had always existed between them. What Alan had lacked in the title and funds possessed by his friend, he’d made up for by sheer strength and ability to sway others. When they worked together to achieve whatever ends they sought, they always encountered success. They never clashed. Both knew it would be brutal if it ever happened. But it was there. That oh-so-subtle competition, often seen by one only in the gleam of the other’s eye.

And now the game had begun. It was war, it was deadly, and Sorcha was their Helen of Troy.

Cam could return at any moment to try to steal her away, this time with more men. For the first two days, Alan had been on guard, keeping his weapons near and his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. When he went for his first long “ride,” he’d called several of his men away from the herd to guard the cottage in the event Cam tried to come back to kidnap her.

Sorcha seemed to think Cam wouldn’t return. But why not? As much as Alan wanted to kill the earl for what he’d done, a part of him understood. Alan, too, seemed to be developing somewhat of an obsession with his wife.

“Would you like more eggs?” Sorcha asked softly.

“No.” Even that singular word came out harsh, like a punishment, and she flinched, hurt flaring in her eyes.

He looked away. He hated what he was doing to her, but he couldn’t help it. The damage had been done. It was eating away at him like a rabid disease, and he didn’t have a cure. In a way, he didn’t want one. He wanted to punish her. She deserved his wrath, every bit of it. He’d never harm her physically, but he wouldn’t quash his anger. He refused to hide it from her. She deserved every cool look, every careless shrug.

Surely she knew most English husbands would have discarded her the moment they learned she wasn’t pure. He’d considered it, but ultimately he wasn’t prepared to take such a step. Something in her demeanor, her sincere candor since that first morning, her willingness to take responsibility for what she’d done, stopped him.

A part of him knew that if he continued treating her with such aloof disdain, she might be the first to leave. She would run away from him. Probably directly into Cam’s waiting arms.

Damn them both.

God help him, he didn’t want her to leave. His desire to keep her close was too strong. He was perversely fascinated by her, not just by her appealing form, but by something deeper.
Her
. The woman who would risk death escaping from her lover to return to the husband she hardly knew. The woman who desperately craved his forgiveness for the wrong she’d done him.

It was turning into a test of wills. How much could she take before she broke? Before Alan’s anger dissolved into something else? Would it be gentle love or sheer need? Would he surrender to lust and take her again? If so, it wouldn’t be like that first night. No, this time, he’d take her like she deserved to be taken.

That pretty mouth rounded over his cock while he fisted his hands in her hair and pumped himself inside her. Feeling her hot tongue slide over his shaft as he asked, “Does Cam fuck you like this? Does he take your mouth, Sorcha? Does he make you gasp for air?”

Alan sucked in a breath. Her nearness was driving him mad. The sweet smell of her permeating the small space of his cottage—a place he had once thought of as his own. A place that had symbolized peace to him. Now it was filled with her confusing, infuriating, intoxicating, beautiful presence.

“Moira will be out later. Mary MacNab is coming too, to check on our wounds.”

Alan sighed. He wasn’t eager to see the old witch again. “I’ll be back by the time they arrive.”

“You’re leaving again?”

“Aye.”

“Will you be riding?”

“Aye.”

Pressing her lips together as if to stop herself from saying anything more, she rose to clear the plates. He watched her in his peripheral vision, pleased to see she no longer limped as she walked.

Suddenly, she spun around to face him, clutching the front ties of her stays.

Her fingers trembled as they plucked the strings.

Alan froze in place. She pulled the ends of the stays apart. She pushed her sleeves over her arms and the fabric fell down in a heap to her ankles. Stays, petticoats, and shift puddled on the floor, leaving her bare.

Alan hid the shudder that racked his body at the sight of her. She was absolutely perfect. Lush curves softened her slender form. Her breasts were heavy and plump, with cherry-red nipples topping them, already hardening in the cool air. Her stomach was pale, slightly rounded. Her waist was narrow; her hips flared. At the juncture of her thighs, the triangle of hair was so dark as to seem nearly blue-black in the dimness of the room.

Alan let his eyes skim over her. His own body roared into life, as if her shedding her clothes had lit a thousand fires under his skin. But, by sheer force of will, he kept still, his eyes blank, his expression flat.

He dragged his gaze back up to her face, her pleading, desperate face, and raised a cynical brow.

Silence. Then her voice, shaking with a plea. “Take me to bed, Alan.”

He flicked a glance at the window and then back to her. “It is noon.”

“Does that matter?”

“It does.” Though he couldn’t muster an explanation why.

She licked her lips. “I want to please you.”

“I know.” God, he nearly flinched at the sound of his voice. He sounded so damned cold.

But whether he liked it or not, her sweet penance was chipping away at the ice encasing his heart, and he felt an unwelcome surge of affection for her.

“I want you to forgive me. I want to show that I can be a good wife to you. That we can be happy together.” She lowered herself to her knees before him, dragged in a breath, and then continued in a low voice. “I am yours. My life is yours. My well-being is yours. But please, please take me. Take me as a husband takes his wife. Only then will I know you’ve forgiven me.”

She was right. She belonged to him now. She’d made a vow, under God, to be his. She bowed her head against the steel of his gaze.

Struggling not to touch her, Alan spoke. “I freely gave you my trust once. But you destroyed it—you made a mockery of it with your lie.”

“I know,” she whispered, her head still bowed. “I’ll do whatever it takes to regain your trust.”

“If I spurn you from my bed?”

“Even then.”

“Would you seek out a lover to bed behind my back? Would you return to the Earl of Camdonn?”

“Never,” she bit out.

“What if I should take a mistress?”

She glanced up at him, and the heat of possessive anger flared briefly in her eyes. “It would hurt me if you did that. It might destroy me.”

“And if I choose to destroy you?”

He was testing her. But she’d made a promise, and he wanted to know that she meant it no matter what.

She clenched her jaw. Her shoulders shook. It was a long moment before she spoke again.

“Then, Alan . . .” she ground out, and he knew she’d given away the final vestiges of her pride, had bared her soul and offered him, a virtual stranger, ultimate power over her. “Then I would be destroyed.”

Alan closed his eyes. Maybe he needed to destroy her—destroy them both—and only then could they build something from the ashes.

 

Gràinne opened the door, and her jaw dropped at the vision she beheld on her threshold.

The new Earl of Camdonn.
Blessed Virgin.
Not the nervous wee lad who’d come knocking fourteen years ago, begging her to relieve him of his pesky virginity. His hair was cut short now, almost to his scalp, but it was still dark as pitch. He was so tall she had to tilt her face up to see his.

It had been two years since Gràinne had last cast eyes upon him, but the image of him most deeply imprinted on her memory was of a fourteen-year-old fumbling youth with the makings of a fine man.

She’d taken him under her wing. Taught him some of the joys of carnal communion.

But he would know more now. He was fully grown, virile, and with a look in his eye that bespoke his power and experience.

“Well, Gràinne. Are you going to let me in?” His voice was low, dark, and dangerous.
Oooh
. Even as jaded as she was, it sent a tremor down her spine.

He’d changed since his days as a youth. He was darker now, not only in appearance but in demeanor. The last time they’d slept together was over five years ago, when they had separated as friends.

He smiled at her, but it was tight-lipped, and the expression in his eyes was deep and haunted. Gràinne was no fool. He wanted something from her. Something she’d be more than willing to offer, given enough silver. She almost chuckled. Cam was never thrifty with his coin, like so many other men were. Probably because he was the richest man within a hundred miles.

She opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him pass. “Come in, love.”

The inside of her cottage was warm and cozy. She had no protector now, but Cam did remember on occasion to send her a little something, and as old as she was—nearing her fortieth year—Gràinne was still popular enough among the whores on the mountain. Never knowing who might come by, she kept her home cheerful and welcoming, and herself and her clothing spotlessly clean. After her daily routine of plucking out the few strands of gray that had begun to appear, she brushed her hair three hundred strokes, but never wore a cap or put it up. She left her long red locks to cascade in thick curls down her back. As much as people disparaged red hair, she knew it was nothing but the green-eyed monster rearing his ugly head. Every other hair color was drab in comparison. Her hair was her best feature, and she flaunted it brazenly.

“Please sit.” She gestured to the table in the center of the one-room cottage. “Would you like a dram of whisky?”

The earl lowered himself into a chair beside her, and when he looked up at her, sharp intelligence quickly blotted the stark pain in his eyes. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

She went to the cupboard to pour the amber liquid into her finest goblet. When she brought it out to him, he took it from her, wrapping his hands around the cylindrical shape. To this day, she remembered what those long fingers felt like inside her. Her cunt grew damp at the thought.

He took a deep swallow of the amber liquid and set the cup down. His eyes met hers across the table. As much as he’d changed on the outside, she sensed he was still the same man underneath. She wouldn’t mind exploring the similarities and differences more intimately. She wouldn’t mind at all.

“How are you, Gràinne?”

“I’m well,” she said. “And yourself?”

He broke the eye contact, turning his gaze to her bed. “I’ve been better.”

Her response was automatic. “I can comfort you, love.”

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile, but he didn’t look at her. “Can you, Gràinne? I’ve come to see if you can.”

She had already released the clasp on her
arisaid
—her woman’s plaid—and was plucking at her stays. She pulled them off her shoulders, pushed her shift down her arms, and proudly naked—for she possessed the body of a woman half her age—she walked around the table to stand in front of him. Deep in his thoughts, he hardly glanced at her as she knelt before him and reached forward to unfasten his breeches.

“Tell me your troubles. Like you used to.”

He didn’t answer, just adjusted in the chair to give her easier access to his ties.

She loosened the top knot and separated the fabric. His cock lay against the taut, flat skin on his stomach. Not flaccid, but not at a full stand either. She grinned at the sight of the earl’s shaft. She’d seen many specimens of manhood—large and small, fat and thin—but the size and girth of Cam’s penis had always fit her most pleasantly.

She stroked one long fingernail down the silky length, and to her satisfaction, it twitched and grew another inch.

“Is it the Jacobites?” she asked in a low voice. “Are they causing you grief?”

“No.”

She glanced up at him seductively. She had his attention now. He was gazing down at her, studying her every move.

Very deliberately, she licked her lips, then swiped the point of her tongue from the root to the tip of his cock. “Mmm . . . you still taste like heaven.”

She looked at him from beneath her lashes. He didn’t smile. “You were always very kind to me.”

“It isn’t kindness,” she said, pretending to be affronted. “’Tis the truth.” She curled her fingers around him, tightening then releasing. Though outwardly she focused on his cock, she paid close attention to his reaction to her. His chest shuddered as his breath hitched, and then he sighed.

“A lass, then?” she asked, making her voice light. She hoped he would say no. She wasn’t a stupid woman, nor was she prone to fanciful dreaming. She knew he’d had many whores and taken mistresses. One day—probably soon—he’d marry some fine lady. It was the way of the world. But it didn’t mean she’d stopped feeling altogether. She held a special place in her heart for the Earl of Camdonn. She always would.