Highland Obsession (17 page)

Sorcha nearly shook her head. That was ridiculous. She and James had always had a special bond, and James, though younger than her, had always stood up for her and protected her from harm. If not for his support, she doubted her father would have allowed her and her sister to learn to read.

James’s hand closed over her shoulder. “How are you, Sorcha? Is all well?”

She tilted her head to smile up at her brother. “Very well indeed.”

“Is aught amiss?”

“No,” she lied. “Nothing at all.”

Alan’s blue gaze locked with hers.

Moira clapped her hands, breaking the sudden tension. “Well, then. Perhaps you will help me take out Alan’s sutures, James?”

“Aye,” James murmured, but his fingers tightened over Sorcha’s shoulder before he removed them.

Moira directed Alan to the bedroom and instructed him to lean over the mattress so she could pluck his stitches. Sorcha couldn’t watch. Hurt, upset, and guilt twisted through her, making a painful knot rise in her gorge.

Alan might go to war. He could be killed by the English, or worse, captured and convicted as a traitor, hanged, disemboweled and cut into pieces . . .

Blinking back tears, she stared at the simmering hearth, listening to Moira’s soft commands and James’s responses in the other room. Charles wandered back outside, probably to rejoin the animals. He always had a fondness for horses, and Alan owned two of them, beautiful bays brought from England.

They finished in short order, and with a final tight hug between the sisters, Moira and James left.

When they were gone, all was silent for a long moment. A bird called outside, and a gentle breeze rustled the grass. She heard the soft sounds of material as Alan donned his shirt and pinned his plaid.

“Can you walk on it, then?” Alan finally asked. Sorcha looked up from her embroidery to see him leaning casually against the partition separating the rooms of the cottage, and her breath stalled in her throat.

“Aye.”

“Would you like to go outside with me?”

Dropping the shawl she was embroidering in her lap, Sorcha blinked. “Really?”

Goodness, she sounded like an overeager child. She couldn’t help it, though. Her heart surged with hope.

Alan didn’t smile. He just held out his hand to her. She set the shawl aside and allowed him to help her from the chair.

She went to her chest and removed a pair of stockings. She rolled them on, ignoring the uncomfortable way they pulled on her scabs. Then she slipped on her shoes and tied on her kertch.

Alan grasped her elbow as they walked outside. Fresh, cool air hit Sorcha’s face, and she swallowed a moan of delight.

Alan glanced at her, his cool, impenetrable mask firmly in place. “You enjoy the outdoors?”

“I’m always most at home when I’m outside.”

He took a deep breath. From the corner of her eye, Sorcha watched his broad chest rise and fall. “I prefer the outdoors as well.”

Arm in arm, they strolled down the path. About a hundred feet from the door, it branched off in two directions. One fork led to the road to Glenfinnan, and the other to the loch. She paused. “Which way?”

“The loch. I don’t think you could travel as far as the village. Not yet, in any case.”

It was true—Glenfinnan was more than three miles away. Perhaps tomorrow.

They turned toward the loch, down the short, meandering path that led to the shore. It was a beautiful day: crisp, blue, and clear. The surface of the water rippled in the breeze and glimmered golden sparks in the bright sunlight. Hard to imagine she’d waded through these waters and nearly frozen to death just over a week ago.

The bank sloped gently, the natural lawn ending where the water began. The path spread at the bottom, forming a small beach where they took water for the cottage and the animals. He led her onto the grassy bank. “Would you like to sit for a while?”

Cam had asked her that same question, not six months ago. As Alan settled beside her, she leaned back, remembering.

It had been a beautiful spring day, somewhat like today. She’d told her father she was going up to the shieling with Moira, but instead she’d met with Cam at the top of the hill leading away from Camdonn Castle, in a spot hidden from the sentries and other eyes. Looking magnificent in a cloak trimmed in gold, with his richly tailored breeches, jacket, and waistcoat, he’d pulled her up on his horse to sit in front of him and covered her with a plaid. Much like he had when he’d stolen her from Alan, but on that spring day she’d had no desire to fight him.

They’d ridden down a road, farther west from Camdonn Castle than Sorcha had ever gone. By the time they arrived at the stone cottage on the loch, the sun hung high in the sky, and it was quite warm. “Would you like to sit for a while?” Cam had asked.

She said yes and basked like an otter in the sun while Cam disappeared into the little building—one of his hunting cottages, he’d said—and brought out several plaids, which he’d laid out. They’d feasted on roasted beef and fresh, creamy milk. They’d made love as the sun warmed their bodies, and then they’d talked, mostly of Shakespeare, for Sorcha had been raiding Cam’s library, devouring as many of the bard’s works as she could find. One of the works they’d spoken of was
Romeo and Juliet
—of how close the lovers had come to finding true happiness before they lost everything.

It was the longest time they’d spent together all at once. It was a beautiful day—one she’d never forget.

She glanced at Alan, whose face was tilted up to the sun. She still hadn’t spent that long with him. Instead he found excuses to go riding, to see to his men. And now she knew he had gone to hold war councils in Glenfinnan. Despite the warmth, she shivered.

He had avoided her. He wouldn’t sleep with her, scarcely spoke to her, and before today, had hardly touched her.

Yet right now they reclined side by side on the banks of the loch. Perhaps they were making progress. Grass blades tickled the tiny hairs on Sorcha’s arms as she leaned back. She gazed at the man—her husband—who was so elusive to her.

“What is England like, Alan?”

Opening his eyes, he rolled onto his side to face her. “What do you want to know about it?”

“Was it so very civilized, as they say?”

Alan’s lip curled. “In some ways.”

“Are the cities very grand? Are there riches everywhere you look?” A part of her had always wished to visit the place, as irrational as that dream was. Highlanders referred to England and the English with distrust, sometimes loathing, but Sorcha would love to see it and judge for herself.

“Yes, the cities are grand. London is the most wretched, stinking, crowded mass of humanity you could ever imagine. And as for riches, yes, there are many riches. But there is also terrible poverty—in some ways worse than you’d find here, because the English don’t help one another like we do.”

“Why is that?”

“They have no one who commands their loyalty. There’s the king, of course, but even their loyalty to him is in question at the moment.” He frowned. “It’s not instilled in the English, for whatever reason. Here, we are loyal to our families, our clans, our lairds. Our communities are an integral part of us, as much as the land itself.”

“Do they despair of the Hanoverian king as we do?”

He glanced sharply at her. “Aye, but it is different in England, more subversive. There are many Jacobites, but the penalties for treason are severe, and the English don’t hesitate to carry out their sentences.”

She closed her eyes, thinking again of the severity of the reprisals should the Earl of Mar fail. They were all at risk.

“I wish King James would come,” she whispered.

“So do I.”

She opened her eyes in surprise, and he gave her a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We are close to being able to supplant George, but not close enough for my comfort. If King James brought an army, we’d win.” He sighed. “Imagine it. Independence from England’s yoke.”

“You dislike England.”

“I do.”

“But . . . you lived there so long. And you have English blood in you. Your mother was English.”

“Aye.”

Alan’s father, Doughall, was known as a kind and fair laird, dedicated to his clan. His only shortcoming had been in marrying a wealthy Sassenach lady from London. Even today, it was whispered in some circles that she, in her mad desire to return to England, had killed him.

Sorcha knew the truth, however. Her father had been Doughall’s closest friend and confidant, and Alan’s parents had been as in love with each other as her own parents were. Doughall MacDonald had loved his foreign wife until the day he died, and she’d felt the same consuming passion for him. She would have stood beside him forever, but when he died, grief weakened her, and she’d gone to her family in England, who received her and Alan with open arms. She’d never remarried and remained in deep mourning for Alan’s father until she died.

Doughall’s death had left Alan as the absentee boy laird, whose uncle held control in his stead. The Glenfinnan clansmen believed Alan would someday return, and when Sorcha was a child, people speculated endlessly about him. Would he be aloof and foreign, dressed in breeches and stockings in the Sassenach style? Would he refuse to speak the language of his homeland? Wear ostentatious white wigs and adopt the pretensions of a holier-than-thou Englishman in a land of heathens?

When Alan finally came home, the MacDonalds viewed him with wary eyes. But that had lasted no more than a day. He dressed like a Highlander. He returned to the home of his fathers and forebears with praise for the leaders and tacksmen who had run the clan in his absence. When he opened his mouth, the Gaelic that flowed from it was flawless. He was open, intelligent, and generous, with an innate understanding of the inner workings of his people and lands, and it took him no time at all to win everyone’s respect.

Again, Sorcha made an attempt to engage him in conversation. “You were gone for many years.”

“Almost twenty years, all told.”

Sorcha frowned. “But you wished to come back?”

“Aye. I always knew I’d come home.” He slid her a glance. “To claim what was mine.”

The heat in his gaze settled in Sorcha’s chest then spread low in her belly. From the tone of his voice and the warmth in his crystalline eyes, she knew he meant her as well as his lands and lairdship of the MacDonalds.

Closing her eyes, Sorcha lay back on the grass. Coarse blades pricked at her bare arms and the back of her neck, but she didn’t care. Hope blossomed inside her, balmy and sweet. Perhaps he would forgive her. Perhaps they could make this marriage work.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
lan stared at his wife lying on the grass, her eyes closed as she basked in the autumn sun. Emotions tumbled through his chest like the stones of a collapsing ancient castle. Did she know how beautiful she was? What madness she evoked in him? How deeply and painfully he ached for her?

Visions crashed through his mind. Kissing that red mouth. Revealing those creamy breasts. Lifting her skirts. Sinking himself into her. Sorcha holding him, clutching him, as he took her to ecstasy.

Pride seemed an inane emotion right now, but it was pride nevertheless that kept him from touching her.

He lay beside her on the grass. Frustrated. Wanting. And yet too proud to give in to her. He knew she wanted it. She glowed with the desire for him to touch her. She constantly taunted him with her wiles, but the hopeful look in her emerald eyes was nearly his undoing.

The temptation to bind himself more strongly to her before he was forced away to war was maddening. He didn’t have much time. The surrounding clans had already gone. The MacLeans and the MacDonalds of Glengarry and Clanranald had marched south last month.

Alan had thought his neighbor Cameron of Lochiel would stay put due to his men’s hesitance—they feared the nearby Earl of Camdonn and other geographically close supporters of the government. Yet Lochiel had finally gathered his forces and passed near Glenfinnan only days ago on his way to join Mar.

Hearing of Lochiel’s march south had roused Alan’s own men to a fever pitch. Though their force would be reduced—a group of his most battle-ready men had taken stock down to the Lowlands to sell and weren’t due back for another few weeks—the remaining men detested the idea of their countrymen facing battle while they languished at home.

The harvest was abundant, yet he needed the men to bring it in properly, to feed their families and beasts through the winter. It would hardly be advisable to win the battle and then return home only to starve.

God, he didn’t think he could bear to leave Sorcha with Cam so close. Yet his clan needed him to act.

He should take her to her father and then lead his men south. But Stewart had failed to protect Sorcha from Cam once, and as much as Alan respected the older man, he hesitated to entrust his wife to him.