Highland Obsession (19 page)

“Who is it?” she called, her voice shrill, the scythe held at the ready.

“All’s well, lady, it’s just me.”

Sorcha frowned, recognizing the voice. “Bowie MacDonald?”

“Aye.” Bowie, Alan’s younger cousin, appeared from behind a cluster of bushes, his hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. Bowie was Alan’s closest living relative since the death of his uncle. He was armed with his sword and dirk, and even held a pistol in his belt.

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply. “Where’s Alan?”

Bowie looked chagrined. “We’re keepin’ watch over you, Sorcha.”

“What?”

“Aye. Alan—well, he feared the earl might come and try to capture you again. So . . . well, we were watching over you. Just to be sure, like.”

Annoyance bubbled up within her. Why had Alan told her nothing of this? “We? How many of you are there?”

Bowie cast an uncomfortable glance past her shoulder, and she looked back to see movement in a craggy rise beyond the barn. “Uh. There’s about ten of us tonight.”

“Where is Alan now, Bowie?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“Well . . .” Bowie trailed off, and his gaze shifted from hers.

“Well what?” She took a menacing step toward him. Bowie was younger than her, and as the laird’s wife, she could command his respect.

“Er . . .” A deep blush spread across Bowie’s freckled face.

“Tell me what happened. Tell me where he is.”

“I’m . . . uh . . . I’m not certain he’d want you to know.”

“Bowie MacDonald.” Sorcha kept her voice cool, laced with authority. “You shall tell me the whereabouts of my husband. And you shall do so before another moment has passed.”

“He’s gone to the mountain,” Bowie blurted.

Sorcha cocked her head but otherwise stood very still. Even the air between them seemed to hang suspended.

“Has he, then?”

Her stomach felt like a lump of ice. Lord, she’d told him this afternoon she didn’t love him. Had that painful admission driven him to the mountain, where any whore would declare her love for a few bits of silver?

Yet they’d been married just over a week. Surely he couldn’t expect everlasting love from her already. Alan seemed too practical for such fancies.

It didn’t make sense. If he’d climbed the mountain because of that one comment, he was a vengeful, impulsive fool. If he went because he’d kept a mistress all along . . .

That seemed the more likely scenario.

Sorcha flexed her toes, testing the strength of her scab.

She turned on her heel. With her back ramrod straight, she left Bowie MacDonald standing agape and marched toward the cottage.

Once inside, she found a strip of cloth. Shoving off her shoe and stocking, she wrapped the linen around her foot and then replaced her shoe, forcing the leather over the bulk of the bandage.

At the door, Sorcha pulled another plaid over her shoulders. It would be dark and colder by the time she arrived on the mountain. She smelled snow in the air.

Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed the scythe.

She strode out of the cottage and turned onto the path to Glenfinnan. She ignored the murmuring and footsteps behind her.

Let them follow. It made no difference to her.

 

Unease hit Alan square in the gut as he scanned the one-room cottage. Large pillows, soft furs, and an ivory silk counterpane covered the plush, inviting bed. Clearly some high personage—probably Cam—had given it to the whore as payment, because it looked like something from a grand castle rather than a poor woman’s cottage. It overpowered the room and looked nearly ridiculous in its prominent location on the dirt floor. Beside it, splitting the sleeping area from the eating area, the hearth occupied the back wall. The woman bent over it and poked a stick into the fire. The curve of her rump tilted toward Alan, and he averted his gaze to the single square glass-paned window—another luxury. Crowded with fog, the window revealed just a hint of outside greenery.

Alan turned toward the door to discover his guide, a boy from Camdonn Castle, had slipped away. Slowly, Alan dragged his gaze back to the whore.

The woman rose and turned to face him, and from the languid sway of her hips and swing of her hair, Alan knew immediately she calculated every move for maximum effect. She was older than most of Cam’s dalliances, and he’d never known Cam to have a particular affection for flame-colored hair. But it was clear to him now that there was quite a bit he didn’t know about Cam.

The woman spoke, her voice low, rich, and smooth, like brandy. “I’m Gràinne.” Her wide lips curved into a sensual smile. “And you’re Alan MacDonald.”

Gràinne. Cam spoke of her often. She’d served as his first teacher of the carnal arts, and Cam held her in the highest regard.

Alan narrowed his gaze at her, looking at her through new eyes. This woman had a long, complex history with Cam. Were they in collusion?

“I’m informed the earl wishes to speak with me. Where is he?”

It had surprised him when the lad approached him this afternoon. Red-faced, the youth had ridden up to him and handed him a message from Cam. The note said Cam wanted to meet with Alan here on the mountain, tonight, to make peace between them.

Alan had agreed to come on the condition that he remain armed. For he intended to shoot Cam in cold blood if he did anything but grovel at his feet and offer a thousand different ways to make amends for the damage he’d done.

“He’ll be here soon. Make yourself at home, Alan MacDonald. Perhaps you require a stiff drink, eh?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Something to eat, then?”

“No.”

“Please. Sit.” Gràinne gestured to a fancy chair set across from the hearth. Covered in red velvet, it boasted intricate legs and armrests carved to look like a lion’s feet and paws. It looked like something straight from an opulent English drawing room. Cam had probably given it to her as well. Alan eyed it dubiously.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

Releasing a harsh breath, Alan stalked toward the chair and stiffly lowered himself into it. Instantly, Gràinne hurried to him, knelt before him, and began to unlace his shoes. He jerked his feet away, and she looked up at him from beneath ginger-tipped lashes.

“Sorry, love. I only wished to help you be comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable enough, thank you. How long before Cam returns? I should be home.” It was nearly dark, and Sorcha would worry.

Gràinne rocked back on her heels, a smile tilting the edges of her bowed lips. “Cam told me about you. Loyal to a fault, are you? Even when your wife isn’t?”

Alan ground his teeth. “What are you saying?”

Gràinne’s brown eyes widened. “Surely you know she’s in love with the Earl of Camdonn?”

Alan’s lip curled. “Surely it isn’t any of your business, madam.” He sounded more like his English grandfather than himself. But when the woman spoke like that to him, she didn’t deserve his Highland regard.

“Och. You’re likely right.” Gràinne lowered her eyes modestly. “But you’re a bonnie man, Alan MacDonald. If you haven’t the attention you require from your wife, ’twill be easy enough to find it elsewhere.”

He watched her through slitted eyes, wondering if Cam intended to come up at all or if this was some harebrained scheme to—what? Draw him away from Sorcha? The notion was laughable. He was already just about as far from Sorcha as one could be without actual physical distance between them.

He’d been foolish to believe Cam wished for peace between them. This was just another of his manipulations, another means by which to steal Sorcha away. In fact . . .

God. Cam could have brought an army to his house, intending to kidnap her again while the whore distracted Alan.

Alan rose abruptly. Gràinne had turned, but she spun round to face him. Her bodice was open, the laces dangling freely on either side. She wore no shift, and the stiff material of her stays curved around the outsides of her ample breasts. He could see the light blue trail of veins beneath the plump, pale skin, and the stark red of her beaded nipples.

“Not today, eh, Alan?” She rose to her feet with her dress hanging precariously from her arms. Her breasts swayed as she stepped closer to him. Close enough to touch. “Perhaps tomorrow, then. Know I am here for you. Thinking about you, ready to comfort—”

“No,” he growled. She was blocking his exit. “I don’t know what scheme you and Cam have devised, but it isn’t going to work, Gràinne. I am a married man, and I have no interest in bedding you. Now step aside so that I might return home to my wife.”

“Your marriage,” Gràinne murmured, “isn’t a happy one, is it?”

“I’ve been married only a short time.”

“’Tis a challenge to keep hold on your Highland honor, isn’t it?” she continued. “When you know your wife is bedding a lord with so much more than you yourself have.”

“Leave it, Gràinne.” He fought the urge to toss her aside.

She stepped closer. “I can make you happy.” She reached out and placed her palm flat against his chest. “I can make you feel again.”

He gazed at her dispassionately, but he didn’t move. “You make me feel nothing.”

Her bow-shaped lips curled into a wicked smile. “Not yet. But I can offer you great pleasure.”

With a slight twist of her torso, the dress slipped from her shoulders, baring her naked body. Alan wondered how often she had practiced the movement in order to make it just right.

He smiled, almost feeling sorry for the woman. “You’ll not be seducing me, Gràinne. Not today.”

She shimmied closer to him, undaunted, her grin widening. “Tomorrow, then, perhaps?”

“No.”

Just then, the door to the cottage opened with such force, it banged against the inside wall and rattled the windowpane. Gràinne spun round and Alan’s gaze snapped up as a blast of cold outside air collided with his face.

Sorcha stood at the threshold, her face white and rigid, her eyes burning like green flames. In her right hand, she wielded his scythe. Behind her, the first flakes of snow had begun to fall—a peaceful scene in contrast to the woman in the full heat of fury.

Had she walked all this way? On her injured foot? Why the hell had his men allowed her to do such a foolhardy thing?

“What are you doing here, Sorcha?” he growled.

She aimed a deadly look at Gràinne and then focused on him, her teeth bared. She tore off her kertch and tossed it to the floor, shaking her hair out so it gleamed like a silvery black halo.

“Perhaps I should ask you the same,” she said, her voice ice cold. “We’ve been married less than a fortnight, and you already choose to slake your lust upon the first willing whore? Or has she been your whore all along?”

Appearing unperturbed, Gràinne stepped aside, leaving her dress piled on the floor and making him look as guilty as sin. She took a woolen blanket from the bed and wrapped it over her shoulders. Alan saw she was shivering. The crisp, clear day had descended into a bitterly frigid and snowy night.

“Close the door, Sorcha. You’re letting in the cold.”

Sorcha took a step inside. Using her good foot, she slammed the door behind her, not turning away from Alan and Gràinne, nor lowering the rusty scythe.

“’Tis bad manners to wield a weapon in a countrywoman’s home.” Despite the disapproval in her tone, a smile quirked Gràinne’s lips. “Perhaps you should put it down.”

“Aye, Sorcha,” Alan agreed. “Put it down.”

Sorcha’s lips curled into a sneer. “You think I’ll let you take your pleasure in a whore? You may not like me, Alan MacDonald, but you’ve married me. You made a vow before God.”

“Aye, I did,” he said calmly.

“Yet you have no honor. You’re a liar. You pretend anger at me for something I did before I married you, while all along, you were just waiting for the opportunity to come up here to bed someone else!”

She was glorious in her bristling rage. Two bright spots of color splashed over her cheekbones. Her eyes glowed like angry emeralds. Her cheeks were taut, her arms rigid. Alan could gaze at her, watch her rage at him for hours.

“I’ll kill you before I allow it to happen again.” She raised the scythe higher. “I was a fool. But no longer.”

“What do you expect, lass?” Gràinne said. “Do you think he’ll merely accept that you love another?”

Sorcha turned furious eyes on the naked whore. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“You’re in love with the Earl of Camdonn,” Gràinne said.

“Did he”—Sorcha jerked her chin at Alan—“tell you that?”

“And what if he did? He’s a man. You’re a wee fool if you think a man’s pride could withstand such a blow.”

Sorcha arched her brows. “Is that so? Are men so weak?”

“But of course they are,” Gràinne said sagely.

Not wishing to hear where this conversation would invariably lead, Alan raised his hand. “Sorcha. Lower the blade.”

She paused a moment, then granted him a twisted smile. “All right, Alan. Is this what you want?” She opened her hand. The scythe hit the floor with a clunk, and she made a generous motion toward Gràinne. “Then I shall sit quietly in the corner and watch. Show me. Show me how you take her when you ride away from me. From our home.”

Her voice was quiet. He stared at her, his gut surging with an odd feeling he didn’t know how to interpret. It was all he could do not to take her into his arms and beg forgiveness.

But for what? He’d done nothing wrong. Cam had lured him here on false pretenses, and he’d never possessed a single intention of bedding Gràinne.

Sorcha was the one who had done wrong. She’d made love to Cam. Scores of times.
Cam
, of all the godforsaken men in the world. Then she’d lied to him on their wedding night.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Show me.”

Bemused, Alan stared at her for a long moment, then glanced at Gràinne, who returned his gaze, her brown eyes gleaming. “You want me to take her. While you watch?”