Highland Obsession (26 page)

Moira still hesitated. “But . . .”

“You’re tired, Moira. Come. I’ll walk you downstairs.” Alan’s voice brooked no further argument. He strode over to Moira and helped her from the bed.

Moira looked at Sorcha with pleading blue eyes. “Maybe it’s best you come with me.”

Sorcha tightened her hand on Cam’s arm. Sweat beaded on his brow, and she took the cloth at the side table and dabbed it away. She wanted to stay with Cam. Who else would sit beside him if not her? She’d only leave his side if Alan forced her to.

“I’ll be staying.”

Still, Moira lingered, hovering over Sorcha. “Go, sister,” Sorcha said in a low voice. “I’ll see you soon.”

Moira bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Be careful.”

Be careful of what? Sorcha wondered. How could things get any worse? Alan might’ve killed the Earl of Camdonn. The repercussions of murdering the earl would be enormous. He’d probably have to leave Scotland as a fugitive to escape the noose.

Her affair with Cam seemed so meaningless when stood up against the fact that he might die as a consequence.

She sat alone at his bedside. No friends or family came to comfort him. The servants and doctors came and went, as was their duty. But she was the only one who cared about him enough to sit beside him. Her and Moira. And Alan.

Poor Cam. All her life, Sorcha had been surrounded by her loving family, and there wasn’t a soul in the glen who wouldn’t stand behind her as a woman of their clan.

But Cam? Who did he have? Nobody. The MacDonalds had never quite trusted the Earls of Camdonn, and for good reason. Their ties to the government of England and the hated Campbells, led by the powerful Duke of Argyll, were strong as steel.

When Alan and Moira left, Sorcha wiped the sweat from Cam’s brow, resolved to remain at his side. As she went to the basin to rinse the cloth, she glanced around Cam’s familiar bedchamber. Colorful tapestries hung on the walls, well-kept relics from the last century woven in colorful patterns depicting scenes from the Bible. The floor was carpeted in thick wool, imported from Italy, as was the carved furniture made from deep-grained russet-colored wood. Cam’s bed, dressed in a downy-soft mattress and luscious green and black silk curtains, was magnificent. A maid had folded down the matching counterpane and taken a fur away, leaving him covered by comparatively plain woolen and linen blankets.

Yet for all its richness, Cam’s bedchamber was cold.

Sorcha pulled one of the carved Italian armchairs beside the bed and lowered herself on its mustard-colored velvet cushion. Chewing her lip, she studied Cam. Two pink spots flared on his otherwise pale cheeks. His skin was warm to the touch, but gooseflesh covered his bare arms. Did that mean he was feverish? She should have asked Moira before she left.

And why wouldn’t he wake? He’d been out for hours now, with only an occasional stir. The castle surgeon had given him a diffusion of foxglove before seeing to the wound—perhaps that was what had caused him to sleep so steadily through all the noise and bustle.

Sorcha slipped her hand into his, studying his pale but still handsome face. His eyelashes were dark against his skin, and a shadow of a beard had formed across his jaw. His lips were full and firm, the bottom one slightly plump. She remembered how she’d loved kissing it. Sucking it between her own lips and teeth, nipping and licking.

Sorcha released a ragged sigh.

“Sorcha?”

Stiffening, she glanced up at Alan’s soft voice, but didn’t remove her hand from Cam’s.

Alan entered the room and pulled a plush striped armchair to the opposite side of the bed, and they sat in silence for a while. Then, in a low voice, Sorcha asked the question that had been forming in her mind for hours. “Why did you agree to stay with him, Alan? Earlier today, you wanted to kill him. I don’t understand why you don’t wish to kill him now. You’ve had ample opportunity.”

Then again, it wouldn’t be honorable for Alan to kill Cam in such a way, would it? She shook her head. Death was death, but for some unfathomable reason, the delivery of it seemed to matter.

“I never wanted to kill him,” Alan said in a low voice. “But the duel was necessary. He called himself my friend, but then he took what was mine. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“I still don’t understand.” The frayed edge of exhaustion roughened her voice. “It was all over. You’d won. You and I were finding happiness together. Why should it matter what came before?”

He stared down at her hand covering Cam’s, then looked up at her, his eyes pale blue slits. “Were we finding happiness, Sorcha? Have I won?”

“Yes.” Sorcha tried to swallow away the lump of emotion lodged in her throat.

Alan shook his head, his face hard. “Understand this, Sorcha. It was the way—the
only
way—for both of us to redeem our honor. We couldn’t continue living as enemies. Neither would have survived it.”

Cam groaned and shifted, his eyes fluttering. Grooves formed on his forehead as he attempted to force his lids to crack open. He squinted, trying to focus on Alan even as his fingers curled weakly around Sorcha’s hand.

“Alan?” he rasped. “What happened? Where am I?”

Alan took a deep breath. “We dueled, and I wounded you with my sword. You’re in your bed at Camdonn Castle.”

Cam’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you kill me? Shouldn’t I be dead by now?”

He might yet die.
Sorcha eyed Alan, clamping her lips together so the sob gathering in her throat wouldn’t emerge.

Before Alan could answer, Cam’s gaze came to rest on her. “Sorcha. Why are you here?”

“You asked us to stay with you,” she said.

“But why are you here?” Cam asked again, clearly confused. “Why are you both here?” He struggled to raise himself up on his elbows, but gave up, groaning in pain.

“Shh.” Sorcha stroked his arm, feeling helpless but wanting to ease his suffering.

Alan answered Cam gruffly. “I considered you my brother once, my lord. I wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone.”

Could it be true? Had Alan forgiven his one-time friend of his sins? Alan was an enigma to her. But the depth of his caring, for both her and Cam, shone in his eyes. Some strong emotion surged through her, and a new hope swelled deep within.

“I want you here,” Cam said. “Both of you. Please stay.”

Alan inhaled deeply. After a long moment of silence, he said, “Of course we will.”

A slight smile touched Cam’s lips, and a hint of color returned to his cheeks.

“Your injuries?” he asked Alan.

Alan shrugged. “They’re nothing. The leg is a scratch, and Moira bound my arm but it didn’t require stitches.”

Sorcha blew out a breath of relief, and Cam’s lips curled. “First time you bested me so thoroughly, Alan.”

“It was,” said Alan, his expression sober. “And hopefully the last.”

The smile bled from Cam’s lips and his eyelids drooped. “Am I going to die, then?”

“No,” Alan said, though there was no way he could know, not having been present earlier when the doctor and Mary MacNab had argued about the course of treatment for Cam’s terrible wound.

“We’ll both stay with you, Cam,” Sorcha said as Cam’s lids drifted shut. “We’ll help you through this.”

She met Alan’s eyes over Cam’s chest. Sorcha and her husband stared at each other, the surrounding air thick with emotion.

Something grew between them. A rare and precious understanding, something Sorcha never would have predicted. Would the man who had torn them apart now help them come together?

If only she could trust Alan. If only he would trust her.

It hardly seemed likely with the source of all their troubles lying flat on his back between them. And yet . . .

“Love you,” Cam whispered, his eyelids fluttering as he slipped away. “Love you both.”

 

Sorcha woke to the dim light of a tentative dawn trickling through a crack in the curtains. The room was stifling hot, and she brushed beads of sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand.

Alan still sat in the armchair on the other side of the bed. His head rested against the wing of the chair, and he’d somehow curled his large body into a comfortable-looking position and appeared fast asleep.

Shifting in the hard chair, she looked down at Cam. The dark shadow of beard on his jaw had grown thicker, and his cheeks were now stained pink, though his skin appeared dry of sweat, unlike her own. Tentatively, she stroked the backs of her fingers down his cheek.

He was burning hot.

Stifling a whimper of fear, Sorcha rose and slipped through the door to rouse the doctor.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

F
ading in and out of delirium, Cam dreamed of Sorcha. Oddly enough, only occasionally did she appear naked. Only once in a while did she moan in ecstasy as he held himself over her, driving himself into her willing body again and again.

In truth, in most of the images his mind created, she was dressed in a beautiful English gown that displayed the creamy mounds of her breasts rising over the top edge of the bodice.

And Alan was at her side.

Even more strange, when he saw them together like this, he didn’t feel like pushing Alan away or drawing his sword to kill him. Instead, he gleaned an odd sense of comfort from dreaming about them together. Watching and hearing them interact.

He knew in the depths of his consciousness that the soft discussions between them weren’t products of his imagination. Sorcha and Alan were really there, beside him, caring for him. Both honestly worried he was going to die.

Dying didn’t sound so bad. He hurt. His whole body raged with pain, centered at the scorching fireball in his side.

Everything would be easier if he died. Alan and Sorcha wouldn’t have to worry about him. They’d be happy together, without him pushing himself between them.

Wasn’t that what he ultimately wanted? The two people he cared for most on this earth to be happy?

Yes
.

How long had this been going on? Days? Weeks? How long could a soul lie in bed on the brink of death?

A sort of peace drifted over him, and he sighed. The pain seemed muted, and in his mind’s eye, the two most beloved people in his world appeared. Alan and Sorcha. But this time, they were both naked. In their little cottage making love. Alan’s body gleaming bronze in the firelight, his muscles rippling as he moved over his wife. Sorcha gripped her husband’s shoulders hard enough to leave white imprints from her fingers when she moved her hands. Her pale legs wrapped around Alan’s arse as it flexed and released with every thrust into her.

Cam watched it all. This time, though he was aroused as he’d been on their wedding night, his cock painfully hard, he didn’t feel the jealous, possessive rage he’d experienced that evening.

This time, he didn’t want to pull them apart.

He wanted to join them.

 

Day and night, Alan stood beside her, took care of her as well as Cam. When Sorcha was so exhausted she couldn’t see straight, it was Alan who carried her to the pallet he’d had placed beside Cam’s bed. It was Alan who comforted her, who talked to her, who proved to be more than just a husband, but also a friend.

Cam was dying. The doctor said so. He insisted on bleeding him yet again as a final effort to revive him.

“No,” Sorcha whispered. Cam had lost so much blood to begin with . . . how could these bleedings help?

“I must,” said the doctor, a reed-thin man with a dour disposition and a nose like a hawk’s beak. “The inflammation at the site of the wound must be controlled. It is his only hope.”

Sorcha’s eyes stung. She stood stiffly near the far wall of the room, watching the leeches grow fat as they clung to the blanched skin around Cam’s wound. Alan stood behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders, lending her strength.

Would Mary MacNab bleed Cam to death? Sorcha didn’t think so. The doctor was wrong. The bleeding wasn’t Cam’s last hope. Mary and Moira were. If they couldn’t help him, nobody could.

“I’ll go fetch Mrs. MacNab and Moira,” Alan murmured in her ear as if he’d read her mind.

The near-bursting leeches began to fall away, and the doctor removed them from Cam’s chest. He nodded at Sorcha. “I doubt that’ll help, but it’s the best I can do. Please inform me if there’s any change.”

“I will,” Sorcha murmured. “Thank you.”

She didn’t know why she thanked him. Nothing this man did seem to help Cam.

Nodding brusquely, the doctor followed his beaked nose out of Cam’s bedchamber. The two maids who had helped him shuffled behind, one of them carrying the bucket of fat leeches.

Sorcha stared at Cam’s still body. He hadn’t moved once or made a single noise of complaint throughout the whole procedure. Was he so far gone he couldn’t even feel the leeches pulling away his lifeblood?

Suddenly, Cam’s body arched upward, and he began to twist and convulse.