Highland Obsession (30 page)

“And yet my people are poor and live in hovels. Some are starving.” Alan’s voice was flat, and Cam fought a flinch.

Everything felt so calm, so normal. Relaxed, even. But in three days’ time, Alan might be headed for the Lowlands at the head of his men, his life at risk. Abruptly, Cam rose and strode to the sidebar, noting with a little regret that his side didn’t pain him at all. “More whisky?”

“Aye.” A smile fringed Alan’s tone as he said, “Sorcha drank the last glass.”

His tension eased, and Cam grinned at Sorcha. “Shall I pour you some, too?”

“No, thank you,” she said primly. Then she gave a low laugh. “I’ll lift more sips from Alan.”

“Do you fancy my whisky?”

She hesitated. “It’s quite . . .
harsh
. . . but then again, I could never resist a challenge.”

Alan chuckled, and Cam walked over to hand him a new glass. “You’ve hardly a limp anymore.”

Tell the truth.
Cam took a deep breath. “I’m quite healed. I’m lucky your sword pierced no organs . . . and once the fever passed the wound closed quickly.”

Cam had refused the help of Mary MacNab and Moira since he’d awoken from the fever. Mary MacNab was an old shrew. And Moira—the knowing way she looked at him made him uncomfortable. She must despise him for what he’d done to her sister and Alan.

“Well,” Alan said after a long pause. “Sorcha and I should head home in the morning. If I go south, I’ll leave her in a safe place.” His blue eyes flashed at Cam, daring him to comment.

Sudden pain flared in Cam’s side, as if the knowledge that Alan still didn’t trust him to keep his hands off Sorcha had prodded him directly in the wound.

Alan kept his gaze fixed on Cam. “If I join Mar, will you try to stop me?”

Cam hesitated, thinking of his peer Argyll leading the government’s force. If Argyll were in his place, he’d do everything he could to prevent Alan from joining the rebels. Undoubtedly, Argyll would even go so far as to kill him.

“No.” He tried to keep his voice even as he continued. “Neither of you have aught to fear from me.”

“Haven’t we?” Alan asked in a low voice.

“No. I will never . . .
interfere
in your lives again. It was wrong of me, and I am sorrier than you’ll ever know.”

“We have already forgiven you, my lord,” Sorcha said quietly. “Surely you know that.”

Cam sank bank into his chair, his glass in hand. “But please understand I will stand by you . . . and your marriage.”

He took a long, fortifying drink. As much as he believed to his core that what he was saying was right and true, something in his heart rebelled, and he could only hope the whisky would quell that small point of contention.

Sorcha snuggled against Alan and pressed her lips to the rim of his glass. He tilted it, and she drank. When he pulled it away, she gasped. An appealing pink flush spread upward from the neck of her bloodred bodice.

Alan swallowed the rest of the amber liquid in one long draft. He set the glass on the floor, then clasped Sorcha’s waist, settling her on his lap.

The movement caused her cheek to brush his face. Alan took advantage of the contact, turning his head to capture her lips with his.

Cam stilled, watching as their mouths locked together and they fell into the kiss, seemingly forgetting his existence.

Alan’s hands ran erotically up and down the buttons of her dress as she arched her back, encircling his neck with her arms.

Cam couldn’t tear his eyes away. The sounds of their contact filled the room. Rustling fabric, the puffs of their breaths, a soft moan from Sorcha. Tendrils of her dark hair curled around her ear, brushing against Alan’s cheek.

Oh God. Cam would sell his soul at that moment to have her lips on him. To have her kissing him with the enthusiasm she showed Alan. To nuzzle his face in her hair and smell her fresh, sweet scent.

He’d had that once. He’d given it up, idiot that he was.

A log popped loudly in the hearth. Sap sizzled, and Sorcha and Alan broke apart abruptly, blinking, brought out of the lustful haze. They stared at each other for a long moment before their heads swiveled toward him.

Cam didn’t move, but Alan must have seen the lust swirling in his gaze, because he laughed gruffly. “Wish it were you, my lord?”

Cam hesitated. It wasn’t often that Alan called him by his formal title. The moment was charged, full of something Cam could hardly decipher beyond the sudden heat humming in the air.

But God, how he wanted Sorcha. Every drop of blood in his wretched, godforsaken body ached for her.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, I do.”

“She’s mine,” Alan growled.

“Yes,” he agreed, staring at Alan’s hand curved possessively around her waist.

“But you took her nonetheless.”

“Forgive me,” Cam pushed out. It seemed Alan might outwardly forgive him after his honor was redeemed in the duel, but it would always stand between them, a solid brick wall preventing them from being as close as they once were.

Alan shrugged. His hand tightened around Sorcha’s waist, and Cam saw the knuckles whitening.

“She still wants you,” Alan said in a low voice.

Sorcha gasped. “Alan!”

Alan took her chin in his hand, turning her face and forcing her to look at him.

“Do you? Remember your promise to me, Sorcha.” He shook her lightly. “Remember your vow never to lie to me again. Tell me the truth.”

“Alan, please,” she whispered. “It is you I want.”

“Very well. Since you refuse to answer my question”—Alan’s hold loosened on her chin. His voice was calm, almost serene—“tell me how he fucked you.”

“No!” Sorcha choked, casting Cam an alarmed glance.

“Alan. Stop,” Cam said quietly. Why would the man torture himself? Clearly he hadn’t let any of it go—he was still full of rage and betrayal over Cam’s seduction of Sorcha. “It is past. Don’t dwell on it. It’s over—we all agree it won’t happen again.”

Alan turned to Cam, and this time Cam did wince at the sheer look of tortured pain in his friend’s eyes. “Tell me what it was like for you that first time. When you took her innocence.”

The scene seemed dreamlike, as if Cam were back in the haze of the drug the doctor had given him during the fever. The room swirled around him, and the air thickened. And there were only Alan’s pained eyes, staring at him in anguish. How many times could he say he was sorry?

“You must tell me, Cam . . . since you stole from me what was by rights mine. The least you can do is tell me what she was like the first time you took her.”

“Why?” Sorcha asked on a whimper. “Why is that important?”

Cam understood. He would always be the one who’d possessed her first, who’d always hold that part of her within himself.

Alan didn’t answer her. Instead, he stared at Cam, willing him to respond.

“She was sweet,” Cam whispered. “Just as she was each time afterward.”

“No, Cam,” Sorcha moaned. “No. Don’t.”

Alan nodded. “What else?”

“She cried out . . .”

“Did she say your name?”

“Yes. She stiffened in my arms.” Cam closed his eyes, remembering. Their first time coming together, like so many of their subsequent meetings, was furtive and brief. But that first time had sealed it for him. After that, he’d been well and truly addicted to her. Her ripe, peachy softness. Her true abandon in bed. He seldom bedded a female who loved him back with such passion, such fervor.

Yes, he had been obsessed. He still was, but by God, he was fighting it with every ounce of strength he possessed.

“Tell me more. Were you on top?”

Cam stiffened in dismay. He’d watched Alan take her in what he’d thought was her first time. He’d been so gentle, so careful, so mindful of her pleasure, whereas Cam had been an impatient rutting beast.

The words emerged dry, emotionless. “We were on the floor in the closet leading from the countess’s rooms, and, yes, I was on top.” Those rooms had been unoccupied ever since Cam’s mother died when he was a toddler. Cam had dragged her in there on a prayer that they wouldn’t get caught by some unsuspecting maid.

Sorcha released a sobbing breath.

“I see,” Alan said.

“I did nothing to prepare her,” Cam confessed. “Again, I am sorry, Sorcha.”

She didn’t answer, just gazed at him, her eyes glassy.

“Did he hurt you, love?” Alan asked Sorcha.

Cam clenched his jaw.

“Aye,” she said, still staring at him. “But I knew it would hurt. It hurts all women, or so I am told. And”—she took a fortifying breath—“it faded more quickly than I thought it would.”

“How many times after that?”

She turned to Alan, her eyes questioning. “What do you mean?” “How many times did he fuck you?”

“Alan . . .” she choked out.

This was a new side of Alan, one Cam didn’t know how to approach. He did know he didn’t like what it was doing to Sorcha. She looked horrified, scared.

“Tell me.” Alan’s voice was flat.

Sorcha closed her eyes. Perhaps all Cam needed to do was answer the damn questions and Alan would cease this torturous line of conversation.

“Many times,” Cam supplied in a low voice. He clutched the arm of his chair with his free hand. “I don’t believe either of us kept count.”

A muscle ticked in Alan’s jaw, and his lips flattened to a thin line. Beneath his shirt, his biceps flexed and tensed.

“Alan, you must stop this,” Cam murmured. “Neither of us wishes to cause you more pain.”

Sorcha bowed her head.

“You misunderstand,” Alan said. “I needed to know. It’s important I know about your past.”

“Why? How is it important?” Sorcha cried. She looked as if she wanted to throw herself at him and wrap her arms around his stiff body, but she held back, too uncertain, too afraid.

Seeing her misery, Alan gathered her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Let me manage this in my own way, Sorcha. It isn’t hurting me. It’s healing me.” His eyes met Cam’s over her head. “It is good for me. It’s better that everything be out in the open between us, otherwise how can we go on?”

Sorcha nestled into Alan’s chest, kissing the vee of his shirt, his neck, his jaw, murmuring endearments at him, and it occurred to Cam that she must be more than a little drunk. Hell,
he
was more than a little drunk, and he hadn’t had much more to drink than she had. And Alan—he’d had quite a bit too.

Dangerous? Volatile? Hell, yes.

Cam knew he should go. Walk out of here and leave them alone to do what it was clear they both wanted—and badly. But he was too weak, damn his soul. Cam realized his own fingers had fallen over his pulsing cock and were stroking lightly. Gritting his teeth, he removed his hand and gripped the velvety arm of his chair.

When Sorcha finally pulled away, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She ran a knuckle down Alan’s cheek. “I don’t ask you about the women in your past.”

Touché, thought Cam a little smugly. He leaned back against the soft cushion, studying Alan.

Alan’s features relaxed, and he cupped her cheeks in his palms, kissing her nose, the sides of her lips.

“What would you like to know, love?” Alan’s voice had gone from gruff to silky.

“Nothing,” Sorcha stated flatly. “Why would I want to?”

“I want to know about your past because I seek to learn more about you. Don’t you wish to learn more about me?”

“I plan to learn through discovery.” A hint of challenge crept into her voice. “I needn’t know anything about how other women pleased you.”

He glanced at Cam, then back at his wife, a wicked flare in his blue eyes. Cam tensed, sensing what was to come.

“Did you know we took them together,
ceisd mo chridhe
?”

“Cam . . . said . . .” Her voice came out as little more than a squeak.

“Cam didn’t lie. We took women together. At the same time. Both he and I found it quite satisfying.”

Sorcha’s breath hitched.

“Alan,” Cam snapped in warning, sitting up straighter.

“One of us would take her arse and the other her sweet cunny.”

In an abrupt motion, Cam rose from the chair. Alan was trying to lure them into a trap. This had to stop.

Alan’s lips twisted into a cunning smile, and his hands nearly spanned her waist as he tugged her closer toward his body. “Or one of us would take her mouth while the other took her arse or cunt.”

Sorcha’s eyelids dipped, and she shuddered. “Why?”

“Because, as fucking goes, it’s quite satisfying,
mo chridhe
,” Alan murmured. “For all parties involved.”

She was so pale, Cam thought she might faint. “Alan.” He took another step forward. “Enough.”

 

Sorcha sighed raggedly. She was furious at Alan—but her traitorous body rebelled against her anger, refused to jump up and run away when the sober part of her mind commanded it.

A blooming heat spread through her, centering between her legs, blossoming ever so slowly into a crawling, aching need. Alan and Cam . . . at the same time? The mere thought alone was so arousing, so erotic, it was almost too much to bear.

Lord, she was beyond hope. Even now, when she committed herself entirely to Alan, she could still think of Cam in a carnal way. But was it her fault? She stared at Alan. He had prompted her arousal with his wicked words, his smooth, satiny voice.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

He was so close to her. His essence of musk and leather filled her senses, warm and masculine. He enveloped her in a sensual cocoon, made her itch for relief.

“You understand, Sorcha,” he said quietly. “I see it in your face.” His hand drifted down her leg until it reached the hem of her gown. His fingers lifted her skirts upward, grazing her stocking until he played with her garter. His thumb edged beneath it, stroking the sensitive area above her knee. “I feel it on your skin. The idea excites you, doesn’t it?”