Highland Obsession (34 page)

He stared down at his empty glass, blinking hard to push away the liquid filling his eyes. “There is no one like her.”

“Of course there is.”

He shook his head mutely, thinking of the governess who had abandoned him.

Once again, he was completely alone in the world.

Gràinne set her glass of wine carefully on the polished side table. She rose from the chair, stepped toward him, and enfolded him in her arms. “There is someone better,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Someone who fills the emptiness in your soul and makes it overflow. That woman is out there, my love. She will make you a perfect countess. Your task is to find her. But to do so, you must let Sorcha go.”

He sank his face into Gràinne’s sweet-smelling hair. “How can you be so confident there is someone else?”

Her chuckle resonated through her body. “I am a woman who has known many men. There are few as worthy of love as you.”

“You are a good friend, Gràinne.”

“I will always be your friend.” Her voice softened as her gentle fingers sifted through his hair. “And so will Alan and Sorcha MacDonald. Everyone has heard how they stood beside you during your illness. Few would be so loyal, you know, after your betrayal.”

Again Gràinne spoke the truth. He sighed into the top of her head. “As much as you go on about honor biting you in the arse, Gràinne darling, you’re one of the most honorable people I’ve ever known.”

She didn’t speak, just continued combing her fingers over his scalp.

He had to let Sorcha go. Once and for all. It was the only way to keep both Alan and her in his life. What had transpired last night could never occur again. No matter what happened between the three of them, he must keep his hands off Sorcha MacDonald.

Acceptance swept through him, a cool mist that seeped into every pore and left a keen sense of devastation in its wake. He’d expected devastation, but he didn’t expect the other feeling the acceptance awakened within him: hope.

They hadn’t abandoned him forever like his governess had. Not yet. If he continued to push, they would leave him permanently, but if he simply accepted their friendship and offered his own, they would grant it.

It wasn’t too late for him. But it was his responsibility to bring them back together, to convince Alan that he was the one Sorcha loved. The man must be blind not to have seen the way his wife had gazed upon him last night. Love for Alan had seeped from every pore in her body, had encased Cam’s bedchamber in a soft, hazy glow.

Then again, Cam knew from experience, jealousy could be a blinding beast.

Gràinne’s voluminous bosom pressed against his chest as her fingertips skittered over the hair-roughened skin of his cheek. Her lips followed, grazing his jaw, and her voice settled over him, soothing as a balm. “Now you must prove to them that you can be a friend in return.”

“I know,” he murmured, catching her face in his hands. “But first I want to give you something.” He paused uncertainly. “If you’ll accept it.”

“What’s that, love?”

“May I take you to bed? May I pleasure you?”

He felt a small shiver resonate through her. “Aye,” she said gravely. “I’ll be here for you. My body is yours whenever you wish. Until you find what you’re searching for.”

“You’re good to me, Gràinne.”

She gave him a wicked, knowing smile. “I care for you. And shocking as it may sound coming from someone of my reputation and skill, it’s not all a farce with you, love. Our carnal arrangement pleases me.”

 

Sorcha passed a cluster of cottages. The village was so still today, it was almost uncanny. Likely the MacDonalds were spread through Alan’s lands, preparing the livestock—and themselves—for the men’s departure in two days.

She turned into the small yard of her father’s cottage. A chicken clucked condescendingly at her, but she ignored it and pushed open the door.

The room was unnaturally quiet. Her father looked up from his book when she entered. She instantly saw the lines of strain around his eyes, and she slowed to a stop just inside the door, her hand still curved around the smooth wooden edge. Her father’s green eyes glittered with regret.

Good God. What had happened? What had Alan done?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

G
ràinne began to untie the bow at her bodice, but Cam placed his hands over hers to still them. “Come with me,” he said quietly. “To my bedroom.”

Her arms dropped to her sides, and after a long pause, she nodded.

Twining his fingers with hers, he led her upstairs to his bedchamber, casting an acerbic glare at Duncan, who had lingered in the hall but scurried away upon seeing Cam’s expression.

He closed the door behind them, then turned to Gràinne to study her. Behind the jaded, cynical mask, she was a beautiful woman. Maturity only intensified her beauty.

But it wasn’t only her beauty that drew him to her. There was a selflessness about her. A kindness. If she didn’t care for him, she wouldn’t have come today. He wanted to show her how thankful he was for her friendship.

He reached toward her and began to undress her. He’d rarely taken such pains with any woman, much less Gràinne.

Touching her flesh whenever possible, he slowly stripped off her skirts, stays, and shift, and then lowered himself to one knee to remove her garters and roll down her stockings. She sucked in a breath as his fingers brushed her calves. How many men had caressed her there? Very few, he imagined.

He took her into his arms and carried her to the bed, just as Alan had carried Sorcha to the bed last night. The action pulled at his injury, but it was just a twinge, nothing he wouldn’t survive.

He set her gently on the bed and looked down at her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Gràinne.”

“Your bed feels like heaven.” She grinned up at him and held her arms out. “Come. Join me.”

He peeled off his clothes, and within moments climbed beside her and pressed his body against her warm, supple flesh.

He stroked her all over, crawling downward as he did so, finally insinuating himself between her legs. Lying on his stomach, he touched her mound and stroked through the bronzed hairs to her clitoris. She gasped when his fingers feathered over it.

Inhaling lemon soap, he flicked his tongue out to swipe at the taut bud between her legs. Above him, Gràinne gasped again, and her legs tensed around his ears. “I’ve never . . .”

He looked up at her, brows raised. “But you’ve had many men—”

“Not . . . like that,” she choked, her brown eyes wide.

Cam dropped his head and set about enjoying her thoroughly, using his tongue to stroke and prod in her most sensitive places. He kept his hands on her thighs, pressing them apart.

She tasted like lemon cream, sweet and tangy. He swirled his tongue around her swollen bundle of nerves, and then brought his hand to the opening just beneath his mouth. In one smooth motion, he slid two fingers inside her. Gràinne bucked wildly, but he held her down with his other hand.

“Cam!”

She was already coming. Her passage squeezed him, the rings of muscles tightening and releasing spasmodically over his buried fingers.

He took her clitoris into his mouth and sucked harder. She groaned, and the squeeze of her orgasm intensified.

He held her there for several long moments. Finally, satisfied it was over, he gently removed his fingers. Kissing and nipping along the way, he traveled up her body, smiling at the dazed look on her face.

“Did you like it?” he murmured.

“Oh” was all she seemed to be able to say.

Her shocked expression was something he’d never seen, not once in all the years he’d known Gràinne. It made his cock pulse angrily, eager to explode. And he damn well would be inside her when that happened.

“I’m going to take you now,” he warned.

Still unable to speak, she simply spread her legs to welcome him. He pushed in, seating himself in one thrust. Gràinne arched her body to meet his.

He began a slow glide. He forgot Sorcha and Alan. There was only Gràinne and her lush, willing body and the pleasure she gave him.

Long moments later, his cock gave way to the overwhelming pressure and he exploded, releasing in long, agonizing jets deep within her body as she cried out her satisfaction.

“Gràinne,” he murmured as he collapsed on the bed beside her. “Sweet Gràinne.”

For long moments, he stared up at the whorls and rosettes on the ceiling molding as a plan formed in his mind.

He must go to Alan and Sorcha, explain that beyond anything, he wanted their friendship, their presence in his life. He would give up his love for Sorcha and try to find another, though he wasn’t as confident as Gràinne that there was another woman who could fulfill him.

He’d been reckless; he’d risked earning the enmity of the two people he loved most in the world. By their continued forgiveness, they’d proven to him that they were deserving of his highest regard.

He’d never fail them again.

Turning his head, he smiled at Gràinne, who stared drowsily back at him, her eyes half lidded.

He rose up onto his elbow. “You may stay here as long as you wish, Gràinne. I’ve some business to attend.”

Her lips curled into a wicked smile. “I daresay you’ve a pair of lovers to reunite.”

He returned her smile, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his breeches. “Exactly.”

 

Sorcha tamped down the feeling of alarm rising from her chest. Along with the panic, twisting like a vine around it, was shame. That, she squelched ruthlessly. Everyone might treat her with derision now. They might think she should be ashamed of her affair with Cam. But she wasn’t. Her past with Cam was a piece of her, entwined in her soul. Without it, she would be only part of who she was today.

No, she wasn’t ashamed. She only wished it hadn’t hurt her husband.

She straightened her spine. “Good afternoon, Da. Have you seen Alan?”

Slowly, her father marked his page, then closed the ledger and set down his pen.

“Good afternoon, lass. Aye, I saw him at dawn. When he led his men southward.”

“What do you mean? The men are planning to leave day after tomorrow.”

Her father shook his head. “A message came from the Earl of Mar last night, entreating them to make haste. Mar is on the move, and the confrontation will occur any day. The MacDonalds gathered and decided to march at dawn, with or without Alan. A few hours before sunrise, Bowie MacDonald and two other men rushed to Camdonn Castle to deliver the news to Alan.”

“No.”

No
. Alan had left without saying goodbye, without rousing her and Cam to tell them what was happening. It could only mean he regretted what they’d done last night, that he was angry at them.

And she loved him. She loved him so much. Had she never told him that?

“James too?”

Her father nodded.

“They might die,” she whispered.

“Aye,” her father said bluntly. “That is war.”

Sorcha’s vision swam. Her knees buckled, but her father moved forward quickly to support her waist. “Sit down, lass. Would you like some wine?”

He led her to a chair and pressed her into it.

Tears slipped over her lids and streamed down her cheeks, and her shoulders shuddered as quiet sobs racked her body.

How had the beauty of last night turned into something so devastating? She’d thought what happened had been healing to them all. When she’d awoken this morning to see Cam’s smiling face, she’d been certain of it.

And now Alan had gone to war without saying goodbye.

She’d done exactly as he’d commanded last night. She thought she had given him pleasure.

Her father patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Hush now.” He passed her a handkerchief and she clenched it in her fist, crossed her arms on the table, and lowered her head on them. Misery overwhelmed her for many long moments. Her father moved about, but she was aware of little else besides the sharp talons of pain that gripped at her heart.

Finally, she raised her head to find her father seated at the opposite side of the table, watching her. He pushed a cup in her direction. “Have some wine. It might help.”

She stared at the glass. Slightly misshapen and cloudy, it was so different from the cut crystal she’d sipped from last night.

“I’m surprised at your reaction,” her father said.

“Why?” She struggled against another onslaught of tears. She clutched the cup in both hands but made no move to drink.

“You knew Alan would join his men.”

“But not like this.” Not without knowing how much she loved him. Not without saying goodbye to her, or promising he’d return.

“He cares for you, Sorcha. Very strongly. It’s carved all over his face when he speaks of you. Yet he cannot abide the dishonor of sharing your affections with another.”