Highland Obsession (4 page)

He grimly wondered whether she was aware of the informal way in which she’d addressed him. If Alan had heard, surely he would realize there had been something between them. She kicked and screamed and scratched at him, but Cam held her firmly. He expected such treatment—he already knew that as deliciously submissive as she was in bed, she could be a wildcat when she considered herself wronged.

“Hold him off,” he shot over his shoulder to MacLean, who held his broadsword steadily trained on Alan’s neck.

Cam sheathed his own sword as he strode outside. Mounting his horse with a fuming, slippery, naked woman wasn’t the easiest thing to do—it would be nigh impossible one-handed. He managed it without grace, flopping her over the docile gelding, then pinning her down as he mounted behind her. When he had her seated in front of him, still trying to squirm away, he threw his plaid over her shoulders to cover her nakedness. Then he grabbed his reins and slid his arm between the edges of the cloth to lock around her bare waist, still wet with Alan’s semen.

Alan’s enraged shouts sounded from the doorway behind him, but Cam did not spare him a glance. Instead, his lips twitched.
Sweet victory.
She would be his once more.

He turned the horse toward Camdonn Castle just as Sorcha’s teeth sank into his arm.

CHAPTER TWO

“oddamnyou!”Alan ignored the searing pain in his balls and the nausea boiling low in his stomach. Fury swept through him, angry, hot, and painful. He tried to dodge past the enormous man blocking his way, but the tip of the sword nicked Alan’s shoulder, and a hot line of blood trickled down his chest. “You bastard,” Alan growled. “Let me pass!”

Beyond the man’s bulk, he saw Cam toss Sorcha on a horse.

The unreality of the situation slammed into him. Impossibly, unbelievably, the Earl of Camdonn—
his friend Cam
—had just broken into his home and abducted his new wife. What in the name of God did Cam think he was doing?

Raindrops shimmered over her pale, bare skin. Cam threw a red tartan plaid over her, his movements clumsy because she writhed and squirmed in his grasp. She put up one hell of a fight with her small body, but her attempts proved ineffective against the height and strength of the Earl of Camdonn.

As Cam urged the horse to a gallop, Sorcha’s eyes met Alan’s for the briefest of seconds. The wild look of fear he saw there made him roar in frustration. His wife was being abducted—by Cam, of all people—and Alan, damn besotted fool that he was, couldn’t protect her.

Alan had let his guard down. The pleasure Sorcha brought him had made him soft. He had allowed this to happen. He had failed to protect what was his. It was his fault and his responsibility to make things right.

Alan turned his glare to the brute blocking his exit. He knew the man—Angus MacLean. MacLean trailed everywhere after Cam like a damned lap dog.

“Get the hell out of my way.”

MacLean shook his head, and his pockmarked face twisted into a sneer. “Nay.”

Alan shifted to a fighting stance. He was naked and vulnerable without a weapon, but goddammit, he wasn’t about to let that prevent him from going after Sorcha.

MacLean didn’t move his sword tip from Alan’s chest. “You just stay put there, MacDonald, and sit tight till his lordship finishes with yer wife and brings her back.” He paused and frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Make that
if
his lordship brings her back.”

Alan’s lip curled. “Go to hell, MacLean.” He offered up a silent prayer that MacLean was as idiotic with a sword as he was with everything else. Alan was certain Cam kept MacLean near only to intimidate, because intimidate he did—he was a giant of a man, half a head taller than the doorframe and almost as wide.

MacLean waved the sword menacingly. His movements were clumsy and ungraceful, not the precise swipes of a skilled swordsman.

“I dinna want to kill ye, MacDonald.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, MacLean, because I’ve no desire to die by your hand,” Alan said evenly.

MacLean lowered the sword, and a grin played about his lips. No doubt he actually believed Alan would give up and passively allow his onetime friend to carry off his naked wife on their wedding night.

Alan ducked his head and rammed his body into MacLean’s, using every ounce of power he could muster.

“Oof!” MacLean’s breath wheezed out of him. He reeled backward until his beefy body slammed the edge of the doorframe, causing the cottage to shudder and the sword to slide from his fat fingers. It crashed onto the wet flagstones just as MacLean’s feet slipped out from under him. He landed flat on his back, half inside the cottage, half out. Alan leaped on top of him and slammed his fist into the big man’s jaw before he could regain his bearings.

Alan scrambled for the sword, grabbing the hilt just as MacLean thrust a giant fist into his wounded shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the jarring pain, Alan smashed the sword hilt into the giant’s soft stomach.

Groaning, MacLean wrapped his arms around himself and curled into a ball. Alan leveled two punches at his torso, but MacLean suddenly possessed no interest in fighting back. As a disgusted Alan jumped off him, the big man brought his knees into his chest and rocked back and forth, whimpering about his abused belly. “Curse ye, MacDonald. You’ve busted my gut. Now I’ll die and ’twill be yer fault,” he sobbed.

It’d be a blessing to humanity if he did die, Alan thought, but kept his mouth shut as he jerkily donned his shirt and plaid. In a few seconds, he had mounted MacLean’s oversized bay and urged it toward Camdonn Castle.

 

The castle rested on the flat top of a high spit of land jutting into the loch. Cam slowed his horse as they followed the twisting, narrow path that led up to the castle gates. The drizzle had stopped and the moon once again spilled light over the countryside. The grounds shimmered and glistened in the silvery beams.

Consisting of a medieval keep now used as the living quarters, a dozen outbuildings, bountiful gardens, and a wide, green courtyard, Cam’s family seat was not only imposing, but magnificent. A testament to the power his family held in the Highlands.

Sorcha sat in front of him, quiet now, as tense as a bowstring pulled taut. She couldn’t fathom what Cam thought he was doing by stealing her from her husband’s bed. But fear and panic had given way to calm, and a slow, simmering anger.

It was over between them. Over for nearly two months, and sealed today by her marriage to Alan MacDonald. Did Cam honestly think she’d come willingly?

No Highlander should dishonor a woman in this way, and most Highlanders wouldn’t dare to for fear of reprisal from their clan. But Cam was an earl, above reproach. He wielded the strongest authority in this region of Scotland, his power rivaled only by the Duke of Argyll far to the south and the Earl of Seaforth to the north. Cam could do anything he pleased, and he knew it.

Sorcha had drawn blood with her fingernails and teeth in at least half a dozen places on Cam’s body, and that gave her some consolation. But fighting him was like fighting steel. When he’d yanked her against his warm, solid body and informed her casually that struggling was no use, that she should save her strength for his bed, she had fallen into a state of rigid calm. She conceded defeat for the time being, if only to conserve her energy for the larger battle ahead. And for that, she needed to let go of her fury and panic and think rationally.

She could smell the whisky on his breath, and she feared he was in his cups. The way he had taken her from Alan’s bed—it was either the act of a madman or someone who was completely sotted. Cam had never given her any indication that he would do something so utterly insane as to abduct her on her wedding night. If he was capable of going to such lengths, there was no telling what else he might do.

As one of his men came running toward them carrying a lantern, he drew on the reins and waited. Sorcha pulled away from him and sat a little straighter, staring directly ahead. She yanked the plaid tightly around her frozen body. She was warm only where his legs encased her buttocks and outer thighs.

“Rouse some of the men,” Cam told the approaching guard. “There might be trouble.”

The man nodded, and she could see from the corner of her eye that he doggedly kept his gaze averted from her. “Aye, milord.”

Cam glanced back at the path they had just climbed. She followed his gaze and saw no evidence they’d been followed. Where was Alan? Surely he would do something. Surely he wouldn’t let Cam get away with this.

But what could he do? Alan was a minor laird, and while his men were loyal, they were few, and he had little recourse against a powerful lord like Cam.

“Send six men to MacDonald’s and bring MacLean home. If he’s under attack”—Cam paused, frowning—“try your damndest not to shed too much blood,” he finished.

Sorcha’s body convulsed, and a strangled sound emerged from her throat before she could prevent it. He tightened his arm around her waist in warning, and his plaid slipped from Sorcha’s forehead, revealing her face to the guard. His jaw went slack and recognition flared in his eyes.

“Go now,” Cam growled.

Dropping his gaze, the man recovered and made a quick bow. “Aye, milord.” Straightening, he risked a final glance at Sorcha, who lifted her head and glared daggers at him, before he turned and strode away.

“Too much of a coward to kill him yourself, Cam,” Sorcha whispered, staring after the man, “that you must order your henchmen to do it for you?” She wrapped her arms tightly around her body to prevent herself from shaking.

“Hush.” He dismounted and lifted Sorcha off. She was stiff in his arms as he set her down and straightened the plaid over her shoulders. “Alan MacDonald can take care of himself. It’s clear you don’t know much about him.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line and remained silent. Inwardly, she raged at him, cursed him for a fool. What had he done? In one fell swoop, he had put her well-being in jeopardy. He was so self-absorbed, he’d probably not even considered the repercussions this mad abduction would have in her life. Her marriage was in jeopardy—Alan would likely reject her now. And her position as a respectable woman . . .

“Now, it’s your choice, Sorcha. You can walk inside on your own power, or I will carry you slung over my shoulder like a sack of grain. Which shall it be?”

She met his gaze full-on, letting her anger show in her eyes. “You may trust that you will never carry me like a sack of grain, for I will scratch your eyes out before I allow you to throw me over your shoulder again.”

Cam shrugged carelessly, rousing her ire even more. She clenched her fists at her sides.
Arrogant bastard!

“Very well, then. You will walk.” He gestured gallantly at the living quarters, a rectangular stone building with a square tower rising from one end. “After you, my lady.”

She surveyed her surroundings rapidly, calculating her odds at escape. It was hopeless. Even if Cam didn’t catch her, and given his long muscular legs he could easily do so, the gates were closed and well guarded.

Tossing her head, she turned and marched toward the building, holding the plaid tightly wrapped around her body. Her feet were bare, but she didn’t wince as she walked proudly across the stone clearing. The wool covered her only to her knees, and the heat of Cam’s gaze simmered over her bare calves as she stepped onto the landing and opened the front door.

A servant appeared in the doorway leading to the cellar stairs but slunk away upon glancing at Cam’s face. Sorcha resisted turning to see his expression.

She hesitated as a sudden, unwelcome despair flooded through her. She knew this building so very well. She had explored every part of it during her childhood. Until August, her father had served as the old earl’s factor, and they had lived in a cottage on the grounds along with her younger brothers and sister. When Cam’s father had died last winter, Cam had returned from England to manage his inheritance. After helping Cam straighten out his affairs, Sorcha’s father had left the earl’s service to spend the remainder of his days with his clansmen in Glenfinnan.

“I suppose I am not expected to return to my old bed in the cottage, my lord.” She hated the defeated, pleading quality in her voice.

“You will go to my bedchamber,” he said softly. He came up behind her, set his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back against his solid chest. He bowed his head and took in a deep breath against her hair. His lips brushed over her ear. “You know where it is.”

“Aye, I do.” She stiffened under his touch, and he pushed her forward, turning her toward the staircase that led up to his bedchamber.

Sorcha sucked in a breath, but then calmed herself as she released it. He wouldn’t hurt her. That rare balance in Cam—the edge between stark, unpolished strength and generous tenderness—was what had attracted her to him to begin with. Cam possessed an innate compassion and kindness he hid from the world but had revealed to her in their lovemaking. She had always felt safe with him, from their first touch. As mad as his actions had been tonight, she couldn’t believe Cam would use violence on her.