Highland Obsession (8 page)

He’d gone to school, suffered the taunts of the English boys, and then he’d met Cam. . . .

“That’s it, lass.”

Moira’s needle gently burrowed into his flesh. Somehow the idea of her wielding the nasty-looking implement was more comforting than the thought of Mary MacNab with it.

Cam and he had made quite a pair of dissolute bachelors in Oxford. They’d indulged in all manner of debauchery and enjoyed every second of it. They had drunkenly dragged each other out of brothels more times than either of them could count. They’d shared women, passed women back and forth, fucked one woman together. . . .

And then Cam’s father had died in January, and Cam returned here to assume his duties as the new earl. After Cam left London, Alan heard from his uncle, who’d taken on the duties of laird while Alan remained in England. While his uncle hadn’t said anything outright, Alan had read between the lines. His uncle was aging, and his duties growing too heavy to bear. The quickly escalating political tension was simply too much for him to manage.

Alan’s return was long overdue. He was no longer a dissolute young buck of London; he was a man with a legacy and the responsibility that came with it. That meant going home, leading his clan, marrying, and producing heirs.

Alan had first traveled north from London to finish some business at his grandfather’s estate. In August, his uncle succumbed to a fever and in September Alan finally came to claim his birthright.

“Good, now tug the thread tighter—it’s necessary to close the wound as tightly as ye can so it doesna fester.”

Moira pulled hard on the thread, and a gasp leaked from Alan’s throat before he could stop it.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed. He raised his lids to see her looking down at him, her brow furrowed. “I’m so sorry, Alan.”

“It’s all right, lass,” he said from between his teeth.

Mary MacNab snorted. “Don’t allow their whining to stop ye from what ye must do, Moira. For if you do, ye’ll be ineffective, and they’ll rot from the inside out.” She yanked on the thread, but Alan was prepared and merely released a harsh breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut again and saw Sorcha, with her piercing eyes and black hair, in his mind’s eye. She was small and lithe, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with those wicked, beautiful, cat-shaped green eyes. The first time he’d seen her, she was leaving her father’s house with her sister as he was dismounting at the gate, planning to visit her father, his own father’s old friend. He’d stared after her in awe, scarcely able to breathe.

Later, when Stewart had mentioned that he was searching for a husband for her, Alan leaped at what seemed like a perfect opportunity. She was six years younger than him, at twenty-two, with the proper background and Highland pedigree—her mother was a daughter of the MacDonald of Keppoch, and her father descended from the MacLeods. And the way her eyes flashed when she looked at him—
perfect
.

Her family loved her unconditionally, that much was clear. Alan didn’t know her well, but beyond her beauty she did not seem a vapid creature like so many of the young ladies he’d known in England.

“Now tie off the end like this,” Mary said. The women had worked all the way across his back, down from his right shoulder at a steep angle. His muscles spasmed as Mary tugged and pulled brutally at his flesh. At Mary’s command, Moira used her light touch to smear warm, melted butter along the entire length of the wound. Then Mary smacked him on the arse. “All right, MacDonald. The worst of it is done.”

Alan groaned softly and rolled to his side, watching as Mary opened a pouch full of smooth pebbles, which she and Moira silently placed in a circle round his bed. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she snapped, “Dinna give me that superior English look, lad. These are enchanted stones, soaked in silvered water. They’ll be warding off the evil wee beasties that wish to kill ye through the wound.”

After the circle was in place, she intoned a brief charm, and finally nodded in satisfaction. As Moira collected the stones and stored them in the pouch, Stewart led Mary outside, no doubt to discuss an exchange for her services. Alan rubbed at the bristle on his jaw. He’d take care of Mary’s payment later, in a way so as not to embarrass Stewart. Though they held a high status in Glenfinnan, Sorcha’s family possessed little real money, whereas Alan’s inheritance from his grandfather had made him rich—by Highland standards, that was. Though certainly not nearly as rich as the Earl of Camdonn.

Stewart sent the boys to escort Mary home and came back inside. Moira placed warm bowls of barley broth before them, and though it seemed odd to Alan to eat at this hour, Moira insisted it would help him heal. He had to admit, the tasty, fragrant soup warmed him.

The sun would rise in another hour. What was Sorcha doing now? The thought made his gut ache with misery.

Her father sat across the table from Alan, eating silently. When he finished, he set his spoon in his bowl and pushed it away. Then he clasped his hands on the tabletop and met Alan’s gaze.

“What happened tonight, son?”

Alan clenched his fists beneath the table. God, to make this admission, to admit to his incompetence at keeping her safe, nearly killed him. Stewart would surely hate him for failing to protect his daughter.

This was his penance, he supposed. He must admit to his failure, then remedy it.

Shame coursed through him, but he couldn’t let Stewart see it. Alan would get her back. No matter what horror Sorcha suffered at the earl’s hands, Alan vowed to never cast her off. A violent shudder ripped down Alan’s spine at the thought of Cam defiling his young, pure wife.

Moira had seen his body quake. “Are you still cold?” She reached to remove his bowl, offering him a sympathetic smile. “There’s more broth.”

“No thank you, lass.” He tried to return her smile but failed. He glanced back at the older man. “Sorcha and I had—” He cut a glance at Stewart’s daughter and shook his head. “We were—uh—about to go to sleep, when Cam—his lordship—crashed in, flung her over his shoulder, and rode away, leaving one of his henchmen. I fought him, then pursued the earl a few minutes later.”

Stewart dropped his silver-topped head in his hands. “I should have known.”

“Should have known what, sir?”

He looked up at Alan with a bleak expression. “That was why I left the earl’s service. I am getting old, and I suffer from aches and pains. It was a valid enough excuse to leave my position at Camdonn Castle. There was also the problem that the earl’s political beliefs don’t particularly align with my own. But the true reason was that I didn’t like what I could see developing between him and my daughter.”

Moira paused in her step as she walked past the table. Stewart glanced sharply up at her. She returned his stare, eyes wide, her guilty expression speaking volumes. She knew something. A secret had just been revealed.

And suddenly, in the unspoken conversation between Moira and her father, it became crystal clear.

“What are you doing, Cam?”
Sorcha had cried as Cam tossed her over his shoulder.

She had addressed him as
Cam
. She knew him well enough to speak to him informally, which meant she knew him very well indeed.

She’d been so deliciously wanton in Alan’s bed, and although there was a shyness to her, she possessed none of the timidity he might imagine from a virgin. He hadn’t known what to expect, really, never having taken a virgin before, but he hadn’t felt any resistance from her maidenhead. He hadn’t seen any blood . . .

Alan’s gut twisted. Goddammit. She’d played him false. She was no innocent.

He needn’t worry about Cam defiling his wife. The bastard already had.

 

After an hour spent in his study drinking whisky, Cam hesitated at his chamber door, clutching at the door handle as his body swayed unsteadily. He’d left Sorcha earlier, needing to straighten his twisted thoughts before doing something to her he knew he’d later regret.

He would sleep elsewhere tonight; sleeping beside her would present a temptation he was powerless to resist. But he wished to check in on her once more, perhaps watch her in slumber as he had in the past. Her sweet red lips parted as she breathed deeply, her body relaxed, her dark hair cascading over the snow-white pillow.

Slowly, so as not to wake her, he unlocked the door and pushed the handle. Well oiled, it swung open silently.

He stepped inside. Saw his bed, with the curtains still open. Her back to him, Sorcha lay curled in a ball on top of the green and black silk counterpane.

He stopped in his tracks. Had she made a noise? And then he saw her shoulders shaking as sobs racked her small body.

He’d never seen her cry like this. She’d let a tear escape earlier, but that was one single tear trailing down the side of her face, and that had nearly broken him. Now she cried with her whole body—great, wrenching, heaving sobs that made his blood run cold.

He wanted to go to her, to comfort her. How could he, though, when he was the source of her grief? He remained rooted to the spot, his hands fisted at his sides, frozen with indecision.

He wanted Sorcha. He needed her. She was his. Damn it, he
loved
her.

And she might have loved him too, once. But she would never forgive him for this, for the wrong he had done her tonight. And by God, it tore him apart to see her suffer.

It struck him, in a moment of clarity in his whisky-muddled mind—the only way he could hope to win her love was to let her go.

But that didn’t make any sense, damn it! He wished he hadn’t drunk so much. Sluggishly, he brought a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. Deep in her grief, she still hadn’t noticed his presence in the room.

If he let her go, she’d return to Alan MacDonald.

Alan MacDonald, once his closest friend, would never forgive him either.

Cam shook his head. His obsession with Sorcha had eclipsed his friendship with Alan, as if it were absolutely meaningless. They’d been like brothers . . . and in one brazen move, Cam had obliterated years of companionship. Severed the bonds of friendship formed long ago by two Highland lads in the midst of hostile English schoolboys.

Had he lost both the people he loved most in this world? With one foolish action?

How he wished he could go back in time. After watching Alan come over Sorcha’s stomach, instead of barging in on them, he’d turn away and ride up the mountain to slake his lust on a welcoming whore.

But no. That wouldn’t have worked. Then neither Alan nor Sorcha would know his heart. He couldn’t have kept it from them forever, could he?

God, he couldn’t let her go. It would surely kill him if he did.

But he must.

He knew it. He would not keep the woman he loved against her will, threatening her with rape every minute of the day. It would drive him mad, and she’d only grow to hate him, despise him with all the formidable strength contained within that small, lovely body.

He couldn’t do this to Alan. Couldn’t throw his power in Alan’s face and dishonor him in the eyes of his clan so soon after his friend had returned to claim his legacy.

Quietly, he turned around and retraced his steps back into the hall. Feeling as though he’d left part of his soul inside the room with her, he closed the door. Then he leaned against it and sank to his arse on the cold planks of the floor, dropping his face in his hands.

He had no choice. He had to release her.

He’d take her home in the morning.

Damn it to hell.

CHAPTER FOUR

S
orcha froze. The door had just shut, she was certain of it. But she couldn’t feel a presence nearby. Gulping back a sob, she swiped the back of her hand over her damp eyes and slowly turned over.

Nobody was in the room. Which meant someone had come in and then left, while she had been too absorbed in her misery to notice. She sat up stiffly, clutching the plaid to her chest, her mouth tight with frustration. She was too weak. Her weakness made her vulnerable, and she couldn’t allow herself to be vulnerable.

For long moments, she stared at the door. Made of thick planks, it concealed most outside noise, and she heard nothing. Yet she imagined the intruder was just beyond, debating whether to interrupt her.

Was it Cam? Most likely. Heat prickled through her cheeks at the thought he had seen her cry. She had never wept in his presence before. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d wept.

He’d left her over an hour ago without explanation, though his face had been twisted with some dark emotion. She couldn’t fathom what he’d been thinking, but his departure had stunned her for a long while. Cam had never left her naked in bed before. Thank the Lord for whatever had possessed him to do so tonight.

She’d tried to find a way out, but the door was bolted from the outside, and jumping from Cam’s window was impossible—even if she could fit her body through the narrow slit, she’d likely break a leg, if not her neck, on the craggy rocks below.