Highland Obsession (21 page)

She wrapped her arms around him, tightened her legs, squeezed her eyes more tightly shut.

He took her spiraling into a black abyss of pleasure and pain, hot as spun sugar and just as sweet. He rode her body until it clung to him, molded against him, shaped itself to him, took and accepted him.

Sorcha sobbed. Sharp lights exploded beyond her closed lids, and her body bowed and undulated in a rolling motion she couldn’t control. All around her, Alan was stiff, as hard as metal molten and then cooled to fit perfectly against her body. His muscles quivered, then quaked, and with a long, low groan and one final, violent thrust, he jerked out of her and poured his seed onto the fine silk bed covering.

 

Alan came slowly back to himself. Sluggishly, his mind recalled where they were and what had happened. He was slumped over Sorcha’s small body, the thick layers of her
arisaid
and petticoats and shift crushed between them. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and perspiration gave her face a shimmering pink glow in the dim, flickering light of the cottage. He brushed a lock of dark hair away from her mouth and then rolled away, tugging her skirts to her ankles as he did so.

Alan moved down Sorcha’s body. Slowly, gently, he removed the shoe from her foot and untwined the bandage from her arch. There was no blood, and the scab was still intact. Despite the small amount of swelling no doubt caused by all the walking, her wound hadn’t reopened.

“Thank God,” he murmured, replacing the bandage and her shoe. He didn’t say more, though he wanted to reprimand her again for her foolishness in walking all this way with her foot not completely healed.

With a final kiss on Sorcha’s shin and a squeeze on her forearm, Alan heaved his body off the bed and strode to the hearth, where he pulled on his shirt and belted his plaid, but left his pistol, dirk, and sword.

He went to the door and saw Gràinne waiting beneath the tiny awning, now fully dressed. Rubbing her arms, she cocked an eyebrow at him. “I hope you’re finished. It’s bloody cold out here.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment and held the door wider. She marched in and headed toward her small kitchen area, where she set a pot over the fire and knelt over a bucket in the corner.

“Why did the earl put you up to this, Gràinne?” he asked.

She stopped and turned, the ladle she carried dripping milk. “Och, he didn’t put me up to it. Not at all. It was my own idea. And”—she glanced thoughtfully at Sorcha, who’d curled herself into a ball on the bed—“a foolish one at that.”

Gràinne liked his wife, Alan realized, and an odd feeling panged in his chest. It was strange that the whore would acknowledge a lady like Sorcha after what had just occurred . . . but Alan understood. The fire in Sorcha demanded respect. He still felt the scorching heat in her eyes searing down his back to the base of his spine.

“Was Cam aware of your plan?” Alan asked Gràinne, his voice hard.

She looked away, licking her lips. Then she met his eyes levelly. “Aye. He was.”

He nodded, but his neck felt stiff. The languor of his orgasm dissipated, and his muscles once again hardened and stiffened. The knowledge of what he must do flooded through him, cold as ice. He must end this. Once and for all.

Turning from Gràinne, Alan retrieved Sorcha’s kertch from the floor and took it to her. She clasped her knees close to her chest, her body still trembling in the aftermath of his savage lovemaking.

“Sorcha?”

She pried her eyes open. “Aye?”

She shuddered, and he held himself in check, restraining himself from taking her into his arms. Instead he satisfied himself with a soft stroke of his knuckles down her cheek.

“I’ll take you home, but first—”

“Your men,” she said softly. “They’re out in the cold.”

“They followed you up here?”

She nodded.

Alan nearly smiled. Of course they had followed her, but his men could manage the cold, or if they chose not to, there were many warm, welcoming beds nearby. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He slipped into the foggy night and called his men to him.

 

Gràinne poured a measure of warm milk into a cup and brought it to the trembling woman curled on her bed.

“Come, lass,” she said softly, reaching out to take Sorcha’s hand. “Here’s a posset for you.”

Sorcha stared at the offering, her eyes narrow with distrust. “Why did you bring Alan here?”

Sighing, Gràinne sat on the edge of the bed. “I am an old friend of the Earl of Camdonn’s. I knew him when he was a youth. He has . . . been very good to me.”

He’d saved her, really.

She gazed down at the beautiful young woman lying on the ivory silk. She looked so young, so vulnerable. So hurt and confused.

Gràinne had once been a young bride, too. In love, starry-eyed and optimistic, until her husband showed his true side. He began to flaunt his whores in front of her. Made her watch as he fucked them—sometimes four or five at a time—men and women. He’d tied her to the bed as she sobbed, begging him to release her. Then he began ordering the men to use her, sometimes violently, as he watched.

Before all that began, she’d loved him. Truly loved him. She’d dreamed of building a life with him. A family. But for three years he tormented her, tortured her . . . and finally she’d had enough. She escaped from their rooms in Inverness. She ran and ran until she came to the mountain. The women here, each of whom had her own story, some even more terrible than hers, took her in, showed her how to live, how to be happy. They’d remade her, become her family.

Then Cam, the wide-eyed and innocent English schoolboy, had come to her. He’d come home from England for a holiday, and with a flush rising on his baby-soft cheeks, he’d candidly said he wanted to learn from her. Learn everything. As they spent more time together, she’d grown to know him and to love him—to the extent her jaded heart could love. Ultimately, he was the man responsible for restoring her faith in mankind.

Now, she realized, he’d been led astray, but he was too blind to see it. The young bride lying before her belonged to Alan MacDonald, and though neither of them knew it yet, the laird belonged to her as well, heart and soul.

They would discover it, Gràinne hoped, in time. But she wouldn’t interfere anymore . . . not in something that could lead to true happiness between two people whose compatibility shone like the brightest star on a clear summer’s night.

Sorcha shook her head and her dark brows furrowed. “You brought Alan here . . . for Cam?”

Gràinne shrugged. “Cam wants you, love.”

The poor chit still looked confused.

“I meant to seduce your Alan,” Gràinne said patiently. “To show you how men are.”

“And how’s that?” Sorcha breathed.

Gràinne ticked the traits off on her fingers. “Fickle. Untrustworthy. Lustful. Unworthy. Unfaithful.”

“You dislike men.”

“Oh, no.” Gràinne chuckled. “I adore them, but they’re such weak creatures.”

“Unlike women?”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “We are the stronger sex, my dear, though men spend their lives attempting to convince us otherwise. Only a strong woman, and only the
right
woman, can save a man from his baser nature.”

This young beauty was undoubtedly that woman for Alan MacDonald. But not for Cam.

Gràinne thought of Cam, how weak he was, how deeply he needed to be loved. In an abstract way, Gràinne wished she could be that woman to him, but she’d never be fool enough to think it possible.

Sorcha huffed. “I still don’t understand why you’d wish to seduce Alan.”

Gràinne suddenly felt tired. It had been a long day, and a sadness crept through her, lodging deep in her bones. “I care deeply for the Earl of Camdonn, lass. I’d do anything for him. If there was hope for him to find happiness with you, I wanted him to have it. If I seduced Alan MacDonald, it would prove to you that your loyalty to him was misguided.”

“You
meant
for me to find you here?” Sorcha asked, her lips parted in shock.

“Well, not tonight, lass.” Gràinne smiled. “Your appearance rushed things more quickly than I’d anticipated.”

“You meant to develop a liaison with my husband so when I discovered his infidelity, I’d run back to Cam?” Sorcha frowned, then shook her head. “If that happened, I’d be more likely to return to my da and never go near another man for all my days.”

Gràinne chuckled.

Sorcha shifted to a seated position beside her and took the warm cup of milk from her hands. Taking a deep swallow, the lass gazed expectantly at her.

Gràinne lifted a shoulder. “I had to try, you see. For Cam’s sake.” She shook her head ruefully. “But you are cut from the wrong cloth altogether. Cam is not the one for you, Sorcha. Alan MacDonald is. I know men, love, and that one’ll have none but you.”

Sorcha smiled, the first time Gràinne had seen her lips curl into any expression but a sneer. “I think you are an odd sort of match-maker,” she said over the rim of her cup.

Just then, the door opened and the laird stepped inside. Shaking snow from his shoulders, he cast a soft look at Sorcha, then narrowed his blue eyes on Gràinne.

“Do you have parchment and ink?” he growled. “I must write a letter.”

 

Sorcha rested against Alan’s chest as they rode down the mountain. They traveled slowly, for though it had stopped snowing and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, it was still dark and Alan allowed Eachann to pick his way cautiously over the wet terrain. He had tucked his plaid around them both, and despite the wind whipping at her hair, she was comfortable in the tight cocoon of wool. His strong thighs cradled her behind, and he wrapped his arm solidly around her middle.

For the first time since they’d married, she felt safe.

Sighing, she snuggled more deeply against him, sinking into the feel of his flexing muscles against her body.

Something had changed tonight up on the mountain. Alan wanted her fiercely—he’d wanted her all along and had never intended to betray her. Gràinne had witnessed the flaming passion Sorcha and Alan had for each other, and Sorcha hoped she’d take that message back to the earl.

Alan pulled gently on the reins, and Eachann drew short. For a long, silent moment, they stared down at the valley. Fog swirled over the roofs like swirling tentacles, and in the muted moonlight, the grass shimmered midnight green. Beyond, mist rose from the loch, its waters a deep and fathomless black. The damp air smelled of cut wheat and heather.

“It’s lovely,” Sorcha breathed.

His hand tightened minutely over her waist. “I was thinking,” he said into her ear, “of building a house up here.”

She remained silent.

“We are standing on its foundations. It would be a modern stone house, with a proper kitchen, a drawing room, and bedrooms. Servants’ quarters too.”

“A fitting residence for the laird,” she said softly.

“Aye,” he said. “To be seen as equal to the rest of the world, we must bring ourselves into this century.”

“It would be a beautiful house. In a beautiful setting.”

Alan released a breath, and with it, she could feel some of the tension leave his body. “The stables would be down the hill,” he said. “Where the cottage is now. The other cottages might house some of the staff.”

Gazing down at the small cluster of buildings, she nodded. The fog had drifted away, leaving a clearer view of the thatched roofs.

She could easily picture a house standing in this spot. In her mind’s eye, she stepped out the front door to gaze down at Alan exercising his horses in the clearing below. It was a comforting vision.

Alan clucked at his horse, and they resumed their slow walk down toward the cottage. Moments later, they pulled up before the door. Alan unclasped the brooch holding the plaid wrapped over them. Instantly, cold air seeped straight through the wool of Sorcha’s jacket, and she shivered.

He dismounted and lifted her off. With a light pat on her rump, he said, “Go on to bed. I must brush Eachann down, but I’ll be right along.”

 

Cam paced before the fire in his study.

Again, he’d been an impulsive fool, thinking with his heart rather than his head. Even if Gràinne did succeed in seducing Alan—and in retrospect he doubted she would, knowing Alan and his old-fashioned Highland sentiments on honor and marriage—what then? It was not a given that Sorcha would come running to him.

He pushed his hand through his tangled hair. He felt like a caged lion trapped in this infernal prison of desire. Sorcha was his keeper, and nothing, save her, could set him free.

He needed to formulate a plan to turn her away from Alan. If that didn’t work . . .

Hell. He’d kidnap her again. He’d prefer her to come on her own accord, but if there was no way . . . Yes, he’d take her. This time he’d make sure he kept her.

She just hadn’t had enough opportunity to grow accustomed to the idea last time. If she hadn’t escaped, he would have let her go, and she would have realized he was an honorable man. Just as honorable as Alan.

He stalked to the window, fists clenched. What was he thinking? Was he simpleminded? As if repeating the same mistake would make her love him.

He reeled around and stopped at the fire to gaze moodily into it. No matter what he did now, she would think him less honorable than Alan.

Worse, she was right—he
was
less honorable than Alan. He’d wronged them both. Not for the first time, regret washed through him.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and he jerked around to face the heavy wooden planks. “Come,” he barked.

It was Duncan. Standing behind him was a younger MacDonald he recognized as Alan’s cousin and current heir. Cam narrowed his eyes. “Yes?” he said in his most disdainful English lord voice.

“Forgive me, milord. But I’ve brought Bowie MacDonald—he says he has a message for you.” Duncan stepped aside so the man could enter.