Highland Obsession (24 page)

Awakened from a deep sleep, Sorcha opened her eyes drowsily. It was still dark, and Alan hovered over her, nudging her legs apart. He pushed himself into her without preamble, and Sorcha released a gasp as her body adjusted to his size.

They made slow, sweet love, and when it was over, Sorcha trailed her fingers through his seed on her belly before she pressed her body against his.

Nobody had ever made her feel like Alan did. Never had she felt so absolutely perfect in someone’s embrace. Never had she felt so at peace.

Everything was going to be all right. They would live in the cottage until their house was built up on the hill. They’d be happy.

She had cared for the Earl of Camdonn. She’d been infatuated with him, perhaps. She’d certainly lusted for him. But those feelings combined were nothing compared to her feelings for the man who held her safe in his strong arms.

Earlier today she’d told him she didn’t love him. But so much had happened since then. So much to burn away the cloak of fear shrouding her heart. Now the truth was exposed, and it was so sweet.

She loved Alan MacDonald.

Love was a beautiful thing, swelling her heart so full, she thought she might burst with it.

With a peaceful smile curving her lips, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke hours later, it was still dark. All was quiet. And Alan was gone from her side.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

P
erhaps he hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone for a walk,

Sorcha rationalized. Yesterday had been a trying day for both of them.

She checked the clock and saw it was nearly dawn. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep—not without Alan—she washed up, stoked the fire, and headed outside to check the stables. She released a sigh of disappointment when she saw Eachann’s empty stall.

She turned away and leaned against the stable’s doorframe to stare out across the loch. The predawn light spread across the water, giving it a sparkling, pearly hue.

She gazed up the dark hill at the plateau where they’d paused last night on their way home from the mountain—the spot where Alan intended to build his grand house.

Alan was softening toward her—dare she even think he was beginning to love her? She could only hope. And pray.

Surely the Earl of Camdonn would soon move on to other pursuits. Surely he understood that his continued obsession with her would only bring more pain to all of them.

Having an earl look at her the way Cam had once looked at her was a girlish fantasy come to life for a brief time. But things would have never worked between them—they were far too different from each other. Clearly Cam had always known that—at least before he’d abducted her on her wedding night—otherwise he would have stopped her marriage to Alan before it happened. Deep in his heart, Cam knew that this was the life destined for her. The life that could fulfill her.

Yet there was still so much uncertainty. The uprising loomed on the horizon like a dark cloud. Soon it was likely Alan would lead the MacDonalds to war. He’d never send his men to battle without a leader.

She closed her eyes, afraid for them all.

“Sorcha!”

Startled, Sorcha turned toward the sound of her sister’s voice. The door to the cottage was ajar, and she saw a flash of dark material as Moira searched for her inside.

What in Heaven’s name could her sister be doing here so early? She picked up her skirts and hurried to the cottage. “Moira? I’m outside.”

Moira, pink-cheeked and flustered, appeared at the door just as Sorcha approached it.

“Thank the Lord you’re all right,” Moira burst out; then she looked down at Sorcha’s feet. “How is your wound?”

Alarm bells shrieked in Sorcha’s head. “My wound?”

“Your foot. You haven’t reopened the cut, have you?”

“No, no, I haven’t.” She grabbed her sister’s hands. “Why are you here? What has happened? Is it Alan?”

Her sister’s freckled face turned grave. “Oh, Sorcha. Da forbade me to come, but I thought Alan might keep it from you. I came as soon as they all left.”

“What are you saying? Keep
what
from me?”

“Alan has gone to duel with the Earl of Camdonn. They are to meet at the loch’s edge at dawn.”

Sorcha stared at her sister. “How do you know this?”

“You know how quickly word travels in the valley. Bowie MacDonald told his friends before he left to serve as Alan’s second, and they spread the word, starting with our own da.”

Sorcha’s mouth dropped open as her sister continued. “Everyone has gone down to watch.”

“No,” Sorcha whispered.
No, no, no.

The thought of Alan hurt, of Cam hurt, of either of them killed by the other . . . She couldn’t stomach it. She brushed past Moira, who spun around and followed her into the cottage.

“What are you doing?” Moira cried as Sorcha pushed her feet into her shoes.

“If I run, I might be able to stop them.” God knew nobody else would. Curse men and their bloodthirsty nature.

“You must not! Your foot, Sorcha!”

She glared at her sister as she shoved her second foot into her shoe. “You just try to stop me, Moira Stewart! I am going to prevent my husband and the Earl of Camdonn from killing each other. And you tell me I shouldn’t go because I’ve a scratched foot?”

Moira bit her lower lip and wrung her hands. Sorcha buttoned her jacket and pinned her
arisaid
. As she reached the door at a run, Moira rushed to follow. “Wait! I’m coming with you.”

“Then hurry.” Sorcha picked up the pace, lifting her skirts. Already wet from the dewy heather, they slapped heavily against her bare calves.

It was freeing to run. To glide over the cool, damp landscape, exhaling puffs of steam with every breath.

She felt the slight tear when the wound on her foot reopened, but she didn’t slow her stride. Moira could sew it back up later. Sorcha glanced behind to see her sister following at a distance, her face red with exertion.

She would catch up. All that mattered was that Sorcha reach Glenfinnan Moor in time to stop Alan and Cam. She leaped over a rock and sprinted toward the glen.

The location Cam had selected was a flat plain bordering the loch at the mouth of the valley near Glenfinnan. Alan, standing knee-deep in heather, smiled at Bowie, who glanced over at Cam taking practice swings at an imaginary opponent. The wide, sweeping arcs of his broadsword whistled through the air.

A strange peace had settled over Alan. The past ten days had perhaps been the most difficult of his life. His honor had been crushed under the Earl of Camdonn’s heel, but he was about to reclaim it and rebuild it into something stronger. Win or lose, at least he would be a man once again. Worthy of the name of MacDonald.

He scanned the crowd of men from the village and Camdonn Castle who had gathered to witness the duel. It didn’t surprise him that they’d come, but it unsettled him to see the grave looks on everyone’s faces. The crowd was quiet, waiting with bated breath to see who would be the victor . . . and whether quarter would be given at the last.

He’d give Cam quarter. He did not intend to murder the earl, only to achieve satisfaction, and he didn’t need to kill to do that.

But seeing Cam this morning, Alan wasn’t sure of the other man’s intentions. Cam was dressed in dark breeches and a white shirt, and his scalp already shone with perspiration from his practice. He made a show of his preparation as Alan stood by his horse, sipping water and occasionally speaking in low tones to Bowie.

Alan glanced at the sky. It was as bright as it was ever going to be. Time to get this over with.

“Alan?”

“Aye, Bowie. It’s time. Go on and speak with the earl’s second.”

Taking a deep breath, Bowie straightened, then jogged across the grass to speak with Cam’s second, Angus MacLean, whose broken gut had apparently healed quite nicely. From the distance, Alan saw the giant nod as Bowie spoke to him, then they both approached the earl.

Bowie jogged back to him. “We’ll begin in two minutes.”

Alan leaned against the spindly tree trunk. He shut his eyes and cleared his mind. It seemed like only seconds passed before Bowie tapped him on the shoulder.

“Alan?”

“Aye, lad.”

“They’re waiting.”

He nodded. His mouth dry, he took a long drink of plain water from the flask he had brought. He checked both his broadsword and his dirk one final time. Then he moved to the center of the circle formed by the onlookers.

It was all a blur. First the giant spoke and then Bowie, but Alan didn’t hear a word they said. He gripped his hilt and waited until both men moved aside, leaving him face-to-face with Cam for the first time since his wedding night.

With a dark, intent expression, Cam reached for his sword. Someone shouted, signaling the start of the duel, and a whistling noise sounded from both men’s sheaths as they drew their weapons.

Immediately on the defensive, Alan raised his broadsword to block an arcing thrust aimed for his chest. Cam swung around, reaching for the other side, but Alan blocked again. The swords clashed in the crisp early-morning air, startling a flock of birds from their perches in nearby shrubs. They rose, wings flapping, squawking with annoyance.

Alan’s senses sharpened. Though he was aware of the birds and the gasps of the crowd, his focus riveted to the earl. It was almost as if he could predict Cam’s next moves from the subtle hints of muscles tensing behind the billowing white shirt.

He blocked a low jab, then a high one, and finally was able to offer his own attack, a sweep to the side, which the earl parried instantly.

Cam danced forward, pushing Alan back until they skirted the edge of the crowd. The clang of their swords echoed in Alan’s head. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of Cam’s face.

He blocked and parried ten times for every one of his own slices at Cam. But he took solace in the fact that each of his swipes was carefully placed and powerful. If Cam faltered once, it would be over.

The sweeping arcs of Cam’s sword, on the other hand, were fast but light. If struck, Alan would be scratched but able to continue.

Nevertheless, Alan couldn’t count on Cam faltering. Neither of them was a fool with a sword—it was why he had chosen this particular weapon. And though sweat cooled his skin, Alan knew Cam possessed the endurance of two men.

Cam’s sword whooshed through the air. Low then high, right and left. It developed into a pattern, and it was Alan who grew lazy. Two sweeping slashes from the right threw him off guard, and on the third swipe, Cam’s sword sliced through Alan’s shirtsleeve and scratched his arm.

It hurt more than Alan could have predicted. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he blinked hard to make them go away. He tightened his fingers over his hilt and concentrated. Though Cam had struck him, he had not paused in his assault. To lose concentration now would be Alan’s undoing.

He tried not to think of the blood dribbling down his arm. How he wanted to clutch the wound to staunch the bleeding and soothe the sting.

No sooner had Alan regained his focus than Cam took him by surprise again. He slowed, adding power to each thrust and swipe of his sword.

Alan realized that whatever had happened before was merely a warm-up. Now Cam was serious.

As soon as Alan comprehended that, Cam struck again.

 

Sorcha heard the loud clang of swords long before she could see them. A sob tore through her chest and she sprinted hard down the hill before she reached the flat of the moor, ignoring the hot pain now pulsing through the bottom of her foot.

Cam. Alan. Cam. Alan
. Her mind cried the name of each man with every stride.

She drew up short as she reached the clearing. Alan and Cam slashed at each other in the center of the crowd of men. Alan’s arm dripped blood. Oh God, he’d been injured.