Highland Obsession (16 page)

His heartbeat ratcheted upward. Gràinne used to say that before suggesting some new and innovative way for them to find pleasure in each other.

“What’s that?” he asked gruffly.

“I know how to make you happy, love.”

His heart sank. That, of all things, seemed an impossibility. “How’s that?” His fingers pumped into her. Her slick walls tightened over him, and his cock pulsed in response.

“I know how you might win her back.”

Yanking his fingers out of Gràinne, he flipped her over onto her back and loomed over her. “Open your eyes.”

She obeyed. He ground his cock into the drenched apex of her legs.

“Tell me,” he gritted out. “Tell me how.”

“Later,” she murmured, spreading her legs wide to receive him. “Take me first. Take me hard.”

So he did.

 

Sorcha didn’t know how to win her husband’s favor. She was inexperienced at flaunting her feminine wiles, and the few tricks she tried had fallen flat. Alan might have wanted her on their wedding night, or maybe he’d just been pretending—as she’d pretended her innocence. Either way, it was clear he didn’t want her now.

At night, she tossed and turned, murmured about being cold. Hinted in every way that she wanted him close.

It was no use. He just glanced at her with that chilly gaze and then turned toward the fire and burrowed beneath his plaid.

She was beginning to ache. She watched him, studied him as the days passed with no relief from the uncomfortable, never-ending tension between them.

He was so unlike Cam, but so appealing he took her breath away. His rugged face was so alive, his long blond hair so thick and soft. His bronzed skin glowed in the firelight, his chiseled muscles flexed and rippled, and in response, her own body invariably grew warm and needy. So much so that she actually considered relieving herself of her lust when he went on his long rides.

But would that not be a betrayal, too? She was determined to save herself for him and him alone. Nevertheless, she was beginning to think perhaps she was destined for a life of celibacy—a grim prospect to face given her tremendous appetite for all things carnal. Perhaps this was a just punishment for her sins.

Cam.
She sighed. As naive as it might be, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him for what he’d done. He’d brought out the truth between her and Alan, something she’d been too cowardly to do on her own. She now knew it was for the best . . . She’d been a fool to think she could have lived her life through with that lie hanging like a curse over her head.

Cam wouldn’t try to take her again, because deep in his heart he did care about her happiness and well-being. If he didn’t, he would have raped her that night. If he didn’t, he would have made sure to lock the door to his bedchamber.

Every night, she prayed for him to find peace. She wasn’t the one who could fill the emptiness inside him, and she fervently wished he’d finally come to understand that.

A soft knock on the door heralded Moira’s entrance, and Sorcha looked up from the forgotten embroidery in her lap.

“Woolgathering?” Moira asked softly.

“Aye, a little.” Sorcha glanced at her brothers, who hung back beyond the doorway.

“We’ll just go see about your cow, then,” James said. “Have you milked her this morning?”

“Not yet.”

Moira reached for the milking tub near the doorway and handed it to Charles. “Good, then. The task is yours. And check if there are any eggs for Sorcha and Alan as well.”

“Aye.” Charles took the bucket, and he and James disappeared in the direction of the stables.

“I brought you some food.” Moira set a large basket upon the table and began to draw out small wrapped parcels. “Should be enough here to last through tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Her sister disappeared into Alan’s tiny larder.
Her
tiny larder, she supposed. If Alan didn’t intend to divorce her—he still hadn’t made his intentions clear.

Moira came back brushing her hands, her blue eyes agleam. “Mary says I can remove your stitches today. Alan’s too. Where is he?”

Sorcha couldn’t meet her sister’s eyes. “On another of his rides.”

Moira pulled out the chair beside her and took her cold hand, chafing it in her own warmer ones. “Oh, Sorcha. Is he so very angry with you?”

“Aye.” Shame flooded through her, heating her cheeks. Before this disaster, Moira was the only soul alive who knew about her affair with Cam.

Moira frowned. “But why is he angry with you, Sorcha? It wasn’t your fault the earl kidnapped you.”

She stared at her sister. “Wasn’t it?”

Moira dropped her eyes. “Aye, well, I suppose in a way . . . perhaps. But Cam is a man full grown, and he had to have known whatever had happened between you in the past ended once you married Alan. Surely you cannot be held accountable for his actions.”

“But I can be held accountable for my own actions before I was married.”

“Aye.” Moira took Sorcha’s foot into her lap. “That you can.”

Sorcha curled her toes, fighting a cringe as her sister prodded at her arch.

“You’ve been keeping it clean, I see. It’s healing well.”

“Alan hasn’t allowed me to leave the house.” There was more bitterness in her voice than she’d expected, and she clamped her mouth shut to prevent any more churlishness from escaping.

She wasn’t being fair, really. He’d been a true gentleman, fetching things for her and carrying her whenever she needed to venture outside. When he was at home, that was. When he wasn’t, he ordered her to refrain from going out and had given her a chamber pot to use instead of the outdoor privy.

Raised in a house constantly filled with happy discussion and debate, she was lonely and alone here in Alan’s little valley. Worst of all, she felt disconnected from the world. It had been nearly a week since she’d heard any news about the rising.

Moira pushed against the tender flesh of Sorcha’s arch. “Aye, well, you surely can go out now. The wound’s fully closed. Just be careful not to step on any more sharp rocks for a time, and you’ll be good as new before you know it.”

Sorcha blew out a breath as her sister poked at one of the threads, sending a jab of discomfort through her foot.

Moira removed a packet from the pocket in her
arisaid
. She opened it to reveal a small knife with a long, thin blade and a pair of tweezers. “I’ll cut the stitches with this, then pluck them out. There’s only five, so it’ll be quick as can be.”

Sorcha bit her lip. “Alan has more.”

“Aye, but the foot hurts more than the back. Mary says I’m lucky Alan wasn’t the one with his foot hurt, or his complaining would echo in my head for days to come.”

Sorcha had to smile at that. “Why do you think it is Mary despises men so much?”

Moira rearranged Sorcha’s foot on her lap. “Heaven knows. Ru mors say her husband was cruel to her and left her destitute, and she now blames it on all mankind.”

“I wonder if that’s true,” Sorcha mused.

Moira shrugged. “I’m not certain. But I do like her. She’s a wise healer, and she’s teaching me well.”

Sorcha hadn’t known what possessed the rough, pagan Mary MacNab to take Sorcha’s Christian, educated, and soft-spoken sister under her wing, but their father hadn’t objected, and Moira had leaped at the opportunity to learn to help others. One day, she would make a very fine doctor indeed, perhaps even take over Mary’s position as the most respected healer in the glen.

Moira cut the first stitch, and Sorcha’s foot jerked involuntarily. Moira grasped on to it more firmly. “Think of something else, Sorcha. Tell me what it’s like to be married.”

Married? Was that what she was? So far it had been a state of constant discomfort. More like a Catholic’s Purgatory than the Heaven she’d once imagined in her girlish fantasies. Her parents had sparked those fantasies—they’d truly loved each other.

As a young lass, Sorcha had woken often at night to their soft murmurings, which later she came to understand were the sounds of them making love. On the night Mama had died giving birth to a stillborn son, Da seemed to have aged twenty years. He’d been sober and sad for so long. Although after ten years he’d finally taken a mistress, he’d never remarried, and even now it seemed the greatest joy he found was in remembering his wife through their children—especially Moira, who looked so much like her.

“Marriage . . . isn’t what I thought it would be,” Sorcha said thickly.

“Why is that?”

Sorcha tilted her head back, closing her eyes as she tried to ignore the feel of the thread slipping through her flesh. “I don’t know him. Not really. I don’t know his likes and dislikes. I know nothing of his past. I don’t know if he’s a cruel man or a kind one.”

“Och.” Moira held the knife hilt between her lips as she tugged on the second stitch. She pulled it out and set it on the table. “A kind one, surely.”

Sorcha had thought so too, at first. She opened her eyes and pinned her sister with a look. “How can you be so certain?”

“The way he looks at you, of course.”

“The way he looks at me?”

“Aye. Haven’t you seen it?”

Sorcha shook her head. Moira smiled. “Well, when he came into our cottage that first time we were there after he made the contract with Da, he was searching for you. I watched him carefully—I was frightened for you. And the moment he laid his eyes on you . . . well. I knew it would be all right.”

“How?” Sorcha pressed.

“His eyes widened, then grew all softlike. And when he sat and spoke with Da, his voice grew . . .
dreamy
whenever you were mentioned. Even though he was gone so many years and none of us had known him for long, I knew he’d make you an honorable husband. He was besotted with you.”

Sorcha clenched her hands together. “That was before, though. When he thought I could make him an honorable wife.”

Moira raised her brows but focused on her task. “What is it that makes you dishonorable?”

“You know.”

“That was your past. It shouldn’t matter to either of you.”

“I lied to him about it,” Sorcha said.

Moira’s gaze shot to hers. “Oh, Sorcha. You didn’t.”

Sorcha nodded miserably. “I dishonored myself by lying to my husband on our wedding night. I pretended I was a virgin. And now he knows I came to him sullied, not pure as he expected.”

“Well, he will soon learn that it’s against your nature to be dishonest, and he’ll forgive you. And surely he cannot fault you for having relations before your marriage. If he does . . . well”—her sister’s blue eyes flashed—“make him promise he’s never bedded a willing lass.”

“Moira!”

“Well, it’s true,” Moira said mulishly. “I’m sure he’s had many more women than you’ve had men.”

Sorcha stared at her sister in shock. Moira was two years her junior, and as innocent as they came. Or . . .

“Moira,” she said, a note of warning in her voice, “how do you come to know so much of the carnal relations between unmarried men and women?”

“Oh, heavens!” Moira laughed. “I wasn’t born in a convent. I know as much as you, I’m sure.”

Sorcha raised a brow at her sister, and Moira finally had the grace to flush. “Well, maybe not that much.”

“Are you still a virgin?”

“Of course!”

“You’d best stay pure until you’re married, Moira. I’ve learned the hard way that it is too dangerous otherwise.”

“Finished.” Moira patted Sorcha’s foot, then lifted it off her lap.

Narrowing her eyes, Sorcha flexed her toes. “I hope that wasn’t all a distraction to make me sit docilely while you plucked out the threads.”

“Aye, well, it worked, didn’t it?” Moira leaned forward to hug Sorcha, squeezing tight. “I love you, Sorcha. I want you to be happy.”

“Thank you,” Sorcha whispered into her sister’s thick russet-colored hair. But how could she attain any semblance of happiness with a husband who constantly rejected her? How long would Alan continue with this painful silence before she cracked straight down the middle?

Moira pulled back and clasped her hand, her eyes searching Sorcha’s face. “You should know . . . the men are meeting in a council of war every day to debate whether to march south to join the Earl of Mar.”

Sorcha leaned closer to her sister. “Has Alan been attending these debates?”

“Aye.”

This could prove Alan hadn’t taken a mistress on the mountain. She gazed at her sister, relief mingled with a new kind of fear. “I thought they’d agreed not to go, not until King James lands in Scotland.”

“The Earl of Mar has amassed thousands of men ready and able to fight for the cause. They say there’s going to be a grand battle in the Lowlands. Most of the men of Glenfinnan believe the king’s presence won’t be necessary to overcome the government.”

“But Alan—”

“He’s still hesitant, but his resistance has begun to wane. If every man in the glen decides to rise, their laird won’t allow them to go alone. He is asking that they wait till the end of harvest and for the men to return from the cattle markets.”

“Oh, Moira. What do Da and James think?”

Moira squeezed her hand. “They want to go. They don’t want to wait.”

The door opened, and both women looked up.

“Ah, there he is now.” Moira’s tight expression dissolved into a gracious smile. “Good morning, Alan. I’ve come to remove your stitches.”

Alan inclined his head politely. “Good morning, Moira.”

Sorcha gazed at him, thinking of him leading the men of the glen into battle. Her chest tightened painfully.

Charles and James tumbled in after Alan, carrying eggs and the bucket of milk. James set the milk on the table and then moved behind Sorcha, studying her foot as she showed him the scabs. “Does it still hurt?”

“No, not really. It itches and it tickles, but it’ll be all right.” She glanced up to see Alan looking at James with a deep furrow etched between his brows. As if he didn’t like the way James stood so solici tously over her. Almost as if he were jealous.