Highland Obsession (18 page)

Damn it. He couldn’t leave her. Not now.

Tentatively, she reached out to brush a finger over the bump on his nose. “Was it broken?”

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Lacing his fingers behind his head, he closed his eyes against the glare of the sun. “A fight.”

“Why did you fight?”

His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “They’d sent me to an English school in London, and Cam and I were the only Scots there. The other lads didn’t know what to make of us, especially me with my strange ways and language, so they mocked me. A mob of them threw stones at me.” His lips twisted. “They called me a devil-worshipping ignorant barbarian heathen bastard. I think I cracked more than one jaw before they overwhelmed me. One of their blows broke my nose before Cam and I fought them off.”

“Lord. Were all the lads so cruel?”

“No.” He cast her a wry glance. “Not for long, at any rate.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “You ask too many questions, Sorcha.”

“I’m only curious about you. About your past. It’s different from anyone’s I know.”

“Not so different from the Earl of Camdonn’s.”

“He rarely spoke of his past to me.”

Alan ground his teeth. Why he wished to stay beside her, to protect her, was a mystery to him. He didn’t love her—hell, he didn’t even like her.

Or perhaps he liked her very much. Perhaps, in his uncertainty over their fate, he merely tried to convince himself otherwise.

He opened his eyes and turned onto his side, resting his head in his hand and studying her. She was wearing an
arisaid
of a deep rust color with darker stripes, its ends held together by her silver brooch. Beneath, she wore a buttoned jacket that accentuated her slender waist. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. Contrasting against the white of her kertch, wisps of blue-black hair danced around her face in the breeze.

He could find no fault with her appearance, that was for certain. And as for her demeanor . . . since she’d made that one mistake on their wedding night, she’d offered him more than he deserved with her simple, honest repentance in the face of his coldness. He couldn’t help himself—his heart was thawing toward her.

Sensing his gaze, she opened her eyes and smiled. “I think there’s no more beautiful spot than Loch Shiel in autumn. Surely no place in England could compare.”

He stared over the water laid out like a serene blue blanket before him. Across the loch, the mountains rose sharply, their crags ascending into the low-hanging clouds. Great boulders rippled through the green and gold grasses on the steep slopes. Overhead, the sun reached long fingers through the clouds, making the land glow in the colors of spun gold and sparkling gems.

“It’s true—there is no place in England like this.”

Her fingers curled round his sleeve. “Oh, look.”

He followed the path of her gaze. Across the loch, a deer and her dappled fawn stood at the edge of the pebbled beach, drinking. He and Sorcha watched in silence as they took their fill and then loped away.

Alan plucked a blade of grass and studied it as he pulled it between the pads of his fingers, its rough surface scraping his skin. “What of you, Sorcha? The life I plan to lead here is a simple one. Is it what you wanted?”

How could it be, given that she’d lived so long in bustling Camdonn Castle with all its opulence and modern conveniences?

Not to mention that she’d bedded its lord, and perhaps part of the reason she’d done so was out of awe for Cam’s wealth. And that was something Alan would never covet. Despite their friendship, Alan had always known to his core that he craved simplicity far more than the riches of the Earl of Camdonn.

She took a deep breath in and then blew it out. “Aye, I always dreamed of a quiet life like this. I love my family, and I was never lonely with them close, but Camdonn Castle was too busy for me. I found a secluded spot near the loch when I needed to escape, and that became my place of solitude from the time I was a child.”

He gave her an appraising look. She was six years younger than him. Despite her experiences with Cam, she’d seen far less in her life than he had. She was very beautiful, too, in an unspoiled way. Dark eyebrows arched above the slanted green eyes. Her nose was small and sloped toward deep red lips, stark against the paleness of her face. A light smattering of freckles covered her nose, impossible to discern unless one studied her closely. It was no wonder he’d assumed her to be virginal.

“Where was this place?”

She stilled, staring at him. “I’ve never told anyone about it. Not even Moira.”

He remained silent, finding himself in no position to encourage her to confidence.

Her thick, dark eyelashes swept downward. “A cliff separates Camdonn Castle from the loch.”

“Aye. I’ve been there.”

“On the western shore, the cliff isn’t as steep as it is everywhere else. If you descend the slope there, at the waterline, you’ll find a small impression of earth . . . the beginnings of a cave.”

He waited for her to go on. When she did, her voice had a breathy, wistful quality. “That was my place. I’d sit there for hours with the water lapping at my toes. Sometimes”—a pale pink flush spread over the bridge of her nose and fanned into her cheeks—“I would read.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. “You know how to read, then?”

“Aye.” She nodded solemnly. “The old earl insisted all the lads of the castle were taught to read in English.”

He couldn’t contain his snicker. “You’re no lad, Sorcha.”

“No, but my brother is.” Her eyes held a wicked gleam, a hint of that passion he’d seen in her that first night. “I merely decided to learn what he did.”

“And they allowed it?”

“Not at first. But I pestered James late at night and forced him to teach me what he’d learned, so my father finally gave in. My sister learned too. Later, during his illness, we read to the old earl, and he took great pleasure from it.”

“He was an eccentric old man, wasn’t he? I never knew him well—only saw him a few times when he came to England.” Alan smiled and rolled onto his back. “He stopped in London on occasion to see Cam—or rather, to chastise Cam for his wicked behavior and his lavish spending.”

Just as he had begun to relax, Alan stiffened again. How was it their conversations always ended up turning to Cam? The last person he wished to discuss in his wife’s presence was the present Earl of Camdonn, and yet he kept bringing the goddamned man up.

He turned his head in the grass and saw her gazing at him. She must have sensed his tension, because her green eyes filled with despair and her fist clenched in the grass.

“I’m sorry, Alan. Forgive me.”

“Do you love him, Sorcha?” Each painful word tore at something deep in his gut.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “No.”

He clenched his teeth to keep from saying something he might regret.

“I realize I never did. Not really.”

Not really?
With the guilty expression on her face, she sank the dagger in, and with her words, she twisted it.

“Whatever happened to the honesty you promised me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I am being honest. I swear it.”

“You don’t look honest. Your face tells me you’re lying. That it pains you to say you don’t love him.”

“You’re wrong.” Her tone hardened, and her expression transformed from distraught to intractable. “It hurts to admit to you that I thought I might love him. It hurts to admit that I was a foolish lass who made a terrible mistake.”

“So are you saying that you no longer love him, but you love me instead?”

“I . . .” Her voice dwindled.

“Tell me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No.”

“So you do love him.”

“No! I don’t love him. But . . . I—” She took a deep breath. “I don’t think I love you, either.”

All the air whooshed out of his lungs as if she’d punched him in the stomach.

She rose to a seated position, and her green eyes glowed with passion. “I don’t know you! I have spent too little time with you, and you’ve been silent and angry for most of it.”

He came up beside her. Logic told him she spoke the truth, that he would have laughed in her face if she’d lied and said she loved him. But the truth hurt more than he expected.

God help him, he wanted her to love him, craved her love like he’d never craved anything in his life. He nearly groaned aloud.

“Please, Alan, understand. I want to know you. I want to love you. I want us to make a life together.”

And of course she didn’t know how, when he was cold and cruel to her. Who would?

Yet he couldn’t stop it. He could feel the ice overtaking him again, freezing over his heart, steeling his limbs.

“I must go.”

She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. “Where?”

“For a walk,” he said tautly. “Perhaps a ride.”

Sadness edged into her expression, and he tore his gaze away from her as she nodded. “All right.”

He hefted himself to his feet. Some dormant residue of gentleman liness flared to life, and he held his hand out to her.

Hesitantly, she took it, and he helped her up. “I trust you can manage walking back to the cottage by yourself?”

“Aye,” she mumbled.

“Good.” He released her hand and turned away. He felt her anguished eyes on him as he strode through the grass, until the bank curved and steepened, and he disappeared from her sight. Taking a deep breath, he stopped and dropped his head into his hands for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned and peered back round the bend. Shoulders slumped, she picked her way up the path to the cottage, mincing her steps.

Once she’d closed the cottage door behind her, he released a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. He felt shaken, off balance.

He fought the urge to follow her inside to draw her sweet form against him and apologize for his cruel, cold behavior. Then he’d kiss her, showing her just how much he’d wished to do so—wished all along . . .

Stiffening his resolve, he stalked back to the clearing and signaled to the hidden copses of shrubs where he’d assigned clansmen to keep watch. Each man returned his signal, confirming they’d seen no sign of Cam or any of his men.

When he was certain all was well, Alan crouched near the back wall of the stables and refocused his attention on the cottage. Sorcha would think he’d gone riding, but today he’d join his men in their vigil. If Cam came for her, Alan would be ready.

 

Sorcha stirred the fire absently, glancing back over her shoulder at Alan’s supper. It had gone cold. She’d have to reheat it when he returned.

She rose and walked to the window. A thick fog had rolled in over the loch, obscuring the mountain peaks on the far side. The air had turned damp and cool.

It was almost dusk. Alan had never come home this late before. Sorcha chewed her lip nervously. What could be keeping him?

Perhaps tonight would be the night he didn’t return. Perhaps it was over, and she had lost him forever.

She blew out a breath, steaming the window, then drew curlicue designs in the frost. She had to stop these traitorous thoughts or they would drive her to madness. He had given her reason to hope earlier today. They had actually engaged in a civil conversation, one that might have gone on longer if not for the subject of Cam rising like a specter between them to wrench them apart.

Perhaps she should go look for him. She paced for long moments, wringing her hands. Alan had told her to stay in the cottage. What would he do if she disobeyed him?

The urge to go after him overwhelmed her desire to obey. If she went, she should go now. It would be full dark within the hour. And Alan had gone with no way to light his path. He was less familiar with the landscape than she.

Resolved to go after him, she pulled her
arisaid
over her shoulders, pinned on her brooch and tied on her kertch, and went outside. She hurried down the path toward the loch and picked her way along the water’s edge until the bank veered.

There, she stopped, frowning as she stared down at the shallow impressions made in the grass by Alan’s shoes. Here the tracks doubled back to the clearing.

With her heart hammering in her ears, she followed the footprints back to the stables. He’d stopped, gone inside, and then . . . back out. She peeked into the horses’ stalls and saw he’d taken his gelding, Eachann. But his weren’t the only footprints—several others of varying sizes churned the dirt in this area.

Sorcha glanced at the darkening sky. The fog had closed in, and mist hung heavy in the air, casting dark shadows across the lawn separating the cottage and the stables.

Whose footprints were these? Perhaps her brothers’ from earlier? She thought not.

A feeling of dread skittered up her spine, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.

Someone was watching her. Eyes burned into her skin.

Lord. Could it be Cam?

She flattened her body against the outside wall of the stables, turned the corner, and slipped back inside. The cow let out a low groaning noise, and the chickens clucked and ruffled their feathers, scattering as she entered their midst.

Sorcha scanned the tools hanging across the inside wall, searching for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes alighted on a rusty scythe hung from a peg. Gritting her teeth, she stepped forward, clutched it in two hands, and lifted it away.

Cam wouldn’t catch her unprepared. Holding the curved blade high, she slipped back out the door and returned to the place where the footsteps clustered. With every sense bristling, she studied the steps until she determined a direction to follow. Slowly, stealthily, she picked her way through the grass.

Ahead, a branch cracked.