Highland Obsession (27 page)

Sorcha lunged toward him. Cam’s head whipped back and forth. His body undulated on the bed. She grabbed on to his hand and gripped it for all she was worth, even though he flailed away. “Cam,” she cried, “you must stop this!”

As his body fought the fever, she went on, her voice lowering to a murmur. “You must live. Please live. I need you. I love you. Alan needs and loves you. Your people need you too. They need your kindness, your depth of feeling, your care. Please, Cam. Please don’t go.”

She continued to speak of love and need and passion, and how great a loss to the world it would be if he died. She tore off the blankets and swabbed his furnace of a body with cool water as she murmured her gentle words.

Much later, the convulsions settled and Cam’s body stilled. Sorcha took his pulse and found it quick and irregular. But he was alive, his breaths weak and shaky. His body as hot as a burning lump of coal.

Exhausted, she crawled into the bed beside him, wrapped her arms around him, kissed his burning cheek, and slipped into a fitful doze.

 

“Damn fool doctors,” Mary MacNab muttered as they approached the living quarters of Camdonn Castle. She snorted. “Bleeding a man who’s already nearly bled to death. And those idiots think themselves so damned superior.”

Moira, who appeared nearly a foot taller than the old woman, smiled at Alan over her head. Alan couldn’t help but to smile back.

He understood Mary MacNab’s old medicine—at least in theory. He’d seen with his own eyes what it could do. Passed on by oral tradition through generations of women, this knowledge was something he couldn’t deny. Some of Mary’s ancestors, he knew, had been burned at the stake for using their forms of medicine, but such a thing would never happen to Mary. Even the old Duke of Argyll had called on her to administer to his son when he had once taken ill as a boy.

Alan carried Mary’s medicine chest, an ancient-looking wooden box filled with herbs and medicines and special pagan concoctions made by Mary with Moira’s help.

They walked into the living quarters. None of the servants so much as batted an eyelash as they trudged upstairs in a line, Mary in the lead and Alan following Moira. When they reached the landing, Mary turned to him.

“Which way?” she snapped. “I’ve forgotten.”

“To the left, Mrs. MacNab.”

Mary turned down the hall and paused at Cam’s closed door, cocking her head against the smooth wood planking.

“Doctor’s gone,” she murmured. “Least I can’t hear his damn fool blathering.”

“Good.” Alan pushed open the door.

He froze when he saw Cam and Sorcha on the bed. Their arms were wrapped around each other and both slept like babes. Something panged heavily in his heart, and the resulting tremor rumbled through his entire body.

Mary MacNab chuckled behind him, and Moira gasped in horror.

“Don’t fret, lass,” Mary said cheerfully. “Naught is amiss. She comforts him, as is her wont.”

Alan’s eyes widened as he stared at the bead of sweat rolling down the side of Cam’s face. His heart pounded with excitement. “Has his fever broken?”

Mary marched up to Cam and slid her hand under his shirt, pressing her palm to his chest. “Aye,” she confirmed. “He’s cool.”

Alan blinked hard in relief, and Sorcha stirred on the bed, stretching and yawning.

And then her eyes opened, and her gaze alighted on the three of them. She yanked her arms away from Cam and shot up to a seated position. “He was—” She looked down at Cam, then at Alan. “Oh, Alan. He was shaking . . . and . . . and . . .” Her lip quivered and teardrops hovered on her lower lids.

Alan strode to his wife and gathered her into his embrace. “His fever’s broken, Sorcha.”

“What?”

“His fever. It’s gone.”

She went limp in his arms. “Oh Lord. I thought—I thought . . .”

He stroked her back and she clung to him, her body heaving with emotion. “He was trembling and shaking. I thought he was dying, Alan. I—I talked to him. I told him how much we all cared. I begged him not to die . . .”

Alan comforted his wife as Moira and Mary administered to Cam. Mary ordered water from a maid and spent several minutes dabbling in her chest as Moira crouched beside her, focused and following each direction with precision. Side by side, the two women thoroughly cleaned Cam’s wound and applied a warm healing poultice.

Sorcha turned to watch them. “Has his fever truly broken?”

Sweat beaded on Cam’s forehead then rolled in streaks down his face, matting his hair to his skin.

“Aye, lass.” Mary didn’t bother to turn from her work. “He’ll need liquid, lots of it, to recover. Make certain he drinks plenty, and not too much of it whisky, eh?”

Sorcha took one of the towels on the bedside table and climbed back on the bed. She pressed the soft linen against Cam’s sweaty face. She turned back to Alan, her green eyes shining. “It’s true. The fever is gone.”

Cam groaned softly, and his eyes fluttered, but he didn’t wake.

Mary MacNab rose and turned to Alan. “Give him this when he wakes. It’s made from silvered water.” She thrust a foul-smelling brown liquid concoction beneath Alan’s nose, and he fought to keep from gagging. The wrinkles in her face deepened. “Damn fool that he was for dueling to begin with.”

She narrowed her little eyes at Alan. “And,” she continued. “Feed him fresh bannocks soaked in cream. It’ll help him heal.”

“Aye, Mary,” Sorcha promised from the bed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for saving him.”

Though, Alan thought, Mary had done little to save him. And Alan was fairly certain the doctor hadn’t done a damn thing, either. He gazed at his wife as she clasped Cam’s hand, her eyes shining with relief . . . with love.

Cam would live because of Sorcha—her sweet words and her healing touch.

 

Cam woke to the sound of birds chirping and Alan’s light snore. Turning toward the direction of the noise, Cam saw with surprise that Alan slept in a pallet beside his bed. He didn’t remember the bedding being placed there.

How long had he been ill?

“Good morning.”

Cam swiveled his head at the sound of Sorcha’s voice. Too quickly. He had to close his eyes against the onslaught of dizziness.

“Ungh,” he groaned.

She chuckled softly.

“You’re still weak. But the fever’s gone.”

There was relief in her voice. A lightness he hadn’t heard since long before her wedding. Before their affair, for that matter, when he’d first returned to Camdonn Castle to find his factor’s daughter full-grown and desperately alluring. When she’d looked at him with those fiery green eyes, his skin had prickled from head to toe. He’d wanted her instantly. Only later had he grown to love her.

He opened his eyes to see her gazing down at him, her smile so wide, a deep dimple appeared in one cheek.

“How long?” he whispered, his voice rough from disuse.

Her smile faltered. “Five days. We’ve missed the festivities of Sam hain.”

Good God. “You’ve been here five days?”

“Aye. Alan and myself both.”

Cam let his eyes drift shut again, lest she should see the emotion swirling in them. They had remained by his side as the fever gripped him. They were the only ones who’d stayed beside him—the only ones he would’ve asked for before he’d damaged everything between them.

“Did you sleep here?”

“Aye. Alan had the pallet brought in.” She cleared her throat. “It isn’t wide enough for both of us, so we take turns at night. I wanted one of us awake at all times, in the event . . .”

Her voice dwindled, but Cam knew. In the event he grew sicker. In the event he died.

“Thank you” was all he could murmur.

What had he done to deserve the forgiveness of these two people? As much as he claimed to care for them, he had betrayed them both, hurt them both. In return, they restored his honor, then remained by his side in his darkest hours.

Opening his eyes, Cam glanced at Alan, remembering how Alan had called him brother before he’d fallen into delirium. After all that had happened, once honor had been restored, he treated him as no less than a kinsman.

He turned to Sorcha. Even now, he couldn’t look at her without wanting her. The attraction was a fierce pull in his chest, in his groin. Just the sight of her made his cock grow beneath the blanket. It didn’t matter that he’d spent days on his deathbed and all he could smell was the stench of his own sickness. He wanted her.

But the devil himself would take him before he’d touch her again. Without Alan’s permission, that was.

A vision of Alan watching them together, a benevolent smile on his face, flashed through his mind, and he almost laughed out loud. Only in his debauched dreams.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Tired,” he answered honestly. “But you must be tired too.”

She shrugged, but he saw the light blue-black circles beneath her eyes.

“Do you want to go home?”

She hesitated. “We’ll go home if you wish it. But I’d rather stay until you’re on your feet again.”

He exhaled in relief. “I’d be honored if you stayed. Both of you.”

Sorcha looked past him, her smile faltering slightly, and he turned to see Alan stretching on the narrow pallet.

“Good morning,” Sorcha murmured.

Alan rose to a seated position, arching an eyebrow at Cam. “So you’re awake, are you?”

“Yes. And lucid, I suppose.”

A smile skittered over Alan’s face before the resident seriousness returned. He swung his legs over the side of the pallet and stretched. “It’s been a difficult few days. We thought we might lose you.”

Cam’s side thudded, a reminder that he was facing the man who’d injured him—who’d almost killed him. Yet he couldn’t blame Alan. Nobody could. Alan had only defended his own honor, and his wife’s.

“How is your wound?” Alan asked, his features carefully schooled.

“Hurts,” Cam said. His side throbbed in agreement. It didn’t burn like it had in the past days, but damn, it hurt. If he stretched or turned or moved in any way, it complained. Loudly.

Alan nodded, but no sympathy edged into his expression. Both he and Cam knew he deserved whatever pain Alan had wrought upon him with his broadsword.

“I’m so sorry,” Sorcha whispered.

Cam frowned at her. “Why?”

“I—I didn’t wish this upon you.”

“I know, Sorcha.” There was a long, pregnant pause. “But we all know it was justified. You must hate me for what I did to you.”

“No,” she said. “I was angry, yes. But I never hated you.”

“I think she’s incapable of hate,” Alan said.

Flushing, she glanced at her husband and something passed between them. “Maybe so,” she admitted. “Even when I claimed to hate you, it was a lie.”

Alan’s lips curled. “I know.”

Sorcha bowed her head, and Cam turned to Alan. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“It was the least we could do.”

Humbled, Cam said, “I’ll have the servants prepare the state bedchamber for you.” He found it difficult to form words, he was so tired. But they needed their privacy. It was ridiculous to ask them to stay as close as they had, sleeping on that uncomfortable pallet. Both Sorcha and Alan looked exhausted.

He felt Sorcha’s hand close over his. “Rest, my lord. We’ll be here when you wake.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

D
ays passed. Cam recovered quickly—as a healthy man in his prime, he wasn’t easily cowed. Within the week, he was walking the castle grounds.

He stood at one of the stall doors in the stable, looking down at a newborn foal wobbling as it tested its weak, spindly legs. He could empathize—he’d never felt as weak as he had in the past few days.

Sensing a presence beside him, he turned to see Alan gazing at the foal.

“He’ll be a beauty.”

Cam smiled but didn’t answer. Alan cast him a sidelong glance. “You all right?”

“Yes. I feel fine. Considering.”

Alan nodded. “Good.”

He stared at Alan, assessing the other man. “Don’t you wish you’d killed me?”

“No,” Alan said easily. “I’m glad you’re alive. Honor has been redeemed, and I didn’t have to kill my friend in order to do so.”

“After all I’ve done . . . how can you still consider me a friend?”

Alan gazed at the foal, which was nuzzling up to its mother, one of Cam’s finest mares. “Aye, you’ve tested my limits. But we had a long history prior to the past few weeks. You must have suffered a lapse in your memory.” Alan turned back to Cam. “But can you remember all those years now?”

Hell yes, Cam remembered. Standing up to the English . . . they used different methods, but together, they’d survived. It had been the two of them against the world. And then later, at the university, explorations into adulthood. Experimentation, mistakes, close calls. Just about everything that formed them into the men they were today, they’d experienced together.