Highland Obsession (33 page)

But her eyes were already drifting shut.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
lan woke to a hand on his shoulder and a pounding headache. Disoriented, he squinted his bleary eyes. It was still dark. Where the hell was he?

He shifted in bed, his body brushing against the smooth, soft flesh he instantly recognized as his wife’s. His vision came into focus, and he froze.

Sorcha was lying beside him, but her naked limbs were tangled with Cam’s. As if they were lovers.

And, of course, they were.

The events of last night came rushing back to him, and his gorge rose as the dam within him broke, allowing all those emotions he’d kept tightly bottled in the past days to come pouring through.

Damn fucking hell.

“MacDonald?” It was the merest breath of a whisper in his ear. He whipped his head around to see Duncan hovering over him.

Duncan MacDougall—God, that another had witnessed this scene made it even worse.

Alan breathed tight, fast breaths, trying to reel in his nausea, trying to contain the fury threatening to erupt.

“Sir, your kinsmen are downstairs.” Duncan paused. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s urgent.”

“Aye.” His voice came out in a scratch of a sound.

Ignoring his body’s protest, he pushed his legs over the side of the bed. Quietly, he rose and found his clothes on the floor at the bedside.

Alan pulled on his shirt and plaid in quick, jerky movements, trying to control the shaking of his hands. Trying to stop the pricking tears from seeping out of his eyes, he stared at the door to prevent the image of Sorcha in Cam’s arms from assaulting him. Last night, that image had filled him with lust. Now it incited a killing rage.

He’d been sotted. They’d all been sotted. But not too far gone to forget what had happened. He remembered every detail, every nuance.

He had told her to do everything she’d done. Everything had been his idea, from the beginning. He’d commanded her to suck Cam’s cock, encouraged her to take him in her back entrance.

Both she and Cam had resisted in the beginning, but their resistance was weak, a pretense. It wasn’t hard to convince them to make love.

And while his cock hardened as the image of Sorcha sucking Cam flickered through his mind, he also hated himself with a passion. Hated them, for being so eager to comply with his drunken requests.

He ran a hand through his matted hair, wincing as pain slashed through his temples. Holy hell, he was a damned wreck. Inside and out.

He couldn’t face this right now. His men were here, and they needed his undivided attention. They wouldn’t have come so early unless something serious had happened.

He nodded to Duncan. “Take me to them, please.”

“Aye, sir,” Duncan whispered.

With one final glance at the two lovers sleeping face-to-face, their lips just a hairsbreadth apart, he steeled himself, turned away, and followed Duncan out of the Earl of Camdonn’s bedchamber.

 

Sorcha stretched languidly. Warmth encompassed her and she sighed in contentment. With the arms and legs touching her, surrounding her, she felt so . . . cherished. She opened her eyes to see a late-morning sun searing through the curtains and Cam gazing at her, his brown eyes soft.

“Mmm,” she murmured.

His wide lips tilted into a rakish smile, and he snuggled closer to her. His erection brushed against her leg.

She sent her hand behind her, searching for Alan. She craved his touch too. But her seeking fingers only encountered the blanket, so she turned away from Cam to find him.

His side of the bed was empty. He was gone.

Her heart began to throb against her rib cage. She turned back to Cam. “Where is Alan?”

Cam rose to a seated position, rubbing his eyes before resting a hand on his wound and wincing a little. “I couldn’t say. He might have gone in search of some breakfast.”

“Is your injury paining you?”

“It’s all right.”

She scrambled to the edge of the bed, frowning as she pressed fingers to her forehead to counter the dull pain in her head. “Alan took his clothes.”

“Do you wish me to go after him, Sorcha?”

She cast a faltering smile at Cam. In truth, it was disconcerting to be alone with him without her husband nearby. She wouldn’t have thought Alan would leave them together.

Fear curled in her gut.

“Yes, please. But I’ll come with you. Let’s find him.”

 

An hour later, Cam’s arm was wrapped around Sorcha’s waist as they rode upon a galloping horse. It was just like when Cam had stolen her from Alan, only this time a cold sun shone down on them and they were speeding away from Camdonn Castle, not toward it.

They were headed to Alan and Sorcha’s home. Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut as she held herself stiffly in Cam’s embrace.

When Duncan had told her Alan had departed from the castle just before dawn, the panic in her chest welled and bubbled over. She’d turned to Cam, her lips parted, but she couldn’t push out the words from her crowded throat.

Alan’s message was crystal clear. He was abandoning her. Leaving her to Cam, when all she wanted, all she
needed
, was her husband.

Last night had been wonderful. Alan had been so accepting of her and of Cam. Forgiveness had flowed between them, healed them. Or so she’d thought.

It was Alan she wanted beside her when she woke this morning.

In response to Duncan’s announcement, she’d stared at Cam for several long moments, tears pricking behind her eyes. Nothing had surprised her more than Cam’s response to her beseeching look.

“I’ll take you home,” he’d said softly.

She’d lurched backward as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

“If he’s not there, we’ll go into the village and ask the MacDonalds. We’ll find him, Sorcha.”

“Thank you,” she’d whispered, overcome.

The valley drew closer, the low thatched roofs emerging through the shrubby trees. Sorcha’s heart sank when she saw no smoke curling from the cottage’s chimney.

She couldn’t feel his presence. Surely he wasn’t there.

When Cam drew up to the door, he called Alan’s name. No response. The only sound was a horse’s heavy breathing.

Cam dismounted, then lifted Sorcha off. His hands lingered on her waist, his eyes questioning.

“Let’s look for him,” she said.

“I’ll search the stables.”

She nodded and turned to go inside. After a cursory search, she found the cottage just as they’d left it. He hadn’t come home. She returned outside and met Cam emerging from the outbuilding shaking his head.

“I’ll take you to Glenfinnan.”

“I—I can walk.”

“Nonsense. It’ll cost you an hour. I can have you there in a quarter of the time.”

Still she hesitated, knowing what the villagers—what her family—would think if they saw Cam’s horse approach with her upon it, Cam’s arms wrapped around her waist.

Cam blew out a breath. “It wouldn’t look proper, would it?”

She shook her head mutely.

“Very well. I’ll drop you outside and you can walk the remainder of the way.” His frown deepened until furrows bracketed his lips. “But everyone knows you and Alan have been with me. I hate the thought of leaving you to them.”

“No one in Glenfinnan will harm me. But I will go to my father’s first.”

He nodded, but the lines around his mouth didn’t soften.

In silence, they rode the distance to Glenfinnan. When they reached the village’s edge, Cam lifted her and deposited her on the boggy earth.

Sorcha gazed up at him, taking a deep breath of air fringed with the smell of the peat fires burning in the nearby cottages.

“Thank you.”

His lips eased into the ghost of a smile. “Go now.”

She turned and hurried down the path, which curved into the village, looking back only once to see Cam waiting, reins in hand, a wistful expression on his face.

The next time she looked, he was no longer in sight.

* * *

Duncan hurried from the direction of the living quarters as Cam dismounted at the entry to the stables. He handed the reins to a grooms-man and turned to his servant, whose disapproving frown seemed at odds with his wringing hands.

“What is it, Duncan?”

“Milord. There is a woman here—a red-haired wench of”—his hands twisted together—“well, of dubious reputation. She refuses to leave and demands to see Mrs. MacDonald.”

Gràinne. It had to be. Though Gràinne had never before stepped foot upon the grounds of Camdonn Castle, and Cam couldn’t fathom the reason she’d come now. He frowned. “Did you tell her Sorcha is no longer here?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Cam sighed. “Where is she?”

Moments later, Cam entered his drawing room. Gràinne sashayed toward him, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Gràinne. I thought I told you never to come here.”

She flashed him an unrepentant smile. “I do apologize, love. But I’ve come to see the MacDonald chit. Regarding our dear laird.”

“Alan?”

“Aye.”

“What of him?”

Gràinne gave him a sly look. “’Tis a matter between women.”

Cam’s arms tightened across his chest. He stepped deeper into the room, and the door closed with a soft click behind him. Gràinne turned away and glided through the room, studying the carvings on the mantel, the paintings on the walls, the rich green fabrics covering the chairs, the silk damask on the windows, the dark Italian furniture.

“Like another world,” she murmured with a sidelong glance at him.

Cam followed her gaze with jaded eyes. He had been to the village and hill so often, he scarcely thought of the differences between his home and the primitive dwellings of the people outside Camdonn Castle anymore.

“Aye, it is,” he agreed, his tone flat.

What the hell could she have to discuss with Sorcha? Cam felt like taking her shoulders and shaking the information from her, but as always, Gràinne proceeded at her own pace.

She stared at a cushioned armchair upholstered in a velvet of deep forest green, and the pink tip of her tongue swept across her top lip. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She sank down, sighing softly, and draped her arms over the sides. “Like sitting on a cloud.”

Cam stood still, studying her. Waiting patiently as she settled back in the chair, eyeing him shrewdly with her rich brown gaze. The way her fiery waves fanned out over the silk of the chair back sparked a carnal memory, and his cock surged to life.

Her lips curled into a smile. “Very well, then, love. Since she’s not here . . . Alan MacDonald spoke with Sorcha’s father this morning.”

Resisting the urge to demand where Alan had gone, Cam raised a questioning brow. “Whore’s gossip?”

Gràinne shrugged. “I learn the most fascinating things by keeping an open ear, love.”

“And what did you learn this morning?”

“Alan MacDonald believes his woman’s heart is shackled to yours.”

Cam’s throat went dry and he remained silent for a moment. If Alan believed Sorcha loved Cam, would it make it so?

No. Of course it would not.

“He’s wrong,” Cam pushed out. “Her heart belongs to Alan.”

“Aye, I know. ’Twas written plain on both their faces when I saw them together.” Gràinne narrowed her eyes at him. “So why, then, does he believe differently? Did you tup her?”

“Ahh . . .” Cam spun around and headed to the sidebar. He needed a drink. A stiff one. “Would you like some wine?”

“So you did.” Gràinne clicked her tongue. “I’d have thought better of you than to debauch a married woman.”

He poured Gràinne some claret and himself some whisky, though by all rights it was too early in the day for it. “It’s far more complicated than you might think.”

He handed her the goblet. She turned the glittering crystal in fascination before she looked over the rim at him, her lips twisted. “What’s complicated about it? You know the man far better than I, love. But from the little I’ve seen of him, I can guarantee that neither his pride nor his honor will accept a woman who takes pleasure from another man.”

Cam resisted the urge to grind his teeth. Goddammit. Alan himself had demanded it of them. . . .

Nevertheless, he knew Gràinne spoke the truth. Alan, damn his soul, had been testing both him and Sorcha. Between her naive efforts to please Alan, and Cam’s wayward and rampant lust for her, they had both failed.

He gazed at the amber liquid swirling in his glass and then tipped his head back and swallowed it in one gulp, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat.

He thumped the empty glass on the sideboard. “What am I going to do?”

“Let her go.” The simplest answer, spoken softly as if the bearer of the news knew how difficult it would be for him to accept. He looked up into Gràinne’s face, and the brittle cynicism he usually found there had softened into compassion. “You must let her go, Cam. You love them both, I know you do, but you are tearing them apart. If you destroy them, in the end you will destroy yourself. Sorcha was never meant for you, love.”