Claiming His Highland Bride

by TERRI BRISBIN

  ‘You did not answer my question, Sorcha. Did I hurt you?’

  She smiled against his skin and shook her head. She’d heard about the pain a woman suffered on her first time with a man, but none of that came close in describing what she’d felt.

  ‘You did not,’ she said. She let out a sigh and he began stroking her back under the blanket. ‘It was...quite pleasant.’ She swore that he growled as he turned her on her back and climbed over her.

  ‘Then I did something wrong,’ he said. A kiss followed that robbed her of her ability to think. How could he do that? ‘Pleasant?’

  Sorcha would have offered him words to soothe his displeasure over her description, but one kiss led to a caress and to a stroking and then touching and then...well, then to another joining that was so slow and gentle she cried softly when it was finished. They seemed to be one body, breathing in and out together, as their flesh became one.

  * * *

  It might have been an hour after that before she could speak. But talk she kenned they must, so Sorcha forced herself out of his embrace while he slept to sit on the pallet near him. Collecting her bedgown, she folded it and placed it in a satchel that sat by the hearth. She took out a shift and gown and stockings and dressed while listening to him snore softly. It made her smile, but tears followed when she realised she would never hear this sound again.

  She would never feel his touch on her skin and become one with him when he entered her body in such an incredible way. It was a sin, what they had done, but she found it difficult to come up with the proper amount of guilt she should feel at something so...sublime. Wiping the tears from her eyes and cheeks with the back of her sleeve, she sat and watched him sleep for a short while.

  * * *

  The rays of a watery sun began to pierce the darkness of night and Sorcha understood that her time here and with him was done. Her courage fled her then and she was tempted to leave before he woke.

  ‘You look as though the weight of the whole world is on your lovely shoulders.’ He was awake and watching her. ‘Your lovely and overly dressed shoulders. Come back to bed.’ His invitation was issued in a voice that was husky with arousal. One she could see when he rolled to his back.

  ‘I must go, Alan.’ Plain. Simple. Direct.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, pushing the blanket back and standing. ‘You cannot leave now. We will seek a life together elsewhere. My uncle will never ken that you survived.’

  ‘I make no claim on you because of what we shared,’ she whispered. Though she felt as though they had branded each other by touch and caress and kiss, there could be no more than that and the memories she would carry with her for the rest of her days.

  He cursed then, an angry and bitter tirade of words that told her so much about him. Not one word was about her. Not one word condemned her or what they’d done. All of it about his uncle. Interesting. She let him finish before even attempting to speak. Though her father could never be approached when his fury rose for fear of life and limb, Sorcha felt no such danger here now.

  ‘Would you cause war and destruction between your clan and Brodie’s, then? When your uncle discovers the truth of my existence and our involvement—as you ken he will—do you think he will ignore it and ignore the insult?’

  Alan glared at her then, pushing his hair out of his face and trying to sort through the words he should say now that he’d got the worst out first. Damn it all to hell!

  Waking this morn should have been a joyful one with her in his arms and another bout of bedplay when he could bring her pleasure and show his love for her. Then they would plan their future and begin a life together. Instead, she was intent on walking away from him.

  ‘We can find a way through this together, Sorcha,’ he said. ‘Brodie will support me, support us, in this.’

  ‘Which will put him in conflict, open conflict, with your uncle as well as other clans in our extended families.’

  Why did she have to sound so calm and reasonable when he wanted to rage against the fates and anyone else who had a hand in this?

  ‘I will find a way to prove his betrayal of the Camerons. The proof that he is negotiating with other clans to form an alliance that will destroy the Mackintoshes.’

  She paled at his words and he knew now what he’d suspected before—she was the proof. Sorcha MacMillan kenned the why and the when and how his uncle and her father would move against Brodie. And Alan understood that he was not willing to draw her into the battle between him and his uncle. Gilbert Cameron must stand or fall without Sorcha being in danger.

  ‘Now I think you understand why there is no choice in this, Alan,’ she said. ‘Too many lives rest on our actions. I cannot risk those who have helped me or given me shelter.’ Sorcha walked to him and took his hand. Placing it against her cheek, she rubbed her face against his palm. ‘Or ask the man I love to give up all he is and can be when that would destroy him.’

  ‘Damn it, Sorcha,’ he said, moving back. Even though he loathed the distance between them, he must not let it grow. ‘We will find a way.’

  His words rang hollow and wrong even to him. Alan simply did not want to face losing her completely and for ever. Losing her and allowing his uncle to win...again.

  ‘’Tis better this way,’ she whispered.

  The sound of footsteps outside drew his attention. He grabbed his sword and pushed her behind him. But he realised from her calm manner that she was not surprised to hear them. He lifted the latch and looked outside. Rob and a small group of men stood there.

  ‘Rob, what is this?’

  ‘Lady, if you are ready,’ Rob called to her instead of answering Alan’s question. Alan slammed the door, tossed his sword aside and met her gaze.

  ‘They are my escort from Brodie.’

  ‘Taking you to the convent?’ He could not stop the bitterness in his voice as he faced her leaving.

  ‘Soon.’

  She walked to him and he took her by the shoulders and dragged her to him, kissing her as though it was their last. Because, no matter how much he would protest or fight it, this was the last time for them.

  ‘I beg you not to follow me, Alan. Let me go.’

  He felt his soul tearing in two as he could only nod at her. How could he deny her anything? But how could he let her walk away? She did just that, though, lifting a leather satchel from the floor, opening the door and walking out of his life. She spoke just before she closed the door.

  ‘I will pray every day of my life that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. For lying. For loving you when I had no right to do so.’

  And she was gone.

  The door closed almost silently as she pulled it and he wanted to howl like the wounded animal he was at her departure. Only when he heard the movement of horses outside did he act—pulling his shirt on and running outside before she left.

  Rob and Magnus, one of the biggest men he’d ever seen, stood there blocking his path. Along with four other warriors he kenned were Rob’s best men, they formed a wall that kept him from going after her. Something dark roused within him and he flung himself at the men, asking for a fight, a fight they gave him. Later, as they tossed him up on his horse to take him back to Drumlui Keep as they’d been ordered to do, Alan was honest enough with himself to accept that they had not given him their best fight.

  * * *

  No matter that for it still took him two days before he could piss without seeing blood. His jaw was swollen, forcing him to drink his food for two days past that. Everyone in Drumlui Keep and Glenlui village steered a wide path around him, giving him both the silence and the time he needed to think.

  Not follow her?

  There was no chance of that. He had told her that he could find her and he would. No matter where Brodie sent her and no matter how long it took, he would claim
her as his and his alone.

  But first, he had to deal with his uncle and make certain no one else would suffer because of his self-serving treachery. As though waiting for this moment his whole life, Alan understood that, at long last, it would come down to him and his uncle.

  And only one would be left alive.

  * * *

  A week and three days after Sorcha left him, Alan left Glenlui for what he thought would be the last time and went off to settle things with Gilbert Cameron.

  Chapter Twenty

  Alan was not rash or ill tempered. He did not rush forward in a task without a plan, without a process. For this one, he took his time and thought long about how to first approach and then challenge his uncle. To run in and throw allegations in his face would end exactly as Alan had always feared it would—with his death and his parents disgraced and exiled.

  So, to battle a man such as Gilbert Cameron he must be deliberate and prepared. He must have evidence and he must somehow make Gilbert confess his plan before witnesses. He had already tracked down enough of the story to ken the whole of it and Alan would reveal it bit by bit, goading Gilbert’s temper and waiting for him to play his part in his own downfall.

  The most difficult thing would be not involving Sorcha—not by word or whisper. Her name must remain out of it or her safety would be threatened. Her life would be at risk. A thing he simply would not risk. For if he failed and left a trail to her, his uncle would destroy her as surely as he lived and breathed.

  Brodie did not approach him or offer counsel during those days. He showed up in the yard when Alan was training and fought him with sword and staff and targe, teaching him without saying a word. Brodie moved in a different way in the training yard than most others Alan had observed over time. He had gained his knowledge through battle so Alan tried to absorb as much as he could.

  For Gilbert Cameron had learned his skills in battle, too.

  * * *

  But it was Gilbert who gave him the perfect opportunity for his plan when he summoned Alan back to Achnacarry the next week. Clan business, the messenger said, which was the way Gilbert ensured Alan would not ignore his call. This time, though, Alan was pleased to be beckoned home. Pleased to finally take this step and claim his life as his own and free his clan from Gilbert’s treachery.

  The messenger’s words gave a day and time of the gathering—four days hence—but Alan would not wait for his uncle to get his pieces and pawns in place and walk in to find himself the only one not ready for this game. He packed and left that night, bidding Brodie and Arabella a private farewell before he walked out of the keep alone, into the dark.

  He kenned his uncle had spies there in Glenlui, probably as many as Brodie had at Achnacarry, so he made it appear as though he was going to the village when he left. No horse, no supplies, no weapons. Those waited for him at the cottage where he’d spent that glorious night with Sorcha. He would retrieve them under cover of night and be hours away by morn. That would give him the opportunity to examine and study Achnacarry and its approaches and to see more of Gilbert’s plan before walking into it.

  It was part of him, this process of tracking. He’d begun when barely out of childhood for it gave him something to concentrate on during the dark days of the clan feud with the Mackintoshes. Then, it made him feel important and valued to the Camerons even while being a vital service to his uncle, the then chieftain Euan Cameron. Arabella’s father had led them through the last battles and seized the opportunity to seek a lasting peace and end to the mutual destruction of both families.

  Once Alan’s reputation as a tracker was in place, he used those skills to take him far and wide, out of Cameron lands, even all the way to Edinburgh and the Lowlands. And though Gilbert had sent him out to help other chieftains or allies of his, it gave Alan a chance to be away from his uncle who was now in the chieftain’s seat at Achnacarry.

  A chance to avoid watching his father be belittled and harassed by a younger brother unworthy of the position he held. A chance to ignore the thinly disguised contempt his uncle had for him. A chance to pretend his life was as he wanted it. Now, in spite of his father’s hesitation to act, for some reason known only to him, Alan would.

  * * *

  He arrived in the middle of the night two days before the time the messenger gave him and hid himself in the thick forest that surrounded the castle near Loch Arkaig. And he sat back and watched and waited to learn the true intent of Gilbert Cameron’s plan for him.

  * * *

  Sorcha stared at the note in her hand once more. Reading it for the first or for the twenty-fifth time made no difference to her understanding of it. It was not that she could not read its meaning, but rather that she could not believe the information there and what it meant.

  He goes to our uncle.

  The message came from Arabella, though the man did not say her name as he handed the small piece of folded parchment to her. Though Brodie had assured Sorcha that no one else but he kenned her location, she did not doubt for a moment that his wife could wheedle any secret she wanted out of him. Or discover it on her own.

  The piece of parchment proved that. Sorcha thanked the man and asked him to wait for a reply. When he’d left, she collapsed into a chair and began to tremble.

  Picking up the bad habit that Rob was known for, she whispered out the harshest words she could think of in the moment. Nothing close to what she’d heard uttered by that man or even Alan or Brodie, but it made her feel better for a short time. Glancing at the message again, she closed her eyes and tried to come up with a reply.

  She had brought this about. She had caused Alan to go and confront his uncle about the plans the chieftain and her father had made. With no proof, he would be, at best, laughed out of his clan or, at worst, executed as a outlaw. Cold chills pierced her body and soul at the thought of his death.

  Sorcha had been convinced that her leaving solved everything. She would disappear and no more thought would be given to the still-dead Lady Sorcha MacMillan. No one would link her to Alan or Brodie or think anything about the distant relation to the late Erca MacNeill who bought her way into the prayer community in the north-west of Skye.

  Life would be as her mother had planned—she would be free of her father and his machinations and live out a quiet life. Of course, Erca MacNeill never dreamt that her daughter would meet a man along that path and fall in love with him. Erca never considered the many flaws in her plan, but then, her mother was sick and dying when she’d concocted this. Her only hope was to save her daughter from a life like the one she’d suffered through.

  So, running away and walking away had not worked. People she loved and cared about were still in danger. The man she loved would face his own demise because of his desire to prevent his uncle from ruining another life and trading the security of his clan for his own aims.

  Loyalty. Honour. Courage.

  Sometimes she wanted to curse her mother for teaching her those values. For instilling in her the belief that those traits were just as important in a woman as in a man. For giving her the desire to live those qualities in memory of all her mother had sacrificed to see her free.

  More so, she wanted to be a woman of loyalty and honour and courage.

  Putting the note into the flame of the candle on the table, Sorcha watched it burn. Then she sought the leather satchel in the trunk and packed her clothing into it. Pulling open the chamber’s door, she waited for the man to approach.

  ‘I will take my answer back to the lady myself.’

  He sputtered a bit, clearly unprepared for such a thing, but he did not argue it. The man must be used to serving Arabella Cameron for he did not try to dissuade her from her decision. Instead, he stepped back and directed her out of the cottage and to the yard where the horses were kept.

  Within an hour of receiving the note, she was
on the road south and back to Glenlui.

  * * *

  Two days later, she walked into the lady’s solar and curtsied to Arabella. Though the lady seemed to expect her arrival, the laird did not. Sorcha forced herself not to take a step back when he rose, growling his displeasure. It was not Sorcha’s name he spoke, but his wife’s.

  ‘Bella!’ he yelled out, as he faced her. ‘Why must you meddle in everything?’ Sorcha swore the costly glass panels in the windows of the chamber rattled at the intensity and fury of his voice.

  Sorcha watched as a silent battle raged between these two strong people. Both of them loved the other without bounds and it made them even stronger together than separately. If he thought to convince her not to go to Alan by his behaviour with his wife, he would fail. For, in spite of the ear-shattering loudness of his words, she needed only to look at the love that was visible there between them to know her choice was the correct one.

  ‘She has the right to know what he’s doing, Brodie,’ Arabella said in a calm, soft voice that was the perfect counterpoint to his angry, boisterous one. ‘This is her battle, too.’ The bluster drained from him in an instant and he nodded, first to his wife and then to her.

  ‘I do not like you being involved. The worrying is not good for you or the bairn,’ he said as he reached out and took hold of her hand. As he kissed her there, Sorcha tried to ignore the whispered words of love and concern she could not help but hear.

  ‘The bairn will take hold or not, my love. ’Tis the Almighty’s plan, not yours nor mine,’ Arabella said in a resolute tone. ‘But He will find me lacking if I stood by and allowed our cousin to face his enemy without friends at his side and our love at his back.’

  ‘Must you make so much sense, Bella?’ he asked, clearly hating the answer he already kenned. ‘There is one thing, Wife.’ The chieftain who was used to commanding hundreds of men and loyal kith and kin faced a far stronger foe here than any of them presented. ‘You will remain here.’