How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

by Julie Johnstone

  “What are ye doing?” she cried out when her horse reared back at his handling.

  Broch ignored her and clipped a command at the beast, who immediately settled. He reached up and fairly yanked her off her horse. He swung her to face him, his hands gripping her arms tight, his face red with anger. “Are ye mad?” he demanded. “Ye could have been killed!”

  Something niggled at the back of her mind. Hands clenching her arms, shaking her, and a desperate feeling to be released overwhelmed her. “Release me,” she hissed, trying to fight back the panic.

  “Broch!” came a furious roar from across the courtyard.

  Sorcha whipped her gaze toward the animalistic sound as Broch obeyed. Her eyes met Cameron’s assessing ones, which darted from her head to her feet in a breath. Rage swept over his face, and an icy glare settled on Broch. “I’ll kill ye!” Cameron thundered.

  “Cameron, nay!” she screamed, but her cry was lost beneath his deafening roar as he barreled across the courtyard and straight into Broch.

  Twelve

  The sight of Sorcha in a torn gown, with her hair a mess and cuts on her face was difficult enough for Cameron to see, but she was also gripped in Broch’s embrace. It made Cameron clench his fists. Then, when Sorcha demanded Broch release her and the man did not, Cameron’s anger exploded, and the innate need to keep her safe sent him barreling across the courtyard and straight at Broch.

  He crashed into the Scot with a force that sent them both flying backward and to the ground with a hard thud, but the anger pumping through his blood shot him to his feet. Before Broch could gain his, Cameron’s fist connected with Broch’s nose. Bone cracked and blood gushed, but Broch was not a man to be easily felled. He swiped an arm out, catching Cameron’s left leg, and with a jerk, he pulled Cameron to the ground, all his breath whooshing out of his lungs and the courtyard briefly tilting as his thoughts jumbled.

  “Cease this foolishness!” Marion bellowed.

  Both men ignored her, Cameron rolling to his side as Broch lunged for him and missed. He scrambled to his feet, ducked a punch, and came up with a hard jab to Broch’s ribs. The Scot doubled over for a second, then came up swinging, his fist connecting with Cameron’s jaw. Pain throbbed through the entire left side of Cameron’s face, but he shook it off and hit Broch’s chin from underneath. After that, it was one punch after the other, warrior to warrior, rage to retaliation. Cameron’s blood roared in his ears, and as he pulled his arm back to hit Broch once more, it was caught from behind. His other arm was yanked up and behind him.

  Panting, he turned his head to one side and received a dark scowl from Alex. Turning his head in the other direction, he received a furious glare from Angus. “Let me go,” Cameron growled, trying to twist free. Across from him, two of his warriors held Broch in a similar restraining hold.

  “Do ye vow to keep yer fists down?” Alex demanded.

  Cameron raked his gaze across Broch, and then around him where a crowd had gathered. “I vow,” he said in a low voice, “nae to hit him again, but I want him gone from here,” he bit out, seething.

  Broch cocked an eyebrow at him and spit blood. He looked at Sorcha, who stood trembling between Marion and Bridgette, and back to Cameron. “Ye’d banish me from the clan because ye believe I have somehow hurt this woman?” Broch asked in a voice as low as Cameron’s.

  “Ye had her gripped in yer hands,” he growled.

  “Aye,” Broch snapped. “I did lose hold of my anger, but only because the lass almost got herself killed by using herself as bait to lead the two men who were shooting arrows at her away from us. She’s braw but foolhardy, and I suppose I thought to shake some sense into her head. If ye wish to banish me from Dunvegan for that, then so be it,” he said, tilting his chin up in challenge.

  The news that someone had once again tried to kill Sorcha had anger battering him. Swift shame followed the anger. He had responded so violently against Broch, a man he had known and trusted for years. Guilt flooded Cameron along with the desire to shake Sorcha for endangering herself. He battled the need to pull her into his arms and press kisses all over her in relief that she had once again escaped unscathed. His emotions reeled so sharply, he felt as if the courtyard was spinning. He took a long breath to calm his heated blood before speaking.

  Turning his gaze on Broch once more, he said, “I clearly dunnae ken all that has happened. I thank ye for keeping her alive, and I am sorry for the way I responded.” He owed the man that, but he could not leave it there. Fierce, raw possessiveness compelled him to say more. “But hear me now, Broch. If ye ever restrain her again, as ye just did, unless it is to save her life in that moment, ye will regret it. Do ye ken me?”

  “I ken ye,” Broch clipped. “Bridgette killed one of the attackers, but one is still afoot.”

  A furious tic began in Cameron’s jaw, along with rapidly growing fear. Sorcha had been attacked again, and he’d not been there to protect her. He kept his gaze carefully off her now, fearing that if their eyes locked, he would not be able to stop himself from taking her in his arms, soothing her, and assuring her she would be fine. He had to give orders. Make choices. Be the warrior he was striving to be. But soon, very soon, he would claim her mouth once more. She had almost been taken from him today. The thought sent ice through his veins and clarity into his mind. His heart squeezed tight. It was too late for him to deny her any longer. She was in his head, and likely his heart, just as Iain had said.

  He settled his gaze on Marion and then Bridgette, taking care to skip over Sorcha. “Take Sorcha to her bedchamber and stay with her until I come. Can ye do that without getting into any more mischief, or do I need to send a guard with ye?”

  Marion grimaced and inclined her head in acceptance, but Bridgette glared and let out a huff. “Aye, we can do that,” Bridgette muttered.

  He nodded, then finally looked at Sorcha. His heart lurched at how fragile she looked, yet not fearful. The fear was gone. What was that emotion shining in her eyes? When her gaze bore into him and she tilted her chin up, it struck him—defiance and anger. He ground his teeth. “Ye,” he growled, “I will speak with shortly.”

  “Possibly,” she snapped. “If I feel like speaking to ye after this”—she waved her hand at him and then Broch—“display!”

  “I thought the man was harming ye!” he thundered.

  Her eyes popped wide, and her lips parted. “I see,” she said very quietly, and he swore a small smile had tugged at the corner of her lips before she quickly got herself under control. “In that case, I’ll be willing to talk with ye later.”

  With that, she turned with her head high and her spine straight as an arrow and walked toward the castle door with Marion and Bridgette trailing behind her.

  “What?” he asked, sensing Broch’s gaze on him. “I said I’m sorry. What I did was nae acceptable.”

  “It’s already forgotten,” Broch replied, and a ghost of a smile touched his face. “I stare because I did nae believe I would see the day that a woman tied ye into knots and caused ye to act crazed.”

  “I’m nae in knots,” he bit out, all too aware of how irrational his denial sounded. He was grateful when Broch simply shrugged. Cameron motioned for Broch to follow him as he moved away from the other men. When they were alone, he said, “Tell me of what occurred today, from start to finish.”

  Guilt flashed across Broch’s face, followed by anger. “It began this morning when Bridgette asked me to accompany her, Marion, and Sorcha to see Eolande.”

  Cameron’s surprise at Broch’s words was so great that all he could do was gape at the man. Clenching and then releasing his teeth, he managed to say, “For the love of God, I kinnae imagine how ye allowed yerself to be talked into something ye ken I’d nae approve!”

  Broch fidgeted, not answering, and when Cameron’s anger sparked again, he was about to demand a reply when the likely answer hit him. His nostrils flared as he stared at his longtime friend. “Ye did it to gain favor with Sorcha.”
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br />   A flush covered Broch’s neck. “Aye. I’ve no excuse, and I expect to be punished.”

  And he would be. The man had known Cameron would not agree, but he’d done it anyway. Yet, Cameron did not give the penance immediately. He carefully thought upon what he wanted to say, knowing jealousy was involved on his part. “I must take away yer command of men for a time. Ye ken I would nae have agreed to such an excursion, nor would Iain or Lachlan.”

  Broch lowered his head. “Aye. The woman enchanted me.”

  Cameron felt as if Broch had hit him in the jaw once more. He swallowed hard. “Did she…did she give ye reason to believe she welcomed yer attentions?”

  “Nay,” Broch said with a shrug. “But I’m stubborn, and I’d hoped she would after a time.” He lifted his gaze to Cameron’s. “I see now that she will nae. I did nae ken ye already had a claim on her heart.”

  Shock stilled Cameron, and he glanced around swiftly, relieved to see everyone but he and Broch had dispersed. “Did she say that to ye?”

  “She did nae have to. It was in her eyes when she looked at ye. Adoration. Trust. Fear that I had hurt ye. I did nae ever believe I’d wish to be looked upon that way, but I believe now I might desire it verra much.”

  Cameron knew exactly what Broch meant, but he’d not say it. Instead he said, “Tell me of the seer and the attackers.”

  As Broch began to talk, Cameron forced himself to focus, though his thoughts kept trying to stray to Sorcha. He would see her soon—after he secured the dead attacker and combed the woods for the one still at large. Once that was done, he would deal with her sneaking away and her recklessness. He had to if he was going to keep her protected. He just prayed he could keep his hands off her long enough to make her understand that she had to take more care with her safety.

  Sorcha paced the length of her empty bedchamber, noting the first light of a new day had streaked the sky in a breathtaking display of oranges, reds, and purples. The léine she wore swished against her thighs with her fast, agitated strides. Her head ached, and her eyes stung with lack of sleep. She’d tried to rest—oh, how she’d tried—but the peaceful state had eluded her.

  After Marion and Bridgette had departed late in the night, the guard appointed to watch over her from outside her door had told her that Cameron was out with a tracking party looking for her attacker. So she’d waited, tense with anxiety, on the edge of her bed, thinking he would come speak to her when he returned. Thundering horse hooves had filled the courtyard when the moon had nearly departed the sky, and a glance down below had revealed the tracking party had returned, yet still Cameron had not come.

  Exhaustion had weighed heavily on her, so she’d stripped off her gown and climbed into the bed, certain that she would fall asleep immediately. Except her mind had raced with a hundred possibilities of why he did not come to her, each tormenting her in its uniqueness and keeping sleep out of her reach. No matter what position she had tried, her head had battered her with questions. Was he furious that she had gone to see Eolande? Was he angry that her journey to the seer had endangered Broch, Marion, and Bridgette, even if accidentally? It could be that he simply did not wish to see her. He may have decided she was entirely too much trouble and was planning to persuade the king to take her off his hands. Or perchance he thought she cared for Broch. Or that she was evil…

  The more questions she had, the more irritable she became. She was upset with him. She understood that he likely warred with himself because of the seer’s prophecy—and she was pleased he had admitted he’d attacked Broch out of care for her—but she needed him to talk to her so they could determine if they could even cross the divide that lay between them.

  She’d abandoned sleep and taken up pacing long ago. As she completed another trip across her room, she paused in front of the window, looking out at the sunlit courtyard and massaging her aching temples. There were no answers, only questions and growing frustration. Cameron had the answers she sought—well, some of them anyway—but perchance he intended to avoid being alone with her ever again. She breathed slowly and evenly, considering what Eolande had said to her. The attack the seer spoke of had occurred, but what was the change? She skipped over the things the seer had said that she could not comprehend, and she settled on what the woman had said in regard to Cameron. Did they truly share a passion that could not be denied?

  Her gut told her that such an attraction as the one that had sparked between them was not a common occurrence. Her mind started to turn to all the obstacles they faced even to have a future, but she shoved the thoughts away. She knew the obstacles well—her memory, the king, the prophecy. Yet, she still wished to learn Cameron. He was the man she wanted to walk with, talk with, train with, and have take her in his arms. But before she could admit all of that to him, she had to tell him what the seer had foretold to her.

  Eolande had said their passion would either sink under the weight of heavy lies or rise with powerful love. Who would be the liar? Was it her? She curled her hands into fists. She had no control over the sort of person she had been, but by God, she had full control over whether she had honor or not now, and she chose honor.

  She sighed as the rest of Eolande’s prophecy echoed in her head, especially the part about a claim upon her body that would supersede the one upon her heart. Eolande could have been seeing that the king would force her into a marriage her heart did not want, or possibly someone else would. Either way, Cameron had a right to know since the seer said he would forsake his own honor to free Sorcha.

  Fierce determination to see the man and make him look at her and hear her overcame Sorcha. If the stubborn Scot refused to come to her, then she would simply have to go to him. She quickly donned her gown and then marched toward the door and flung it open, coming to a shuddering halt at the sight of Cameron filling the doorway. A thick leather strap that secured his gleaming sword was all that covered his sculpted chest. His hair was pulled back by twine, revealing the harsh but beautiful lines of his jaw. His green eyes appeared almost moss colored in their darkness, and they widened as he raked his gaze over her before meeting her eyes once more. The desire flaming there set her heart to pounding and instantly heated her body.

  He stepped toward her without a word but with a predatory look about him. She set her palm to his chest and locked her gaze with his. The rapid beat of his heart thumped against her fingertips, as the heat of his flush singed her. She wanted to relent to him, but he had to be at peace with what he felt for her before she could, and he had to hear what Eolande had said. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger to her lips.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt ye,” he said, his voice husky. The apology made her heart squeeze. He ran his finger gently over her lips before removing it. They stood face-to-face, very close, but he no longer touched her. “I dunnae want to fight how I feel any longer.”

  To hear that he had accepted how he felt for her, overwhelmed her. She dropped her palm and pressed her body close to his, bringing her mouth to his ear. “Nor do I,” she whispered, allowing herself to forget for the moment what she wanted to tell him of Eolande.

  He rubbed his cheek against hers as he set his hands to her waist and lifted her with ease. He carried her into the room and kicked a leg backward, closing the door with a resounding thud. When he set her on her feet again, her chest brushed his, making her loins tighten and her breasts grow immediately heavy. A moan escaped her, and he responded with a growl before his arm slid around her waist once more and his hand fisted in her hair to tilt her head back. He slanted his mouth over hers, stoking the fire that threatened to consume her.

  His fast, demanding kisses sang through her veins and made her gasp, but when his mouth suddenly became slow and gentle, almost reverent in its caresses, she wanted to weep at the tenderness he was displaying. It showed her that what was between them had the promise of more than desire, just as Eolande had foretold. As he kissed her, his hands explored her back, her waist, her hips, and then slid up
to the neckline of her léine.

  Breaking their kiss, he pulled back from her, his gaze boring into her as he tugged her léine down over one shoulder and then the other. Ever so slowly and gently, he inched it along her breasts, exposing the tops but nothing else. He stilled, a questioning look coming to his eyes.

  “I’ll cease now if ye wish it,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

  God, she did not wish it. What she needed to tell him of the seer niggled in her mind, but she shoved it down for one more moment. She wanted him to bare all of her and then set his hands to her burning body, because she was certain he could offer relief to the exquisite ache that had claimed her. “Nae yet,” she replied, her voice husky.

  Desire darkened his gaze further as he slid her léine over her breasts to her waist. Silently, he stared at her with a look of bold, frank possession. Her blood thickened as he reached out and cupped her breasts, running his thumb over her straining buds. She hissed as her body arched involuntarily toward him, and he caressed her again in slow, teasing circles that made her want to scream with pleasure.

  He moved his hand from her breasts, making her whimper for the loss of his touch, and he cupped her chin and fastened his gaze to hers. “Ye are the most glorious creature I have ever beheld, and I dunnae only mean yer body, though I’ve nae ever looked upon a lass as beautiful as ye. Ye make me want to drop to my knees and worship ye.”

  She raked her gaze over his face, thick arms, slabs of his stomach, and muscled legs, locking her eyes to his once more. Intensity shone in the green depths, and his jaw was set, just as it had been the moment she had looked upon him after waking from her injury. She had known then that he had a tight rein on a great amount of power. Was he keeping control for her now? Did he fear releasing it with her? She wanted to see him without his inhibitions, without the shadows of doubt that danced in his eyes. No matter what came for them in the future, this moment was theirs, and it very well could be the only one like this they would ever share. She prayed it was not, even as she reached out with trembling hands and ran them down the length of his chest, glorying in the way his lids grew heavy with the need she was creating in him.