Highland Obsession by Dawn Halliday Page B

slammed into him. Sorcha. His hand in hers as the priest married them. Her dark, silky hair. Her parted, panting lips as he’d thrust inside her. Spilling his seed over her belly. Holding her afterward, loving the feel of her slight, warm body pressed against his as she’d snuggled into him. The sweet smell of her.
    And then . . . Cam. Attacking him, grabbing Sorcha. The encounter with MacLean and the later, hopeless battle against Cam’s men.
    It took Alan several moments to reach the conclusion that it was not some bizarre dream.
    Mary MacNab waved a large, menacing needle at him. “Unless ye wish me to sew up that gaping mouth o’ yers, ye’d best lie down.”
    He scanned the occupants of the room in rising panic. She wasn’t here. The bastard still had her.
    “Sorcha!”
    He made to scramble off the bed, but a strong hand closed over his shoulder. “Nay, lad. You’d best let Mary sew you up. Then we’ll worry ourselves over my wee daughter.”
    He looked into the hard face of William Stewart, Sorcha’s father. Stewart was a strong, stalwart man, always fair, who doted on his four surviving children. He’d lost the youngest—and his wife—in childbirth. Sorcha’s brothers, James and Charles, and her sister, Moira, stood behind Stewart, staring at Alan with varying shades of blue and green eyes. They all looked alike though. Their close familial ties to Sorcha were unmistakable.
    “How did I get here?”
    “Duncan MacDougall and some of Lord Camdonn’s men brought you home and put you to bed. Then they sent a messenger to say that you were injured, so we came straightaway. You were soaked in blood, lad. Mary just arrived to sew you up.”
    “How long?”
    James, younger than Sorcha by five years, took a step closer, peering at him through narrowed green eyes. He was a handsome, dark-haired youth, but tonight his anger showed through in his stormy expression.
    “You’ve been home a good two hours,” the boy gritted out.
    “Hell,” Alan muttered. He covered his face with his hands. Behind his palms, he closed his stinging eyes. Surely it was too late by now. He’d failed her. God, they hadn’t even been married a full day, and he’d failed her.
    “Lie down, lad. You’ll be no good to Sorcha if the wound festers.”
    He wished people would stop telling him he’d be no good to Sorcha if . He was no damned good to Sorcha as it was. He pushed a frustrated hand through his tangled hair.
    James nodded curtly, agreeing with his father’s wisdom. “That’s one hell of a gash, Alan. You’d best have Mary see to it.”
    Stewart flashed a quelling look at his son for his language, and then turned back to Alan, his face grave. “Aye, it’s a deep cut indeed.”
    At the time, it had stung, but he’d thought it little more than a scratch. Now it was hot and flowing fresh blood, and it hurt like hell.
    “You’ll not be fit to join Lord Mar in Perth, then,” James muttered. “We were hoping to march south next week.”
    Despite his men’s enthusiasm, Alan wasn’t convinced joining the Jacobites right now would be the best course of action for his people. If King James landed in Scotland with a French army at his back, that would be a different matter altogether. But the king had given no indication that he’d be arriving anytime soon, which left the Earl of Mar to lead his cause.
    Alan had known the Earl of Mar briefly in England, and he’d found him to be a self-serving sort whose loyalties swayed toward those who offered him the most compensation. He was not the kind of man who inspired Alan’s trust, and Alan hesitated to risk his own men to the whims of such a commander.
    Stewart frowned at his son, and James turned away in disgust, fists balled. Alan sighed. The lad was too eager for battle. Then again, so were most of the MacDonalds.
    Stewart turned away from James and lowered himself into the chair nearest Alan’s bed. “You’ll be scarred for life, I’ll wager.” For a long moment,