there." He pulled off his shoes and socks and uniform, tossing them across the room. His badge hit the corner of the dresser with a metallic ping. He stood nake d in front of her, watching her eyes darken and her nipples peak harder, kno wing that he did not even have to touch her to get her started. When he brushed his lips down Allie's ribs, she tried to sit up again. Cam s hook his head. "But I want to," Allie whispered. "I want to touch you."
"Not now," Cam said. "Not tonight." He turned toward her again, making lo ve with a methodical rhythm, as if he was cataloging each inch of her som ewhere in his mind. By the time he moved up to look in her eyes, he was h eavy. He tried to push away the churning thoughts of Jamie MacDonald in t he holding cell, of Maggie's body lying in the yellow light of the embalm ing room, but he found himself thinking instead of the woman downstairs o n the couch.
With his head pounding, Cam buried himself in Allie, moving more roughly tha n he'd ever intended to. When it was over, he rolled her onto her side, noti ng the red abrasions of his beard stubble on her neck and her breasts; the b ite he'd left on her shoulder.
Jamie MacDonald had murdered his wife more gently than Cam had made lo ve to his own.
o
o
THREE
T Te didn't so much mind the dying.
A. X That surprised him a little; at twenty-five, he still pictured his life like the long ribbon of a river, spread out farther than the eye could see in twists and gullies that caught one unaware. He'd been fighting to protect wh at was his for nine years now, and he'd certainly accepted the fact that one careless moment, one running sword, could kill him. But the odds had never se emed quite so bad.
The sleet and rain sluiced beneath the folds of his plaid, and the wet ground of the moor rooted his feet. Suddenly the mist parted, revealing a flash of a gold button here, a fluttering standard there, the steaming breath of a mou nted soldier's horse.
He looked to his left, and to his right, but for the first time in his life he did not know the men who were fighting beside him. His own men, his tenan ts and tacksmen and cousins, would be on the road to Carrymuir by now. Like him, they had seen the sea of ten thousand sassenachs, heard the roll ing cannons, listened to the conflicting commands given to the Highland ar my. They had seen the zealousness on Prince Tearlach's smooth face and had known that they simply could not win.
When, in the wee hours of the dawn, he had gone to strike his bargain with the Duke of Perth, he knew that his argument was purely a matter of logisti cs. He had agreed to lead his men, he told Perth. That did not mean he hims elf would be fighting.
Jodi Picoult
It was a technicality; any oath he'd made would naturally imply he'd be fig hting alongside, since no laird would expect his clan to do what he himself would not. But in this case, he was willing to bend the truth to protect t he others. And he knew when he offered the commander the choice of a ragtag band from Carrymuir or his own skill in combat, it wouldn't be much of a c hoice at all.
He wondered, as he slogged across the moor for the third time, his leg bleed ing from a lucky round of Sassenach grapeshot, whether any of these fools re alized he did not want to be here at all. He didn't want to face one more bl oody English soldier, or step on the still-heaving backs of Scots fallen fou r deep.
He wondered what God was like. He hoped that heaven resembled Scotland. He murmured the paternoster over and over to hear the sound of his own voice
. Seeing a Sassenach just turning his way, he lifted his left arm high in th e air. He brought the sword down at the man's neck, cleaving it wide, feelin g the hot blood melt the sleet on his chest.
Cameron MacDonald sank to his knees and vomited; tried to remind himself th at he had given his word to fight to the death. He did not much relish dyin g, but aye, it was a fair trade. He loved the people of his town
"Not now," Cam said. "Not tonight." He turned toward her again, making lo ve with a methodical rhythm, as if he was cataloging each inch of her som ewhere in his mind. By the time he moved up to look in her eyes, he was h eavy. He tried to push away the churning thoughts of Jamie MacDonald in t he holding cell, of Maggie's body lying in the yellow light of the embalm ing room, but he found himself thinking instead of the woman downstairs o n the couch.
With his head pounding, Cam buried himself in Allie, moving more roughly tha n he'd ever intended to. When it was over, he rolled her onto her side, noti ng the red abrasions of his beard stubble on her neck and her breasts; the b ite he'd left on her shoulder.
Jamie MacDonald had murdered his wife more gently than Cam had made lo ve to his own.
o
o
THREE
T Te didn't so much mind the dying.
A. X That surprised him a little; at twenty-five, he still pictured his life like the long ribbon of a river, spread out farther than the eye could see in twists and gullies that caught one unaware. He'd been fighting to protect wh at was his for nine years now, and he'd certainly accepted the fact that one careless moment, one running sword, could kill him. But the odds had never se emed quite so bad.
The sleet and rain sluiced beneath the folds of his plaid, and the wet ground of the moor rooted his feet. Suddenly the mist parted, revealing a flash of a gold button here, a fluttering standard there, the steaming breath of a mou nted soldier's horse.
He looked to his left, and to his right, but for the first time in his life he did not know the men who were fighting beside him. His own men, his tenan ts and tacksmen and cousins, would be on the road to Carrymuir by now. Like him, they had seen the sea of ten thousand sassenachs, heard the roll ing cannons, listened to the conflicting commands given to the Highland ar my. They had seen the zealousness on Prince Tearlach's smooth face and had known that they simply could not win.
When, in the wee hours of the dawn, he had gone to strike his bargain with the Duke of Perth, he knew that his argument was purely a matter of logisti cs. He had agreed to lead his men, he told Perth. That did not mean he hims elf would be fighting.
Jodi Picoult
It was a technicality; any oath he'd made would naturally imply he'd be fig hting alongside, since no laird would expect his clan to do what he himself would not. But in this case, he was willing to bend the truth to protect t he others. And he knew when he offered the commander the choice of a ragtag band from Carrymuir or his own skill in combat, it wouldn't be much of a c hoice at all.
He wondered, as he slogged across the moor for the third time, his leg bleed ing from a lucky round of Sassenach grapeshot, whether any of these fools re alized he did not want to be here at all. He didn't want to face one more bl oody English soldier, or step on the still-heaving backs of Scots fallen fou r deep.
He wondered what God was like. He hoped that heaven resembled Scotland. He murmured the paternoster over and over to hear the sound of his own voice
. Seeing a Sassenach just turning his way, he lifted his left arm high in th e air. He brought the sword down at the man's neck, cleaving it wide, feelin g the hot blood melt the sleet on his chest.
Cameron MacDonald sank to his knees and vomited; tried to remind himself th at he had given his word to fight to the death. He did not much relish dyin g, but aye, it was a fair trade. He loved the people of his town
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