“He’s my friend,” Sorcha said quietly. “Cam is a man of passion. Not of numbers.”
“Say that to him,” Ceana returned. “And then listen to him deny you into the ground.”
“He didn’t learn.” Sorcha’s shoulders drooped. “Just before he left, he came to Alan and me. He was going to England to find his wife. His love.”
“Did he tell you he sought love?”
“No, but . . . I assumed . . . Oh, Ceana, you must convince him to abandon these thoughts of the English girl. He wants you. I know he does. I saw you with him when I came to Camdonn Castle. His eyes followed you everywhere.”
Ceana shrugged. “It is too late.”
Even if it weren’t, she’d never pursue Cam in such a way.
Never
. “He’ll be miserable married to that girl.”
“No. He cares for her.”
Sorcha’s green eyes widened. “Caring doesn’t equal happiness, Ceana. Nor does it equal passion!”
Ceana gave her a wry smile. “I know it doesn’t. I’m merely saying that I believe they will be compatible. They’ve a mutual respect.”
“Foolish man. Why did he choose her? Why did he go to England at all, when the right woman for him would have appeared here just a few months later?” Sorcha slapped her hand to her thigh. “I shall never understand that man.”
“Understand this, Sorcha.” Ceana reached out to take her friend’s hand. “I am not the woman for Cam. I never have been, never will be. Even if . . . if something more had happened between us, it could never be. Never. I am a MacNab.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I cannot marry. Ever.”
“Why?”
Ceana pursed her lips and looked away.
“You make no sense, Ceana. Neither of you makes any sense at all!”
With that, Sorcha sprang to her feet. But she stopped instantly, her mouth open, a strange look on her face. “Ah . . .”
“What is it?”
Sorcha closed her mouth, licked her lips. “A big gush . . . fluid . . . running down my legs.” She took several short, quick breaths.
“It’s all right,” Ceana said mildly. “Let me see.”
Leaning forward, she lifted Sorcha’s skirts and breathed out a sigh. “It’s your water, Sorcha. It’s broken.”
“Am . . . am I having the baby now?”
“Not necessarily. You can still carry on for several days.”
“Is it dangerous to the—” Sorcha let out a strangled cry and doubled over.
Ceana placed her hand flat on the woman’s stomach and felt the tightening bands over her abdomen. She didn’t want to worry Sorcha, for of course this could just be a reactionary contraction due to her water breaking.
When it was over, Ceana led Sorcha to her bed and had her sit on its edge. Five minutes later, another contraction came over her, and Ceana laid her down and checked her cervix to find it halfway dilated.
She opened the door and yelled for Margaret, who came hurrying up. Her eyes widened when she saw Sorcha curled on the bed in the throes of another contraction.
“I want . . . I want my sister,” Sorcha said, gasping. “I need Moira.”
“Go get Alan and send someone to fetch Moira Stewart and the midwife from Glenfinnan,” Ceana ordered the gaping woman. “And hurry. The baby’s coming.”
When the castle quieted, Elizabeth slipped behind the tapestry and escaped down the secret passage. Tonight she moved like a dark wraith flitting through the night, covering the distance between the keep and the stables with alacrity.
Rob had left the stable door open, and she slipped in and bounded up the stairs, excitement making her heart beat quickly and blood flush her cheeks warm.
Standing at a counter before the window, he looked up at her when she tumbled in, breathless, and his smile made her light-headed.
“I’m glad you came.”
She returned his smile, pushing the hair out of her face. But as soon as she met his eyes, she looked away, suddenly shy.
“How is your maid?”
The question brought her back down to earth with a crash. “She is healing slowly, but—”
“But?”
She sighed. How to explain how she felt each time she saw Bitsy wince? How to relate the guilt that overcame her when Bitsy hobbled out of her bedchamber?
“She is fine,” she said in a quiet voice. “She will be all right.”
“Ah.” He removed his stained gloves, and Elizabeth saw that he’d been using a dirk to work strips of leather—some task pertaining to his horses.
He walked toward her until he reached the center of the room. “Your servant will be all right, but will you?”
He understood. Every time Uncle Walter hurt Bitsy, he opened a wound in her soul. None of the wounds healed; they only festered and grew.
But Robert MacLean was a soothing balm to those sores. The only person she’d ever known who made her feel so safe, so human. He was her medicine, her drug. He could heal her.
Her throat went dry from anticipation. She’d made a decision earlier tonight. Her plan might lead Rob to hate her forever, and it would certainly put her forthcoming marriage to Cam in jeopardy if he caught her. If her uncle caught her . . . She shivered. He simply must never find out.
She took a huge risk, but the compulsion was impossible to resist. Nothing could stop her. Despite the niggling fear of discovery, she couldn’t stop herself.
She was madly besotted with Robert MacLean. The force of her need for him was too powerful to deny. When she was apart from him, every muscle in her body grew restless and achy for him. Panic threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think. His presence calmed her, cleared her mind. He grounded her.
“Rob . . .” she choked. She licked her lips and tried again. “I . . . I won’t suffer. I don’t. Not when I am with you. When I am with you, I feel . . .” Her voice dwindled, and she stared at him hopelessly, watching his face darken. “I heal,” she finished in a whisper.
“Elizabeth . . .” The warning was evident in his tone. “Don’t.”
But she’d toed off her slippers. Her dark wool cloak slipped to the floor. Her shaking fingers tugged at the strings tying the neckline of her shift. She dropped her hands, curling them over her legs, pulling the shift higher, exposing her calves, her knees, her thighs. The triangle of hair between her legs, her stomach, her small breasts. She tugged her shift over her head and tossed it aside.
She stared at him, knowing every part of her body was flushed and quivering. “I’m not a virgin,” she whispered.
She’d bedded Tom the footman. She’d tumbled him on the river-bank near Purefoy Abbey. But that was different. That was because she craved the contact, the human connection, because she was curious, and because there was some inexplicable force that drove her to self-ruin. That had been a rash, impulsive decision. There had been none of the emotion, none of the intensity she felt now.
“Elizabeth.” His voice sounded strangled. He kept his amber gaze focused on her face. “Put your clothes back on.”
“No.”
He stood rooted to the spot. “You are to be married.”
“It is you I want.”
He glanced at the window. The shutters were closed, but the window looked over the keep, where Cam lay in his bed, most likely asleep.
“He is my brother.” His words rasped with the internal battle he waged. She understood exactly what he felt, for she’d waged the same battle earlier tonight.
“I know.”
“We cannot betray him.”
“I don’t want to, but I must. We must. We haven’t any choice.” She stepped toward him. “I . . . need you.”
It was a pleading whisper, an entreaty. Couldn’t he see she’d stripped herself bare in so many ways?
“Kiss me,” she whispered. She daren’t step any closer. “I need you, Robert MacLean,” she breathed.
Please, please, please
. She’d never needed anything more wholly, more violently. Every drop of blood in her body craved his intimate touch. “Please.”
“I . . . can’t.” He sounded pained. Miserable. He tore his gaze from her.
The blood that had raged through her veins moments ago solidified into ice. “Please.”
“Get dressed. Go back to your bed.”
“Rob—”
“Go, Elizabeth.”
With every word he uttered, his conviction to turn her away grew more solid. She stood frozen. The ridiculous idea of ordering him to take her to bed—like she’d ordered Tom—crossed her mind, and she gave herself a mental slap in the face. Robert MacLean didn’t take orders from her.
Her vision blurred. Frantically, she searched for her shift among the items she’d scattered on the floor. She dropped to her knees, grabbed it, fumbled at it to turn it right side out. Rob knelt beside her, but she tried—impossibly—to ignore him as she jerked at the uncooperative fabric.
“Elizabeth . . .”
“Don’t speak to me,” she said dully, finally finding the armholes. She yanked it over her head and thrust her arms into the sleeves. “I will leave.”
She’d never felt so worthless. She didn’t know what to do. Where to go. How could she return to that room in the tower where her uncle had beaten Bitsy? That tower room was a prison, cold and dank, like her heart, like her soul. She thought Rob would set her free, but he was unwilling. He didn’t want her.
He laid her cloak over her shoulders, and she grabbed the ties, jerking away from his touch. Blinking hard, she rose and shoved her feet into her shoes.
“Elizabeth—”
But she flew down the narrow stairs. Horses nickered as she fled past the stalls, and cool air collided with her body when she threw open the door to the stable.
Where would she go now?
Cam couldn’t sleep. Ceana had occupied his thoughts since he’d gone to bed, and he couldn’t shake her free. He was too warm, the air too close. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
He rose and pulled on a pair of breeches and a coat; then he slipped outside and down the stairs.
The night was cooler than he’d expected. He hadn’t buttoned his coat, and clean, fresh air washed through the thin linen of his shirt and over his skin. It refreshed him, revived him. He strode across the courtyard and passed the stables, hearing the shuffling sounds of the animals inside.
Everything was serene, quiet. Beyond the guardhouse to the north, the loch sparkled in the starlight. This was his home. He loved this place. He couldn’t fathom why he’d spent so much time avoiding it when he was young. Perhaps because his father was here, spewing venom on his only son whenever he was near. And, Cam realized, on his own people as well. It was his father’s legacy he battled now, as much as his own.
Cam wandered down the path leading toward the guardhouse. A dim light flickered from inside, where the man on guard gazed out over the loch.
A frisson of unease crackled through him. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel so comfortable here. People existed who wanted him dead, and he wouldn’t be surprised if some of those people inhabited his lands.
Cam stopped in the shadow of an imported tree that had been coaxed to an unnatural height by his mother when he was a boy. She’d loved to putter about the grounds, making certain everything was beautiful and welcoming, and he’d always trailed after her, playing in the grass and dirt. In the years since her death, his father hadn’t taken such care with the grounds, and now Camdonn Castle was a forbidding place.
Yet this tree remained, larger than ever and still healthy. He leaned against the trunk, closing his eyes and trying to recall images of his long-lost mother. She was dark haired, like he was, thin and lithe, with a ready smile and a tempestuous demeanor. She’d scolded him endlessly, but she’d loved him, and always showed it with embraces and fond words.
When she knew she was sick, she’d searched for just the right governess for him. When she’d died, not long after finding Mrs. Jones, Cam had clung to the older woman until his father had ordered her away.
A soft crunching noise drew Cam from his thoughts. He opened his eyes to see a dark shadow sprinting across the lawn. The woman held up her skirts as she ran.
The moon emerged from behind a cloud, glinting over blond hair.
Elizabeth! Cam stiffened. What in God’s name could she be doing outside this late at night?
She slowed, coming close to the edge of the cliff and walking alongside it, looking for something. She paused between two bushes, and then she crouched down and disappeared over the side.
Cam froze, gripping the tree trunk.
What the hell?
There was a mooring for boats at the base of the cliff, and one could climb down the rocks protruding from the cliff face if one was careful. The climb was far less dangerous in daylight, for the rocks were slippery and surely invisible on even a moonlit night such as this one. How could dainty Elizabeth make her way down safely? Further, how could she know about the rough stepping-stones to begin with?