‘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.’
