Chapter Ten

The vow was harder to keep than she had anticipated. On the first leg of the journey, Alasdair seemed just as content to travel in silence as she was, but by the time darkness had completely overtaken the sky, and her belief that they'd make camp came and went as Alasdair continued to drive his horse hard through the Highlands, she started to suspect either he was inhuman or purposely not stopping so she'd be forced to ask him to.

She made up her mind not to speak, no matter how desperate she got, but by the time the sun peeked up from the horizon once more, her eyes burned and her head pounded from lack of sleep. Her throat felt like charred wood, and her belly protested mightily at the lack of food and drink. Although, if she was to drink anything in this moment, she'd likely burst with the need to relieve herself.

When he rode them over a particularly rough patch of terrain and guided his destrier to jump a fallen limb and land with a thud, she could take no more. "Stop!" she cried out.

"What say ye?" he asked, his tone all innocent deception.

"I said stop! I need to relieve myself."

He brought his destrier to a sudden, jarring stop, and Margaret wasted no time dismounting. She was striding away from Alasdair and his horse before Calan had even brought his beast to a halt. She did not hear Alasdair behind her as she headed for cover, so she stole a glance over her shoulder as she neared a row of bushes. He raised his hand as if to let her know he saw her, and she swung away from his hot stare, her face flaming with embarrassment.

When she was finished, she trudged back to where they were already making camp. Alasdair stood in her path, legs spread and arms crossed over his broad chest. His black hair curled at his neck, and his bright blue eyes held a look she could not decipher, nor, she decided churlishly, did she wish to. What did she care what a selfish man like him thought?

She made up her mind to continue ignoring him and looked straight to Calan. "Are we sleeping here?"

"Aye," Calan said as he gathered wood for a fire.

Her stomach rumbled as she watched him. She was afraid to take her gaze off Calan and look at Alasdair, because the one brief glimpse she'd gotten of him had caused an odd heat to pool in her belly and between her thighs. She ran the tip of her toe back and forth in the dirt, hoping Calan would offer a comment about food, so when he didn't, she finally said, "How can I aid in preparing the camp? Shall I put up my shelter?"

"There's nae a need," he replied, motioning to where Alasdair was some distance away setting up a makeshift shelter. "Alasdair is doing it."

"Oh. Well..." She supposed this was Alasdair's way of offering a gesture of peace between them. Not that she really wanted to take it, but she was starting to get desperately hungry and thirsty, and Calan had turned his back on her. She trudged toward Alasdair, took a breath for patience, and said, "I can set up my own shelter, if ye like."

"Nay," he said without looking at her. The man was pulling the plaids tight, and each of his muscles seemed to ripple with his every movement.

"I mean, if ye need to go about hunting or building yer own shelter, I am capable of doing mine."

He stopped and slowly rose from the crouched position he had been in, then he faced her. Her blasted traitor heart turned over in her chest as his gaze caught hers. "Ye misunderstand me, Margaret." The way her name rolled off his tongue made it almost palatable. Almost.

"Please call me Sorcha," she said, and when he frowned and opened his mouth as if to argue, she said, "I have been Sorcha all my life. I ken I was born Margaret Stewart, but I do nae feel like Margaret Stewart."

He nodded. "The time is nae yet right to let yer past go completely."

She suspected that statement could have applied to both of them, but she pressed her lips together. "How's that?" she managed, very glad her shocking attraction to this man—her captor—was not apparent in her tone because her body was reacting in a way she'd never experienced. Her breasts had grown heavy, her nipples hard, and there was a pain deep in her core near the spot that brought her pleasure alone in her bed at night.

"Ye will be sleeping with me."

She jerked at that pronouncement. "I most certainly will nae!" she bit out, and then she feared she had misjudged Alasdair worse than any man before. She'd called him selfish, but secretly, she had harbored doubt. She'd called him dishonorable, but in truth, he had shown several moments of valor. And yet, he'd also taken her against her will, so it was not so simple as to just trust that he would not prove just as selfish, just as base as all other men she knew. "Need I remind ye that I'm to be the wife of a great laird? I doubt he'd take kindly to learning ye ravished me."

Alasdair scoffed. "Ye flatter yerself, Sorcha. Ye'll be sleeping with me because I dunnae trust ye nae to run in the night like afore."

Embarrassment and annoyance filled her. "So I'm supposed to believe ye dunnae want me? Ye will nae try anything with me? I'm just supposed to lie down by ye and close my eyes to welcome sleep?"

"That's right," he said, tugging on the last plaid he'd hung. "Pretend I'm nae there. That's what I'll be doing with ye, and it will nae take much effort."

She knew she should be relieved, but her pride was wounded. Still, she'd rather dine with a snake than reveal that to him. "Well, it certainly will nae take much effort from me, either. If I were going to welcome a man into my life, I'd nae ever be so foolish as to invite one in who has no qualms about forcing a lass into a marriage she does nae want."

Anger rolled over Alasdair's face like a storm cloud. He clenched his jaw, opened and shut his mouth, and finally said, "Well, 'tis a good thing I've nary a wish to be invited." Her stomach growled loudly. He arched an eyebrow at her. "Is there anything else ye'd like to discuss?"

Blast the devil of a man! He knew she was hungry, but she would starve before begging him to feed her, and since her bow and arrow were back at the inn, she had no way to hunt, nor any supplies. Left with no other recourse, she shoved back the plaid he'd just fastened to some low-hanging branches, and she entered the makeshift shelter. There wasn't even a blanket on the ground! Misery filled her, but she lay down, curled into a tight ball, and glared at the side of the plaid. On the other side, his shadow loomed.

"Do ye need anything?" he called, baiting her. He was trying to get her to show weakness.

"Nae anything except for ye to sleep somewhere else."

"Well, seeing as how I'm about to hunt some dinner and then settle in for a nice long supper and drink, I imagine ye'll be long asleep before I return, so ye'll nae even ken I'm here. But, Sorcha, dunnae try to escape. I'll come for ye if ye flee time and again."

She tried to imagine what it would feel like to have someone declare they'd always come for you because they loved you so much. A sharp longing blossomed in her chest that scared her. She'd thought she could live her life without love, but she was longing for it, and she'd likely never know the sweet taste of true love. She'd be wed to a stranger.

For a moment, she imagined Alasdair saying those same words because he loved her desperately, and she hated herself for the weakness. No, no, she hated him for making her imagine such a thing. "I despise ye," she muttered, thinking he'd gone.

"Aye," he said, surprising her, "I ken it well, lass."

She lay there a long while after silence had fallen, turning his words over and over in her head and examining his tone. There was something in his voice that niggled at her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Fatigue finally overtook her hunger, and she slept.

"Are ye going to stay out here all night?" Calan asked, standing up and stretching.

"I was thinking upon it."

"Ye'll nae sleep out here because ye'll worry the lass will escape again."

Alasdair knew that well, but a sleepless night might be worth it to avoid the torture of lying next to her. She hated him, and that bothered him. Furthermore, it irritated him that he cared.

"Ye're avoiding her because ye're drawn to her," Calan said with annoying clarity.

"Do ye think I should find a different way to save the clan?" Alasdair asked instead of answering Calan's statement. He was drawn to her, but he'd avoided thinking about it. This unforeseen, unexpected attraction did not matter. She was meant for another. It was one thing to consider not forcing her to go to her brother, but it would be quite another to... to what?

Therein lay the other part of the problem. What would he do with Sorcha if he didn't take her to her brother? He couldn't in good conscience return her to her da. If he kept her at his home, he knew his attraction would grow, and he'd want to bed her. And despite her protestations to the contrary, whether she wanted a husband or not, she needed someone to protect her, care for her, and love her.

Alasdair could protect her as a clan member, but that wasn't the sort of protection the lass deserved. She deserved the undying devotion of a man who would give his life for her. Scour the earth for her. Lose his ability to love another at the loss of her. He could offer none of those things to her. An old familiar wave of grief washed over him, and he groaned.

"Are ye all right?" Calan's voice broke the hold the past had on Alasdair.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I was lost in thoughts of the past ." And the present. But if he admitted that, Calan would draw conclusions that had no place being drawn. Margaret, no, he had to think of her as Sorcha as she wished, was not some lass who was going to lift his sadness and make his heart warm again, though admittedly, she did make other parts of him very warm, and he did have the urge to laugh a great deal around her, but that was because the lass was made of sass and mounds of pride.

"There's still the option to wed Elspeth," Calan offered.

"Ye ken that's nae an option I want to take."

"Well, then yer only other option to gain the coin we need is to take Margaret to the Stewarts. I dunnae ken why ye're even puzzling over it."

"She wishes to still be called Sorcha," Alasdair said.

"Are we bowing to her wishes then?" Calan asked.

"Aye, this one," Alasdair replied, shoving a hand through his hair as he thought upon what Calan had said. He didn't know why he was so bothered by it, either, except for the fact that the lass had made it abundantly clear she didn't want to return there. Mayhap her wishes should not concern him, but they did. "Go on and take yer rest," he said to Calan. "We'll rise early to continue on with the journey to the Stewart stronghold."

"I'm wagering we will nae," Calan said with a snicker.

"Mark my words, we will. Given the two choices, the lesser evil is to take a lass to a good home rather than wed a woman I'll nae ever feel anything for because I can nay longer feel."

"That's nae true. Ye feel something for the lass or we'd nae even be having this conversation," Calan said before turning on his heel and striding away.

Alasdair leaned back against the log and stared at the crackling fire. He felt desire for her and guilt at feeling such a thing. His softer emotions, the ones he'd once possessed that led him to love Mariot, had been permanently frozen by her death, and no matter how hot this unexpected desire for Sorcha may burn, it was not going to thaw the part of his heart that had been destroyed by Mariot's loss.

A gust of wind hit him, and a chill swept over him despite the fire. That coldness reminded him he'd not left his plaid or a blanket for Sorcha as he'd meant to. He rose, went to his beast to fetch a blanket, and then strode to the shelter where she was either sleeping or lying awake and freezing. "Sorcha?" He waited and no response came, so he pulled back the plaid hanging down and found her curled in a tight ball on her side, shivering but asleep.

He kneeled beside her and started to put the blanket over her, but then he paused. Moonlight filtered through the spaces where the plaids did not meet and streamed over her so that he could see her fairly well. Her hitched skirts displayed her shapely legs to her thighs, but he didn't let his gaze linger there. She was unaware of him looking at her in her sleep, so he felt it dishonorable. He moved his gaze upward toward her face, but to get there, he had to inch his way up the curves of her waist and shoulders, and along the slender column of her neck. She was exquisitely beautiful, but it was the expression on her face that hit him like a gut punch. Her brow was furrowed, and her bottom lip was sucked in, as if even in sleep she was troubled. He settled the blanket over her, hoping it would smooth her brow and release her lip, but instead, she moaned.

It was a noise of fear, and when she did it again and began to thrash, he thought she must be having a bad dream. Mariot had experienced bad dreams, and the only way she would settle was for him to hold her tight. But this woman was not his wife, and chasing away her nightmares was not his responsibility. He stared at Sorcha for several breaths as she thrashed and moaned, but he knew he could not simply leave her like this. He settled behind her, wrapped his arm around her and drew her toward his chest to hold her tight.

She stilled instantly and fell back into a sound sleep, and he lay behind her fighting back desire he had no right to feel. It was not the calm wanting he'd felt for Mariot. This need inside him was like an all-consuming storm that had come out of nowhere, whereas what he'd felt for Mariot had been a slow-building thing that had eventually burned bright. They were different; of course they were. One was love and desire, and this... this was just desire for a woman he would never have, for a woman who would soon be wed to another man.

To his surprise, jealousy hardened in his chest. He released her and started to put distance between them, but she curled back into a ball with a groan, so he closed the distance once more and wrapped his arm around her again. He was acutely aware of the soft roundness of her bottom pressed against him, the smoothness of her skin, and the scent of heather that lingered in her silky hair. He brought his nose close to the back of her head and drank in her scent. He'd forgotten how a woman's scent could affect him, as no woman's scent had ever affected him but Mariot's.

He squeezed his eyes shut on the memories of all he had lost. He didn't understand why being around Sorcha was making his past hammer at him. He'd managed to shelve the memories since Mariot's death, but now they were rising like ghosts. The question was whether they were there to haunt him or to be exorcised. But it was a question that would have to wait. Even with the hot embrace of need gripping him, sleep tugged like a tincture he could not go another moment without.