Highland Obsession by Dawn Halliday Page A

grateful she hurt—it meant she would be all right. If her feet had gone numb, she’d have greater cause for worry.
    Nobody came out to greet her, and she paused at the closed wooden door, now cocked haphazardly on its hinges. As of yesterday, this was her home, but she’d spent only a short amount of time here. It didn’t feel like home. Not like Camdonn Castle did.
    Bracing herself with a deep breath, Sorcha pushed on the door, and it swung open crookedly.
    The first person she saw was her father. His head snapped up from where he’d rested it on his arms at the table. He lunged to his feet. “Sorcha! Thank God.”
    People seemed to emerge from the walls themselves. Her sister and brothers. Last of all, Alan, standing at the doorway to the bedroom, his eyes narrowed like blue arrow slits.
    Uncomfortably aware she was dressed in naught but a damp, finely tailored man’s shirt and a rucked-up, dirty plaid, she straightened her spine and nodded at her father. “Da.”
    Then she bravely met her husband’s gaze.
    Alan had changed. The gentle, kind expressions of last night had hardened to stone.
    “What happened, lass?” Her father strode toward her. She never thought to see so many emotions rage across his face. He’d seemed melancholy yesterday at her wedding, but today there was so much more. Anger, fright, annoyance, disgust, worry, concern. He stood before her and reached out to clasp her shoulders. He shook her lightly.
    Sorcha licked her lips. “I escaped from Camdonn Castle.” When his facial expression didn’t change, she added, “By way of the loch.”
    Everyone stood still, staring at her, expecting her to say more.
    “Nothing happened,” she blurted. “The earl didn’t harm me.”
    In a blink, Moira nudged Sorcha all the way inside and closed the door as best as it could be closed behind her. “Oh, Sorcha. You must be half dead with cold. Let me have a look at those poor feet, then.”
    Her teeth chattering, Sorcha let her sister lead her to a chair beside the fire. Moira rattled off instructions for warm water and rags while her brothers fetched what she needed, and Sorcha thanked the Lord she hadn’t been asked to offer more details. Yet.
    Someone draped a clean plaid over her shoulders, and she wondered whether her father or her husband had done it. By the time she collected enough strength to turn around, both men had faded into the room’s shadows, but James stood behind her. He curled his hand on her arm and bent down to her ear. “I’ll kill him for this, I swear it.”
    Alarmed, she glanced back toward her father and Alan. They were quiet behind her, but she could feel the heat of their gazes—the concerned father and the . . . what? How was her husband feeling? What did Alan think about all this?
    She gazed dully at the fire as Moira cleaned the cuts and bruises with painstaking slowness. It hurt more than Sorcha had expected, and she gripped the edge of the table, clenching her teeth against the pain. Finally, Moira held her right foot high, inspecting the underside. No wonder it had bled so profusely—a rock had sliced a gash right across the center of her arch. Moira’s forehead creased in a frown. “This’ll need stitches.”
    “Can you do that, Moira?” Sorcha looked from her bloody foot up into her sister’s freckled face.
    Her sister nodded. “Aye. Mary MacNab was here earlier, and she taught me how.”
    Sorcha’s heart began to race. “Mary MacNab was here?” She forced herself not to look at Alan. Had Cam’s henchmen hurt him?
    “Aye.” Moira flicked a glance beyond Sorcha’s shoulder. “Alan was cut as well, but we sewed his back up nice and tight.”
    She felt weak. Nausea boiled in her stomach. Alan had been injured because of her. She looked at her sister in despair. “I—I need to dress first.”
    “Of course.” Moira supported her as they withdrew into the bedroom, where Moira helped her with her stays, shift, and petticoats, and the striped blue