Highland Obsession by Dawn Halliday Page B

plaid dress she’d worn to her wedding. When she returned to her seat before the hearth, her father nudged a glass filled with amber liquid against her elbow. “Would you like a nip, lass?”
    She raised her brows at the whisky, but then she saw Moira rotating a needle over the fire.
    Sorcha’s foot hurt terribly, and she winced at the thought of that needle piercing her tender flesh. They’d not see her falter, not if she could help it. She took the proffered glass and tossed back the burning drink in one big gulp.
    Chewing on her lip in concentration, Moira threaded the needle, then looked up at their brothers. “Charles, James. Hold her leg down, will you?”
    Sorcha closed her eyes, pretending she was somewhere else. Anywhere but in her husband’s room surrounded by her family, with thread being forced through the ticklish part on the bottom of her foot and her new husband staring dagger holes into the back of her head.
    No, she was at Camdonn Castle, down in her cave by herself. Day-dreaming.
    It was there she’d read the volumes of books she’d discovered in the library after she’d insisted to be taught to read like James. She’d found the books so exciting, so full of exotic places, adventure, and romance and . . . lust.
    It was there, in the cave, that Sorcha had discovered her body. All by herself, with the loch swishing at her toes, she’d learned how to make herself come. It took only a few moments. Two fingers rubbing vigorously above the part of her body Cam had later fully penetrated, and a ripple of delicious sensation would pulse through her whole being, making her gasp in delight. . . .
    “There now. All finished,” Moira said.
    Sorcha blew out a shaky breath, realizing she was trembling. The whisky swirled through her, muting the pain spiking up her leg from her arch. Resting her foot on her knee, she squinted at the tight loops of thread. They felt awful—scratchy and strange—but they were tiny and tight and expertly stitched.
    She smiled at her sister, impressed. “Well done, Moira.”
    The younger woman beamed at her with pride, but then her smile faltered. “I haven’t the charm stones Mary uses.”
    Sorcha shrugged. “Ah well, I think Mary’s skill is just that—skill. It has naught to do with charms or pebbles, I daresay. I’d not put too much faith in that nonsense.”
    Moira released a breath of relief. “I thought so too, but somehow the charm seems to finish it.” She narrowed her eyes a little, then rose and embraced Sorcha. “I know what we must do. I’ll be right back.”
    She turned away, disappearing momentarily into the other room. When she returned, Sorcha saw that she carried her aunt’s wedding gift, a kertch—the headdress of a married woman. Her aunt had embroidered a beautiful old-fashioned trinity knot on the snowy white linen.
    Moira knelt before her, and tears pricked Sorcha’s eyes. Sorcha and Alan had intended to return to Glenfinnan in the morning, where the wedding festivities would continue, and Sorcha and her sister had planned to have the kertch ceremony in their father’s cottage before they began.
    Given last night’s events, surely the celebrations would be canceled. Sorcha didn’t even know whether Alan would have her now.
    She groaned in despair. “Moira—”
    “You’re married, Sorcha.” Understanding softened her sister’s blue eyes. “We must do this.”
    “But—”
    Moira’s expression firmed. “No matter what happened last night. You’re married to Alan MacDonald, and it’s your duty to wear the kertch.”
    Moira could be stubborn at times. She had that look on her face now—her shoulders squared, her lips pressed into a line, and a challenge sparked in her eyes. The men were silent—apparently none of them dared counter her. Even Alan. She reminded Sorcha of their mother.
    Blinking back tears, Sorcha nodded.
    Moira smiled. “I wish Mama could be here to do this.”
    “So do I,” Sorcha whispered.
    Moira combed out