Free Highland Obsession by Dawn Halliday Page A

on the craggy rocks below.
    Overcome by the hopelessness of her situation, she’d collapsed on the bed and wept. For the loss of Cam, of her reputation, of the carefree life she’d lived before tonight. For her hopes of a future with Alan.
    Staring at the door, she realized she hadn’t heard the smooth sound of the bolt sliding into place, nor had she heard the solid click as it was locked. Knowing Cam, it wasn’t likely that he’d neglected to bar her in, but then again he could be even deeper in his cups by now. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gone directly from her to his whisky. He’d looked like a man who could use another drink.
    But if he was drunk, why hadn’t he come in and ravished her? Given his earlier behavior, that was what she’d expected. The man made no sense at all.
    She continued staring at the door, every nerve in her body on edge, waiting for the telltale sound of him locking her in again. But there was only silence.
    Could it be possible? Could she just walk out of here? Cam would have guards posted at the entrance gates and in the guardhouses speckled over the grounds, but they wouldn’t hinder her. She’d grown up at Camdonn Castle. She knew a better way out.
    She thrust the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Gooseflesh rose across her skin, and she shuddered. Though she’d be wet and chilled through by the end of this night, she might as well try to keep covered.
    She stood, padded over the thick carpet to Cam’s wardrobe, and opened the door. The hinges creaked loudly, and she stood still for a long moment, waiting. When nobody stormed in wondering at the noise, she turned her attention to the piles of clean, crisply folded shirts, stockings, and drawers. Surely he possessed more clothing than all the men of the glen combined.
    She grabbed the top shirt and pulled it on, faltering as she smelled Cam on it—musky and male, with a hint of sandalwood spice. Her body heated instantly in reaction. Her flesh had been too well trained, but she was grimly determined to untrain it. Rolling the sleeves up to her wrists, she decided it was useless to try a pair of breeches or trews. Stockings were also out of the question. She’d never be able to keep them on. Cam’s shirt covered her to her shins, and it, along with the plaid, would have to do until she arrived at Alan’s cottage. Her new home, if her husband would still have her.
    Sorcha glanced at the door. She should run. If there was any possibility of escaping from Cam, she must take it.
    It was not regret that tightened her chest. Surely it was something else. Anger. Yes, it was certainly anger. Not fear of never seeing Cam again. Not pity for how her escape would make him feel. Certainly not that. The wretched man didn’t deserve her pity.
    Anger was the only emotion she could encourage, the only feeling she could accept with a clear conscience.
    Pressing her lips together, Sorcha walked to the bed to wrap the plaid around her body. She found a simple iron pin in a chest beside the wardrobe, and she used it to attach the edges of the plaid at her chest. Then she walked to the door leading to the hallway. It glided open without a sound.
    She glanced both ways. The passageway was dark, lit only by the dim candlelight cast from Cam’s room behind her. All was quiet. By this hour, everyone had gone to bed save the guards on overnight duty. Yet dawn couldn’t be far away. Soon the castle would be abustle with servants going about their morning chores.
    Closing the door behind her, Sorcha scuttled down the hall on tiptoe. Except for the creak of a floorboard that nearly made her leap out of her skin, she moved silently on bare feet.
    Once down the stairs, she rounded the corner to enter the entry hall. As quietly as possible, she drew the bolt on the front door and let herself out into the chill of predawn.
    Now it would be dangerous. She cast a glance at the barracks, thankfully still dark. Yet some of the men