Witch of the Moors by Caine Carmen

Author:Caine, Carmen [Caine, Carmen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2015-12-20T08:00:00+00:00

The Weeping Path

Sorcha’s heart wrenched.

The man she’d come to know as Alec—the man with the charming, easy humor and the ever-present playful light gleaming in his green eyes—that man was gone. The man looking down upon her now was pale and shattered. Haunted. Scratches covered his strong hands. A cut graced his cheek. Mud and dried blood caked his shirt and plaid, the odor recalling the stench of her dream. Aye, he was so very clearly in shock from losing his brothers—and in the worst way for a Montgomery: by Cunningham treachery.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice impassive. Painfully distant.

Her heart plummeted to her toes. He still thought her a spy and a traitor. She closed her eyes, drawing upon her inner strength and whispered, “Aye.”

At least she was leaving Lady Margaret’s dreadful company. The hours had been torturous ones. Sorcha had delivered the stillborn babe, a boy, and had compassionately wrapped his tiny body while his mother lay sobbing in the bed—but not for the loss of her child, or her husband, or even her own Cunningham kin. It seemed she wept because Alec still lived, robbing her of title and the Montgomery lands.

“Whore!” Lady Margaret shrieked as Sorcha hobbled past. “Ye traitorous whore! There’s not a Cunningham who’ll stand by ye now.”

Ignoring her, Sorcha lifted her chin, limped to where Alec opened the chamber door, and stood to the side, allowing her to pass.

Walking was painful. Her inflamed foot burned with each step. At first, Alec checked his long stride to match her own, but within seconds, he caught her about the waist and flipped her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She couldn’t fault him. He wasn’t rough. But there was none of his previous playful tenderness or softness in the act. A shield of silence stood between them now, and that bothered her the most.

He bore her down the tower steps, through the inky darkness shrouding Lainshaw’s great hall, and to the antechamber behind it. The space was small, and under any other circumstances, she would have thought it cozily inviting with the fire’s red coals casting a rosy glow on the carved table, cushioned chair, and small tapestry hanging on the wall.

Alec made for the chair. Shoving it with his boot towards the fire, he dumped her into the cushions with an unceremonious plop as Taran suddenly emerged from the hall beyond. The highlander’s unreadable, sharp blue gaze lanced hers, but he said nothing as he braced himself in the doorway. As with Alec, he had yet to change his plaid, and the coppery scent of blood permeating the air made her nauseous.

‘Twas the stench of her dream. Ach, her dream. Every facet of it had come true.

She shuddered.

Refusing to look her way, Alec grabbed a taper from the table and, crouching before the fire, held the wick to the coals. It sputtered to life with a spitting hiss that sounded like thunder in the oppressive silence. Still saying nothing, he placed

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