Chapter 8
The preparations for the cèilidh began with a little chaos. However, it was not the chaos that came with the tasks per se.
Situations like these weren’t new for Sorcha. She had managed a castle before, oversaw servants, and had transformed a hall from bare stone to splendor without breaking a sweat.
But it was different this time. She could feel it. It wasn’t because of the workload, but because of him.
Her hands were busy sorting ribbons meant to decorate the wooden pillars of the Great Hall.
Despite how important it was, her mind was nowhere near the task.
It had no interest in fabric, flowers, or lanterns.
Rather, it only lingered stubbornly on a single moment, replaying it far too many times since dawn.
It was absurd how acutely she could still feel it. How his warm breath had brushed her lips. How he had held her, touched the nape of her neck as though his hand didn’t belong anywhere else.
And now that she remembered how his lips had pressed against hers, she suppressed a whimper. Apparently, she failed.
Yet, the worst part was the hunger he had left in his wake. She had never felt this before, had never badly wished for something that had always been so frightful.
Longing. Breathless longing. That was what had been left in her pounding heart the moment he had released her and walked away.
Then, longing turned into chaos, so unbearable that she could hardly focus on her daily tasks.
“What is wrong with ye, Sorcha?” she had asked herself far too many times. Because she had not been this helpless.
But that wasn’t even the most unsettling part. It was how she had stood there and let it happen. Had leaned into him without thought, without caution, without remembering all the reasons she was supposed to pull away.
She had never kissed a man before him, and yet her first kiss had been… like that.
Honestly, it was better than she had ever imagined. Better than those foolish daydreams she had. Kissing William had felt like fire and restraint in a tangled mess. It felt like seduction and a warning trapped together.
She flushed just thinking of it.
Sorcha shifted the basket against her hip and forced herself to breathe. Servants hurried past her; everyone was focused on their tasks. It felt like she was the only one trapped in a daydream called William MacLean.
“Me Lady.” Poppy’s soft voice cut into her thoughts.
Sorcha started, nearly dropping the basket. However, she caught it just in time, before placing it gently on the floor and straightening up.
“Yes?” she answered, almost too sharply.
Poppy didn’t say a word at first. Sorcha could already feel her maid’s amusement without turning around.
“Ye’ve been woolgathering all morning,” Poppy remarked, moving closer.
“I havenae,” Sorcha replied, then cleared her throat. “I am merely thinkin’ ahead.”
“Aye,” Poppy said lightly. “Ahead of what, exactly?”
Sorcha sighed, dismissing the maid’s curiosity. Perhaps because it was too embarrassing to answer.
She picked up her basket again and began to walk, her steps brisk. “Less talkin’, more movin’. We still need to take this to the east hall.”
Poppy fell into step beside her, but her gaze remained curious. “If thinkin’ ahead makes ye blush like a bairn caught stealin’ bannocks, I’d hate to see what happens when ye actually stop to think.”
Sorcha’s ears almost burned. Blush? If it were that easy to see, then she really needed to get a grip on herself.
“That is enough,” she muttered, not having any other riposte. “The hall willnae decorate itself.”
Poppy dutifully fell silent.
Together, they rounded the corner to the inner courtyard. Sunlight streamed across the stone, warming their faces. Sorcha was grateful for it; anything else to blame for the heat that had crept into her face.
They were crossing the courtyard when familiar movement caught her eye. A figure, unmistakably male. Just like the previous times, it was gone before she could call out.
Sorcha rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh, tightening her grip on the basket. Poppy, however, stopped short.
“Did ye see that?”
“Aye,” Sorcha replied flatly.
“Well, he’s nae subtle,” Poppy said, craning her neck toward the archway. “Skulkin’ about like a thief who’s proud of it.”
Sorcha kept walking. She did not need to know who it had been.
Myles.
He had been everywhere today. Not just today, but also yesterday and the day before.
He had been near the kitchens when she inspected the supplies, by the stables when she checked the deliveries, lurking at the edge of the hall whenever she paused to give instructions.
Near enough, but never close enough to speak, and always far enough to disappear when needed.
Like a shadow, he would appear, vanish, and return.
“I daenae ken why he keeps doin’ that,” Poppy continued, lowering her voice. “If he’s supposed to watch, he could at least stand still and do it properly.”
Sorcha’s mouth tightened. She was not sure whether to laugh or sigh again.
“I have nay idea either,” she said after a moment. “But it is clear that me every step is being watched and measured, as if I were the threat.”
Poppy stopped again, her expression sobering. “Why is that, me Lady? Do ye owe him something?”
Sorcha turned to face her. She knew her overly worried maid could get. “I have done nothin’ wrong,” she stated quietly. “Yet I cannae move without seein’ him lingerin’ somewhere nearby.”
Poppy shifted on her feet, glancing around before leaning closer. “Are ye certain it’s wise for us to stay?”
The question wasn’t supposed to land as hard as it did, because it evoked William’s warning.
“Ye think this place a home, but ye’re in a nest of snakes that would so easily bite ye once ye’re deemed weak.”
It had sounded both like concern and a made-up story just to make her leave. But what if he had been serious?
Sorcha’s chest tightened. If he had not been exaggerating, then certainly this place she had claimed as a sanctuary might have been dangerous long before his return.
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head as though forcing the thought away.
“Nay,” she uttered, as firmly as she could. “I will be fine.”
That did nothing to erase the doubt on Poppy’s face.
Her maid searched her face, but all Sorcha offered was a defiant expression. “We have work to do,” she reminded her briskly. “The cèilidh willnae organize itself.”
Poppy hesitated, then nodded. “Aye. Ye’re right.”
They turned and walked on, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly.
And though Sorcha kept her gaze ahead, she could not shake the feeling that even now, someone was watching.
By the time the light had turned golden, Sorcha could feel the stress of the day in her bones.
The preparations had been quite tiring but fulfilling. The servants had been dismissed, some retreating with tired smiles despite their aching backs.
Dusk covered the land in fading hues of gold and for the first time that day, Sorcha found herself alone. She had left the halls and wandered until her feet carried her to a familiar path where the air was cooler.
The loch was quieter that night, its surface smooth as glass. The sight was exactly what she needed then. Lowering herself onto a flat stone near the shore, she exhaled slowly and let her thoughts wander.
Her mind flashed back to her father. The days had been rough. As much as she had pretended not to give it enough thought, she still blamed herself sometimes.
The Laird is probably dead because of me.
She tried not to entertain such thoughts, but it was difficult.
Slowly, her gaze drifted across the water, before William’s face flashed before her. Instantly, fear rose in her chest.
“What will happen if I let him get too close?” she whispered to herself.
Of course, for him, it would mean crossing a line. She was his uncle’s widow, after all. It was something that should never occur. But for her, it would mean more than crossing a line. It would mean his life.
A shiver ran up her spine at that thought.
She pressed her palms against the stone. Yet, despite her fear of history repeating itself, that foolish curiosity refused to abate.
Before her thoughts could wander further, a thud sounded nearby. Sorcha stiffened instantly. But then she sprang to her feet the next second. Quickly, she bent to snatch up a fallen branch from the ground. It was not much of a weapon, but she held it like a sword.
“I’ve had enough of this,” she called out, breathless. “If ye’re goin’ to lurk around, ye might as well show yerself.”
Silence answered her.
She took a cautious step forward, lifting the branch higher. “I am warnin’ ye—”
Almost immediately, laughter cut through the tension. The sound was warm and unmistakably familiar.
Her shoulders sagged in immediate relief.
“Put that thing down before ye hurt yerself,” Caelan said, emerging from between the trees with an infuriating grin. “I’d hate to explain to the clan how ye were slain by a branch.”
She heaved a sigh. Then, with a sharp huff, she tossed the branch aside. It landed uselessly among the reeds.
“Ye arenae funny,” she muttered, returning to the stone and sitting down. “I thought ye were Myles.”
Caelan’s smile faded slowly, and his eyebrows rose. He moved to sit beside her, stretching out his legs before him.
“Myles?” he echoed. “He hasnae grown tired? That man’s been hauntin’ ye like a guilty conscience.”
Sorcha frowned, folding her arms. “He’s been followin’ me everywhere. Every turn I take, he’s there, then gone. It’s infuriating.”
Caelan laughed softly. “I’d have thought ye’d be flattered.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes. The only thing that was being flattered was her anger.
“I am nae,” she answered flatly. “I am irritated.”
Her cousin tilted his head to study her profile. His teasing smile was gone now, replaced by something akin to concern. “Since when?”
She released a sigh, her eyes drifting back to the loch. “Since the other night.”
Caelan’s eyebrows rose even higher. “The night ye heard the commotion?” he asked, sitting up straighter. “What happened, Sorcha?”
She shook her head slowly. “I daenae ken, truly. I only ken that it wasnae a friendly commotion.”
He fell silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. “And now Myles has decided that ye need protecting.”
“So it seems.”
“Curious,” he murmured.
Sorcha’s thoughts strayed back to William. Her mind could be so traitorous. To her, that night had been about more than the commotion. Certainly, it had been about more than the kiss.
She had felt something else, almost like a weight that wasn’t supposed to be visible. But when he had kissed her, she had felt it around him.
He is hiding something.
Before she could voice her thought, a noise interrupted the quietness. Another thud, but it sounded even closer.
Sorcha stood abruptly. “That’s it,” she snapped.
“Easy—” Caelan began, but she was already moving.
She marched toward the sound, her skirts gathered in her hands. Her heart pounded with a mix of anger and resolve. She rounded the trees as quickly as she could and grabbed the figure before it could flee.
Myles froze mid-step, one hand lifted as though he had been about to escape. For a second, they both stared at each other. One showed anger; the other could only wince.
Eventually, Myles straightened, regaining his composure like a well-worn cloak.
“Evening, me Lady,” he greeted mildly.
Sorcha stomped her feet and folded her arms. “Daenae.”
His eyebrow rose. “Daenae what?”
“Daenae pretend that this is a coincidence,” she huffed. “I’m nae buyin’ it.”
Caelan approached her from behind, chuckling.
Myles sighed, wriggling out of her grasp. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “I was hopin’ ye wouldnae notice.”
“I notice everything,” Sorcha replied coolly. “Now, tell me, why are ye followin’ me so relentlessly?”
“For yer safety.”
She scoffed. “Safety? Within me home?”
“Aye.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “From what, exactly?”
Myles hesitated, his eyes flicking briefly to Caelan before returning to her. He didn’t seem ready to spill anything but Sorcha kept an impatient look on her face that somehow made him speak.
He sighed in resignation. “Do ye remember the other night?” he asked carefully.
Everyone kept asking about that night. Of course, she remembered it. In fact, she remembered it too much.
“Aye,” she replied. “I heard something.”
As though not wanting to be overheard, Myles stepped closer and leaned into her ear. “There was an attempt on the Laird’s life.”