Chapter 11
William could not remember the last time he had felt sympathy for anyone. It was not something that came easily to him. Since boyhood, he had learned that trust and affection were a luxury that only weak men indulged in.
He had been betrayed by blood, and that lesson had made him realize one thing: he could only survive by keeping his heart locked behind iron restraint.
Yet the memory of Sorcha standing in his study, her face set in courage, refused to leave him. And then there were words she spoke.
That… that had evoked some sympathy.
He took a sip of his drink as he stood under the chandeliers of the Great Hall. The whiskey burned a familiar path down his throat, but the heat did nothing to ease the tension in his chest.
“I daenae wish to remarry.”
Those words had landed harder than he cared to admit. Because deep down, her fear reminded him of his own. A fear he had once carried quietly as a boy. The one who brought too many questions.
Was he born with misery? Why was everyone dear to him dead? Perhaps if he had never drawn breath, fewer graves would bear the names of those he loved.
His gaze drifted to the far wall, where an old crest hung. It was weathered, cracked with age, but he still remembered it. He had been surprised to come across it upon his arrival. His father had made it, and he remembered how delighted his mother had been with it.
William exhaled sharply and looked away. At that moment, Sorcha entered the hall. And everything else ceased to matter.
She walked inside, wearing a gown the color of ripe cherries. It was a deep, rich red that clung to her curves with unapologetic elegance. Her red curls had been styled to perfection, and her dazzling brown eyes accentuated her freckles.
She was devastating.
The whole hall noticed. He noticed.
She walked between Avery and Rhea, the three of them presenting a striking picture. But his attention was fixed on her alone. She was too perfect. And far too good for the man who had once claimed her.
That thought alone had his fingers clenching around the stem of his glass.
He had decided to host the cèilidh for a reason. Sorcha was to be presented, introduced, and courted. That was the point of this night.
He swallowed hard.
Focus.
But the more he tried, the more distracted he grew. His eyes traced the line of her neck down to her hips, which he ached to grip. His fingers itched with the urge to explore the softness he knew was hiding beneath.
Nay, she is yer uncle’s widow.
The reminder left a bitter taste on his tongue.
After downing the rest of his whisky in one swallow, he thrust the empty glass into Myles’s hand.
Myles, who had been busy charming a poor woman into laughter, immediately noticed. But William had already turned around and had moved away.
He crossed the hall in long strides, the music and conversation fading into the background. Sorcha saw him before he reached her; he knew it the moment her body stiffened.
Her steps slowed. His cousins noticed instantly, leaning in to whisper in her ears. William spared them no glance, no acknowledgment. Whatever relations they claimed, they were irrelevant. His focus was on Sorcha as he stood before her.
She dipped into a small curtsy, graceful despite the thick tension between them. “Me Laird,” she greeted softly.
He did not respond. Instead, he reached for her.
His hand wrapped around hers in one swift motion, claiming. Warm skin met warm skin, and the contact did things to his nerves that he would never admit.
She stumbled a step, clearly caught off guard. “What—” she sputtered, tried to free her hand.
“I’m going to introduce ye to men of standing,” he announced, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her breath hitched audibly. And goddammit, the sound made his cock twitch against his kilt.
Sorcha wrenched her hand free, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
William turned to face her fully, keeping a determined look on his face.
“I’m standing by what I told ye in me study,” he said evenly.
Everything around them seemed to fade away.
He took another step closer. Close enough to catch the scent of her skin, the way her chest heaved, the way her lips parted.
“Me intentions are clear,” he continued, his voice rough. “I’m lookin’ for yer next husband.”
The word ‘husband’ must have landed like a slap. Her eyebrows drew together, a frown forming slowly. She looked as though she had tasted something bitter. Then she shook her head.
“Ye sound just like me faither,” she scoffed.
Though William didn’t fully understand the weight of her words, her expression conveyed enough.
Before he could respond, she turned sharply on her heels, her skirts gathered in her hands, clearly intent on leaving him.
William watched her go, a muscle ticking in his jaw. And then she collided with someone.
“Forgive me,” the man said quickly.
William recognized him instantly.
Keegan Adamson.
Hatred bubbled up in his chest.
Keegan looked older compared to the last time William had seen him. He also looked… richer. The fineness of his clothes and the shine on his creaseless boots screamed the newness of the additions to the man’s closet and instantly, wariness settled in the pit of William’s stomach.
William knew such wealth would have been built on nothing but greed and blood.
Keegan put his hands on Sorcha’s waist to steady her. His fingers lingered a fraction too long, and the sight unleashed something vicious inside William.
He wanted to rip those hands away and press Sorcha against the nearest wall until she trembled and moaned his name.
Keegan smiled down at her, gentle and solicitous. “Are ye all right, me Lady?” he asked, concern softening his features. “Did ye hit yer head?”
Sorcha answered him, her voice light. William could not catch the words, but whatever she said made Keegan chuckle. And when she laughed in return, the sound grated on his nerves.
Yes, it was soft and bright. But at that moment, he hated it.
Keegan smiled at her openly now, his eyes roaming with an appreciation he didn’t bother to hide. “I must be the luckiest man in the hall,” he said boldly, “to stumble into a bonny lass like ye.”
He seemed ready to say more… until he sensed William’s watchful gaze. He looked up, spotting his towering frame behind Sorcha.
Whatever he saw on William’s face made him pause. Then he schooled his features and glanced back at Sorcha.
“I’d be honored to dance with ye,” he said, offering his hand. “If ye’re available, that is.”
Sorcha turned her head then, and her eyes found William’s. Between their shared glances, the connection slowly grew.
She searched his face openly, her eyes almost questioning, as though she were hunting for something. Anything. Perhaps she wanted to see a hint of possessiveness. A reason to stay.
William knew exactly what she wanted to hear.
She’s with me. Stay.
But those words hung on the tip of his tongue. He let none of them out because saying them would mean admitting the truth he had been fighting since the night he had found her in his room.
It would mean surrendering control. It would mean wanting her.
And that was far too dangerous. So he only gave her an unreadable look.
Sorcha exhaled, something settling behind her eyes. She turned back to Keegan, and her expression made his face light up in triumph. She placed her hand in his and let him lead her away.
William watched them go, ignoring the tightness in his chest.
This is how it’s meant to go. Find her a suitor. Let them fall in love. Be done with it.
He tried to turn his attention back to the hall, but his gaze betrayed him. He found himself tracking Sorcha’s every movement as she joined the dance.
Keegan stood opposite her, his hand resting on her waist. He had that open smile men wore when they believed they were winning.
Sorcha followed his steps, her body moving freely with the music. Perhaps too freely. Her hips rolled slowly, in a way that made the silk of her gown cling to every exquisite curve.
William watched her, his focus unwavering. Then, suddenly, her gaze met his. Even as she danced with another man, her attention belonged to him alone. Something about that struck him hard.
But then she broke their stare, and everything worsened.
She gave herself fully to the dance. She laughed at something Keegan murmured, looking all graceful and irresistible.
William’s eyes narrowed as hot jealousy flooded his veins. No one should touch her like that. Not Keegan. Not anyone. Not even his goddamn uncle, if the bastard still drew breath.
His jaw clenched even harder as he watched Keegan lean down to whisper something in her ear. The cad must have said something intimate, because Sorcha went still for a heartbeat before nodding slowly.
The dance ended, and almost immediately, Keegan guided her away from the floor and toward the exit.
William unfolded his arms, instinct overriding his reason.
That’s enough.
Without allowing himself another moment to think, he followed them.