Chapter 14
Avery and Rhea were giggling. The sound was bright and impossible to ignore.
They were sitting together on the cushioned bench by the window, sharing some delicious treats. Sorcha sat across from them, and she might as well have been a world away.
She might look present, but she was consumed by her thoughts. No, not consumed. But embarrassed.
That was more accurate, because that was the only way to describe the heat in her cheeks. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how she angled her face or feigned interest in the embroidery hoop on her lap, one thing was for sure: it was only a matter of time before they noticed.
But she would worry about being caught afterward. For now, she worried more about the fact that she could still feel him.
The night of the cèilidh stubbornly refused to leave her mind. How could it? They had done formidable things atop a large table until she desperately wanted more.
She still couldn’t believe what had happened, but the skip in her pulse each time the memory resurfaced was proof enough.
Her defiance had failed her. In that reckless moment, she had swapped it for shamelessness, one that took control of her like a thief in the night.
Just thinking of him, just remembering how his fingers had explored her, made heat rush between her thighs.
I cannae face him again, she told herself, pressing her palms against her cheeks. She couldn’t imagine doing so. She would rather the earth swallow her up.
Nay. Absolutely nae.
She shook her head, as if that would dissolve the memory. The image of his dark eyes tracing her curves was far too embarrassing. Entirely unforgivable. And yet her breath stuttered.
As much as she despised herself for it, despite the burning shame, there was no denying the truth beneath it all: the release that had followed was the sweetest thing she had ever felt. It was overwhelming, devastating. Something her body remembered with startling clarity.
Something her body wanted again.
Her movements caught Avery’s attention.
“Sorcha?” she called, her face softening with concern. “Are ye quite well, lass?”
Sorcha blinked, then forced a laugh that sounded thin to her own ears. She rose to her feet too quickly, nearly toppling the small table beside her.
“Aye,” she replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Perfectly well. I was only thinking.”
Rhea arched an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous.”
Sorcha snorted despite herself. “I was thinking of other ways to vex the Laird. As usual.”
The sisters shared a look. Then, Avery tilted her head. “Ye do seem… quieter than usual.”
Before Sorcha could answer, Rhea crossed her arms and spoke with brutal honesty. “If that’s yer aim, ye might be challengin’ the wrong man. He doesnae strike me as one who goes down easy.”
Sorcha certainly did not need the reminder. She exhaled through her nose, frustration prickling beneath her skin.
Of course, that was how they saw it. To them, it was all politics and pride. Power and perception. A widow refusing to be brushed aside. A woman determined to prove that she was not something fragile to be discarded simply because her husband was dead.
They had no idea how close to the truth that was, and ironically, how far. Because what troubled Sorcha now had little to do with defiance and everything to do with how much her encounters with William had begun to matter.
Too much. Far too much.
It was a bitter thing to admit, but she couldn’t deny it. What had happened in the gallery, when he had lifted and set her on the table as though she weighed nothing at all, had shattered something inside her.
She knew a boundary had been crossed, and she feared that she could not find her way back.
Pressing her lips together, she willed her thoughts into order.
Rhea spoke again, her eyes narrowing. “Ye were absent most of the night. One moment, ye were there; the next, ye were… gone.”
Avery nodded. “The last we saw ye was with Keegan Adamson.”
Sorcha stiffened. Now that she remembered how she had let him invade her personal space, she regretted it. Perhaps William was right.
The two sisters watched her expectantly.
Sorcha hesitated, not knowing exactly what to say.
“I—he invited me to see some paintings,” she finally responded.
The sisters shared another look.
“I guess… he had been to the castle often,” she added carefully. “Even before I arrived.”
“He was close to Faither,” Avery noted. “And then? He didnae try to…?”
“Nay,” Sorcha said quickly, shaking her head. The mere thought of something like that happening aggravated her. “Nay. Of course nae.”
At that moment, the melody of a flute ceased. Caelan, who had been lounging near the hearth with his instrument, froze. His gaze flickered up as he lowered the flute.
Clearly, their conversation had drawn his attention.
Sorcha could feel his protectiveness despite the distance. Still, she forced herself to continue.
“I found a way to excuse meself,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “But I didnae return to the party. I was tired.”
The sisters exhaled at that, the tension leaving their shoulders.
Rhea smiled faintly. “That’s understandable. It was a long night.”
Sorcha only nodded, grateful they had accepted the half-truth. Because the rest… the real reason she had not returned wasn’t something she was ready to voice. Not yet.
She had barely sighed when Caelan spoke again.
“Careful there,” he drawled, his tone laced with dry amusement. “Sigh like that again, and folks might start thinkin’ that the Laird’s worn ye down with his little games.”
Sorcha turned her head slowly to look at him. He stood a few steps away, his flute dangling loosely from his hand. His eyes were sharp and knowing, reading her face as though they could glimpse the secret beneath.
She looked away at once. If Avery and Rhea had swallowed her half-truth easily enough, Caelan would not. He never had. He saw too much, noticed too well, and cared far more deeply than he ever admitted. Sometimes, she wondered if her father had put them together to keep an eye on her every move.
She rose to her feet, gathering her unfinished embroidery.
“It would take far more than idle provocation to make me yield,” she said lightly. Too lightly. “Ye ken me better than that.”
Caelan hummed, stepping aside to clear her path. But when she was about to walk past him, his hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing in quiet reassurance.
It was not a question or a challenge. More like unconditional support that only family could offer.
“Aye,” he said softly. “And I ken ye well enough to say this. Whatever it is ye want, daenae let anyone convince ye that it’s beyond yer reach.”
The words made her freeze. Because to her, the meaning was far deeper.
William.
That was all she could think about. Because that was what she truly wanted. And William? He was certainly beyond reach.
What would Caelan think if he knew? If she confessed that what she wanted now was not merely safety or freedom or independence, but William MacLean himself?
Her throat tightened.
She nodded, offering a small smile. “Thank ye,” she murmured. “Truly.”
Caelan’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, then he stepped back, allowing her to pass.
She made her way down the corridor to her chambers, the scent of old stone and beeswax following her. Just when she closed the door behind her, she heard it open again.
“Caelan,” she began without turning, a hint of weary fondness in her voice. “Ye daenae need to follow me. I’m only in a mood, nae at death’s—” She paused when she noticed it wasn’t her six-foot cousin standing at the door.
It was Avery.
She stood in the doorway, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes sharp with concern. Quietly, she closed the door behind her and crossed the room.
Sorcha could already sense the purpose of the visit. She forced a smile, but it quickly faltered.
Avery did not return it. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. She studied Sorcha with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“I followed ye,” she admitted softly, “because I felt… something.” She shrugged her shoulders, clearly unsure how to express herself. “And I daenae like feeling things I cannae explain.”
Instantly, the hairs on the back of Sorcha’s neck stood on end.
Did Avery sense it? The pounding of her heart? The way her thoughts circled endlessly around one man? The heat that flared whenever she remembered his voice, his touch, the way he looked at her as though she were both a challenge and a temptation?
Sorcha cleared her throat, before slowly lowering herself beside Avery. “What do ye mean?” she asked, trying her best to keep her voice even.
Avery tilted her head. “I can feel when ye’re hidin’ something,” she said simply. “Ye’ve always been terrible at it.”
Despite herself, Sorcha’s lips twitched slightly, then she exhaled slowly.
“The night of the cèilidh,” Avery continued, her eyes never leaving Sorcha’s face, “Keegan returned to the hall alone. I asked him where ye had gone.”
Sorcha’s eyebrows rose in question.
“He told me,” Avery went on, “that ye were somewhere quiet. With the Laird.”
Heat rushed to Sorcha’s cheeks.
That damned snitch.
She looked away. Her fingers twisted in her lap, as though doing that could help her out. Could help in deciding whether to tell the truth or a lie.
“I didnae ken how to say it,” she admitted finally. “Or if I should say it at all.”
Avery waited patiently.
With a sigh that seemed to drain something from her, Sorcha continued. “There is something about him. Something infuriating. He irks me. Challenges me. Makes me want to scream, and yet…” She swallowed. “I find meself drawn to him all the same.”
Avery blinked once. Then again. And again. Then, very slowly, she asked, “Do ye fancy the Laird?”
Sorcha closed her eyes, taking a moment to taste the truth on her tongue before letting it out.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.” Then, as if aware of how huge a risk it was, she added, “But I willnae act on it. I cannae. I willnae make anything of it.”
Avery inhaled deeply. She reached for Sorcha’s hand and squeezed it. “Ye must remember why ye’re here,” she said gently. “Yer freedom. Yer future. Everything ye’ve worked for.”
Sorcha opened her eyes slowly to see the earnest look on Avery’s face.
“Desire can be a powerful thing, but it can also be a chain if ye let it.”
Sorcha nodded slowly at those words.
She knew Avery was right. She had always known. Still, knowing did little to quell the ache inside her. It did little to snuff out the spark in her heart.
“I ken,” she said at last. “And I’ll stay the course.”
Moments later, Avery left her room.
As Sorcha sat quietly on the edge of the bed, her resolve hardened.
She would not falter, no matter how tempting William might be.