Chapter 15
Aweek away had done nothing to loosen the knot in William’s chest. If anything, it had tightened it.
The carriage rolled through the iron gates until it rolled to a stop before the castle.
William sat inside with his shoulders squared, his gloved hands clasped together as though holding himself in place. Despite the scent of leather and cold metal, he felt something far more persistent.
Her.
The image of her made him exhale slowly through his nose. His jaw clenched harder.
Her swollen lips, her broken gasps, the way she had looked utterly undone beneath him… He couldn’t keep his mind off that. That was why he left. That was why distance was necessary.
The journey had been a chance to clear his head. To attend to matters beyond these walls. He had even convinced himself he might find a suitor along the way. Perhaps someone respectable. Someone who would take Sorcha away from his sight and his thoughts for good.
Yet every man he had encountered only made it worse. Each polite conversation had ended the same way: with William imagining the man’s hands on Sorcha’s waist. Or imagining her attention being stolen by someone else.
The images alone were enough to make his blood boil. He had hated every second of it.
Outside the carriage, footsteps approached. Soon, the door was pulled open by a footman.
Myles stepped down first, fixing him with a careful look that conveyed more than words ever could.
William did not move at once. He took a deep breath, then another.
Ye are back. Get a hold of yerself.
Finally, he stepped out into the open air.
The courtyard was far too quiet for his liking. Perhaps too tense. The maids who had crossed the expanse moments ago froze, their backs straightening with trepidation. One maid dropped her gaze immediately, while another hurried away after bobbing a stiff, awkward curtsy that barely hid her nerves.
William noticed everything.
Is it fear or guilt?
His eyes narrowed slightly as he moved forward. Poppy came into view near the archway. The moment she saw him, she started. She gave a quick bow, then scurried off without a word.
That sealed it. Something had happened.
His stride lengthened as he entered the castle, his boots echoing against the stone floor. And that was when he noticed it. Not the bizarre silence, but something else.
The space before him had been transformed.
Where there had once been austere stone and banners, there was now color.
Too much of it, in fact. He spotted imported silks draped over the walls, layered over damask hangings that did not belong in a Highland stronghold.
Plush seats had replaced the heavy benches.
More refined, unmistakably expensive paintings lined the walls.
It looked as though London had invaded his castle.
His lips curled into a humorless smile.
Of course.
He moved deeper into the castle, taking it all in with a critical gaze. He could tell that every choice was deliberate. This sudden change was meant to provoke him.
One name came to him instantly.
Sorcha.
In truth, he had expected such an act from her, since she had been hell-bent on playing games with him. But there was something he hadn’t expected. He should have been furious. Should have felt the sting of the insult.
This was his home. His land. His domain. And she had altered it without his permission, reshaping it to suit her own vision.
She had done it to challenge him, obviously. Yet as he ran his eyes over the walls, he felt a different emotion: indifference. Not quite apathy, but close.
The silk was fine. The paintings were tasteful. The effort was obvious. Too obvious.
If this was meant to wound him, it had sorely missed its mark.
A waste of time, lassie. Ye should ken me better than that.
He turned slightly, preparing to leave the entrance hall to head to his study when he heard her voice. “Dae ye like the paintings?”
Soft. Feminine. It carried just enough confidence to suggest she already knew the answer.
William’s spine straightened. Her voice had no right to affect him the way it did. And yet the heat it stirred almost seared his skin.
“I hoped ye would,” she added lightly.
He did not turn at once.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to picture her standing there.
Chin lifted? Definitely. With her eyes bright with challenge, her mouth curved in that infuriating way that suggested she was already winning a game he had not agreed to play.
Then he turned around.
Sorcha stood a short distance away. He was right; she met his gaze unflinchingly. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the red strands catching the light. Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress.
A week. A whole goddamn week, and it has done nothing.
The distance had been useless. Futile. Seeing her now only confirmed it. She was so striking, so perfect, that it would do him more harm if he didn’t touch her.
Her gaze stayed on his face, openly searching.
He knew what she was looking for—anger, irritation, the satisfaction of having succeeded in unnerving him.
She had changed his hall—no, his castle into something grander and deliberately foreign.
The corner of her mouth curled with expectation, a smirk she tried to hide. So instead of giving her what she wanted, he did the opposite.
He turned his attention back to the paintings. “What possessed ye,” he drawled, “to think I’d be offended by this?”
She made a soft sound, a gasp that proved she had not expected those words. Then she stepped up to him.
With her standing so close, whatever was coiling low in his gut had no business returning so quickly.
Her eyes flicked over the painting, then to him. “I’ll take that as a compliment, me Laird,” she replied lightly. “Though I did worry ye might accuse me of tryin’ to turn yer castle into something delicate.”
“Delicate,” he repeated, glancing down at her. “It isnae the word I’d choose.”
Her lips twitched. “Then what would ye choose?”
He let silence reign for a moment, let his eyes linger for too long on her mouth. She stood just close enough, like a challenge ready to be undertaken.
“Intentional,” he said at last.
The word made her blink. Not once, but twice.
“That’s a dangerous word,” she remarked.
“So is boring,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving just slightly.
Her gaze followed the movement, her eyebrows squeezing slightly.
As though he hadn’t shocked her enough, he let out a low chuckle. Something barely audible, his lips parting just enough.
Sorcha had frozen by now, utterly stunned. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes wide, disbelief written plainly all over her face. She was staring at him as though he had done something impossible, something that changed her perception of him entirely.
William felt her surprise, her fascination, and it pleased him more than he cared to admit.
“That…” she trailed off. “Ye laughed.”?
He arched an eyebrow. “Does it trouble ye?”
“Nay,” she answered quickly, then hesitated. “I just… didnae expect it. I expected ye to—”
“Ye expected me to rage,” he said calmly.
She didn’t respond, but the answer was clear in her eyes. He hated to admit it, but he was enjoying it far too much.
Another chuckle escaped his lips.
“If that troubles ye,” he said quietly, “I apologize.”
Sorcha scoffed, turning her head away. “Daenae flatter yerself.”
He watched the elegant line of her neck as she did, and could almost feel the quick beat of her heart. His fingers itched again, and he knew that was his cue to distance himself from her.
He shrugged. “The journey was long, and I’m tired. I’m going to retire to bed.” He turned to walk away.
Immediately, he heard her footsteps following him. Still, he did not look back. He knew she had questions, but he was too tired to answer any of them.
“Why are ye nae angry?” she threw at him.
That drew him to a slow halt. He had asked himself the same question earlier, and truly, he had no idea. Maybe it was because he didn’t care how much she had spent. Yet he knew it was deeper than that. Deeper than he dared to admit.
Slowly, he turned back, his gaze settling on her face. “I daenae care how ye spend me money,” he said, stepping closer. “And I have more than enough for yer… entertainment.”
She inhaled sharply at his nearness but didn’t pull away. Instead, a warm flush coated her cheeks..
The flecks of gold in her eyes darkened; she clearly refused to believe him. However, when she opened her mouth to reply, a strong wind rattled through the high windows, followed immediately by a sharp crack overhead.
William’s head snapped up, but it was too late. One of the paintings, which must have been poorly secured, came loose and fell straight toward her.
His eyes widened at the sight, instinct taking over as he lunged toward her. “Sorcha!”