Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rowan had not sat since entering his study. All afternoon, he had leaned over the table with maps spread across its surface, moving his eyes across the familiar boundaries.
He could not help the feeling of inadequacy that pulsed in the back of his mind.
Again, someone had slipped past their defenses, setting fire to another grain store. If it had not been clear before, it was clear now that the attack was deliberate. There was nothing reckless about it, nothing careless.
He’d already sent Ewan ahead to the eastern border to assess the damage and secure what remained. By now, he would be on site, seeing for himself what had been lost. Rowan trusted him to act quickly, but it did little to ease his concern.
Whoever is behind this is choosin’ their targets with intent. This isnae chance. They ken exactly what they’re doing.
His hand moved across the map, tracing the borders. There was too little information to form a pattern, to know where they could strike next.
And who was to say they would stop at the grain stores? Homes could be next. Whole villages. Depending on the enemy’s motives, winter might not be the only danger to his people.
And worse, I still have nay name, nay clear enemy to strike back.
Ewan had mentioned before that maybe his marriage to Sorcha was the cause of these strange events. Rowan had considered it but hadn’t looked into it seriously. The evidence had been too thin to make such assumptions at that time. But now…
Now the thought returned with more weight.
All of this had started not long after Sorcha arrived. In fact, it had started on the day of her arrival.
If there is a connection, it didnae begin here. It began with Sinclair. It had to. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Rowan’s gaze narrowed slightly as he considered the possibilities.
Callan Sinclair was not a man given to carelessness, or so he seemed.
He would not have offered his sister’s hand without weighing every consequence.
Which meant either there was nothing to tell, or there was something he had chosen not to.
Rowan did not know which he disliked more.
Right then, a disturbing thought entered his mind, a subtle darkness threading its way into his thoughts.
Does Sorcha ken anythin’? She did seem adamant about going through with this marriage. Is she capable of treachery?
He doubted it. He remembered her shock when they had been attacked, the way she had looked around as though the danger had come from nowhere at all. There had been no hint that she had expected anything to follow her here.
The darkness that tried to sway his opinion quickly disappeared the more he thought about it.
Nay. If there were something to uncover, it wouldnae be found in her. And even if it were, it’s mine to deal with now.
His eyes drifted to the door. She would come soon. He had sent for her not long ago.
He needed to tell her that he would be leaving. Needed to ensure she understood the state of things in his absence. He would not leave her unprepared.
That should have been enough.
He could have sent Morag. Could have left a word with Flora. Could have handled this without involving himself directly. Instead, he stood there waiting.
The truth sat beneath the surface, quiet and unwelcome.
I want to see her.
He was irritated by his admission. It carried no purpose. No strategy. No place for what needed to be done.
Exhaling slowly, he steadied himself as he forced his thoughts back in order.
He would speak what was necessary, then leave. The distance he had tried to maintain would be restored, as it should have been from the beginning. Because what had happened between them in the Great Hall could not happen again.
Rowan pushed away from the table at last, crossing to the window. He pushed it open just enough to let the cold air clear his head.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Aye,” he called, not turning. “Enter.”
The door opened.
He felt Sorcha’s presence without looking at her, subtle but immediate. It shifted something in the air that had nothing to do with the cold. His hand rested on the stone beside the window, his fingers flexing as he kept his focus on the dark sky.
“Me Laird.” Her soft voice resonated in the space between them, steady in a way that did not match the tension he could feel beneath it.
He took a deep breath, steadying something in his chest that had no business shifting at all.
This is daft. I shouldnae have this much trouble facin’ her.
He forced himself to turn to her, immediately taking her in without meaning to.
Her light hair was loose, falling soft around her shoulders, catching the low candlelight as it shifted.
Her shawl sat unevenly where it had been draped too quickly in place, as if she had been in a hurry.
It had slipped just enough to bare the delicate line of her collarbone, the pale skin beneath it flushed with the faintest pink that made his throat tighten.
There was a softness to her that did not match the set of her mouth or the storm behind her eyes.
The memory struck him before he could stop it. A brief, unwelcome echo of that first night. Of how she had looked similar then and how close he had been to giving in.
But she looked even more dangerous now.
He turned back to the window, forcing the memory away as he settled back into something controlled. Distant. Though part of him was ashamed for having to hold back this much.
“I’ve sent for ye,” he uttered.
“So I gathered,” she replied dryly.
His mouth twitched.
“There’s been another fire,” he said, deciding it was best to get straight to the point. “Near the eastern border. Lower stores.”
“Another?” she asked, surprised. “When was the first?”
He heard her step further into the room. He hadn’t told her about the first fire. He hadn’t deemed it necessary. But the worry in her voice now suggested otherwise.
Something warm spread through his chest at her concern. Though it was expected of her as his wife, it still comforted him to hear it in her voice.
“The night ye arrived.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, her steps coming to a halt.
“Have ye found who was responsible?” Then she let out a small gasp. “Was it the man who ran from us on the road?”
“I daenae ken,” he said, turning again to face her fully. “I cannae say for certain. But I mean to end it, nay matter who was responsible.”
He crossed the room, slow, deliberate, stopping just short of where she stood. He didn’t like seeing her worried. He didn’t like that she thought it was her fault. Even if he’d never married her, no laird was ever safe from making enemies.
Her expression was grave as she processed what he’d said. “Was anyone hurt?”
Her question caught him off guard. Again, he was touched and surprised by her concern.
“I daenae ken. I’ll see for meself tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She searched his face, as though she were trying to understand what he’d said.
“See for yerself?” she repeated.
Of course. What else would I do?
To him, it was simple. When something threatened his lands, he dealt with it. But the way she was looking at him now suggested that was not the answer she had expected.
“I’ll be ridin’ out at first light. I need to see the damage for meself,” he continued.
She seemed to hesitate. “And me?”
Rowan went still. “What of ye?”
“What do ye expect me to do while ye’re gone?”
The question hung heavily between them.
He had not considered it before. The keep would run as it always had. Morag would manage the household, the men would care for the land, and Sorcha…
What do I expect her to do?
The answer came too quickly.
Nothing.
And that was a failing he found hard to ignore.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to retreat even as something primal urged him closer.
The way Sorcha held his gaze made his blood run hotter than it had any right to. He didn’t trust himself to stay near her, not when the pull in his chest was so sharp.