Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The large wooden gates of Sinclair Castle groaned as Rowan rode in first. His men followed in disciplined formation behind him, the MacLaren banners a deep green against the pale sky.
Bundles of heather adorned the courtyard, ribbons fluttering from the archways. Bread and oat bannocks were arranged on a long table meant to look abundant.
Something doesnae feel right.
He felt it in the way voices fell when they passed. In the way a child was tugged behind their mother’s skirts as if he might bite.
Fearful whispers rippled through the gathered crowd.
“That’s him… the Wolf.”
“God save the girl.”
Rowan heard it all, but it mattered little to him. He used the fear to his advantage. Men who feared him rarely tested his patience.
His true concern was the assessment of his surroundings.
He’d already taken into account every weakness, the number of men, the lack of archers in the corner of the yard. Every exit, every shadow, every loose stone did not go unnoticed.
A habit after a lifetime of loss.
He had never met Laird Sinclair before, but the man standing at the front could be no one else. He stood tall, his back rigid, the blue tartan of his cape draped across his shoulder. A fair-haired woman waited behind him.
His gaze drifted down against his will, tracing the slender line of her form. The blue wool of her dress clung faintly to the gentle swell of her bosom and the narrow curve of her waist.
Look away, ye fool.
Rowan frowned, dragging his gaze back up.
He’d seen fairer women in his life. Women who knew how to smile sweetly and keep their eyes lowered. Yet something about her manner unsettled him. She stood straight, her blue eyes steady as any warrior he had faced in battle.
He felt the strange urge to test that steadiness.
Rowan dismounted, stripping off his gloves. He deliberately let the silence stretch as he discreetly watched his betrothed.
She was nothing like the fragile bride he had expected. Instead, she observed his every move with no hesitation. As if she were learning him the same way he was learning her.
“Is this young Ailis?” He tilted his head toward the woman as he spoke to Callan, not bothering with pleasantries.
He saw the flicker of hesitation in Callan’s eyes.
Rowan’s eyes went back to the woman, narrowing. Her expression did not change.
“There has been a change of plans. But ye will have a Sinclair bride, as promised.”
Ever the proud Laird, Callan tried to look resolved. Confident. But he was young, and by the rigidity of his posture, Rowan could tell he was tense.
Rowan brushed his thumb against the hilt at his belt before he stilled the impulse.
A change of plans without warning? Are they desperate? Is this a test?
The agreement had been simple: Ailis Sinclair in exchange for MacLaren protection before winter’s turn. Steel for grain. Blood for blood.
He studied Callan in silence.
Callan’s mouth was pressed into a hard line, but his eyes kept flicking to the woman and then back to Rowan. The courtyard was too quiet. Sinclair men tightened their grips, as if expecting steel.
The lass is the truth of it.
Without a word, Rowan strode to her. Before he could speak, she curtsied, shallow but proper. Her gaze rose quickly to meet his through blonde curls, unflinching, even as he loomed over her.
“I am Sorcha, me Laird. It is an honor to be yer bride.”
The low, smooth timbre of her voice caught him off guard. She looked him right in the eye, unwavering.
Sorcha.
He rolled the name silently in his mind. Not the name he’d traveled for. Not the name on the agreement. But it suited her.
He wondered how her name would taste on his tongue.
Suiting her isnae the question. She isnae me bride.
If he accepted this without challenge, the story would travel faster than any rider: MacLaren came for one bride and took another without protest. Careless at best, weak at worst.
But rejecting her in front of Sinclair’s men would not end well. Pride would answer pride, and his people would pay the price.
Behind him, he sensed his own men waiting.
He kept his eyes on Sorcha as he spoke, “This isnae a matter for the crowd.” He gestured for her to follow his lead.
She quickly looked at Callan, who gave her a reluctant nod of approval before she followed behind.
Reluctant. A hesitation so small that most would miss it.
Callan hesitates. Does he fear what I might do to her? Or what she might say to me?
Murmurs chased them as they crossed the yard, boots of guards scraping the stone behind as they were escorted to the solar. She didn’t look scared to be alone with him. She confidently walked at his side despite his long strides.
His jaw tightened at the sight.
Devoid of any fear, her gaze alone forced him to reevaluate every assumption he’d made about this match.
“What is this, then?” He did not waste time the moment they were left alone, his voice firm. “Ye think ye can stand in another’s place?”
But she was not disconcerted. She didn’t reach for the latch or glance over his shoulder. She stood her ground.
She should be frightened.
“Honor isnae a fragile thing, me Laird, that it belongs to one sister only.”
Rowan’s mouth curved faintly, but he was anything but amused. “A fine answer,” he said. “But it doesnae change the terms of an agreement.”
“Agreements change when circumstances do,” she replied, her even tone irritating him further.
“Convenient,” he scoffed. “For the Sinclairs, at least.”
Enough games. I didnae ride all this way for riddles.
“Where is she?” His voice was lower now, sharper. “The truth, Sorcha Sinclair. Did she flee, or did ye hide her?”
He watched her face for the smallest crack, but she did not waver. She held him as if she could hold a blade the same way.
“I willnae speak ill of me sister.”
“I didnae ask ye to insult her.” Rowan stepped closer, shrinking the space between them until she had no choice but to tilt her chin up to keep looking at him. “I asked ye where she is.”
The rise of her chest betrayed a shallow breath she couldn’t hide, despite her steady appearance. He thought she would finally give in.
“This is the Sinclair ye’re marryin’,” she said quietly.
He waited for more, but she gave him none.
Stubborn lass.
He studied her face. The way she tried to compose herself. Control herself. Talking as if they were speaking about frivolities, not her fate.
“Did yer braither order ye?”
“I am here because it is needed,” she replied steadily, though the smallest flare in her nostrils showed. “That is what matters.”
Needed. A word he didn’t like. But he lived by it. Bled by it.
He leaned in close, enough to see the different hues of blue in her eyes. Too close now to ignore the faint scent of heather that clung to her. He found himself drawing closer despite himself.
“And what do ye want in exchange?” he asked.
Sorcha’s brow furrowed, as if the thought offended her. “Want?”
A brittle laugh threatened to burst out of him. “Aye. Everyone wants something.”
He circled her once, assessing her slowly, and just as before, she did not waver under his eyes, a defiance in her stillness.
She did not answer him.
She willnae break easily. Good.
“Ye’re nae who I expected.”
Her fingers tightened slightly, barely noticeable. “Aye, I ken.”
Rowan stopped in front of her again, the motion bringing her within reach. He could see her pulse beating rapidly at her throat, a flush spreading across her skin.
His hand flexed once. He did not allow himself to wonder what her skin would look like, flushed for another reason.
“So, will ye take me with ye, me Laird, or nae?”
She still held that same steady, infuriating resolve. Like she was offering herself for battle rather than marriage.
His breath caught. A stupid, traitorous pull low in his gut.
He forced his lungs to stay steady.
“Nay,” he said at last.
The air seemed to tighten as the word hung between them.
She did not react. Not even when the word should have cut. Not even when most women would have flinched, begged, or looked down to conceal their shame.
She just stood quietly.
Does she nae care at all?
Her composure unsettled him more than anger ever could.