Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rowan sat alone in his study, one elbow braced against the arm of his chair, a glass of whiskey nearby. Spread across the desk before him were various parchments.
Grain tallies. Supply routes. The sort of matters a laird was meant to think about. But his mind had not been on those matters for some time. It was on the woman now occupying the chamber at the end of the upper hall. The woman who had leaped off his horse like a madwoman.
Me wife.
The word still sounded strange in his mind.
Trouble, that one.
But the attack on the road refused to leave his mind either. He had witnessed similar situations before along the southern trade routes. Common thieves set up traps often enough. But something about it did not feel right.
They had known exactly when to strike, and they had not fled when they had seen him. Instead, they had doubled down, determined.
He drummed his fingers against the desk.
Perhaps they had simply been fools. The Highlands produce plenty of those.
But he’d almost lost Sorcha to them. He remembered her, breathless, with mud on her cheek. Eyes wide as the attacker swung at her, barely missing as she rolled away.
Foolish lass. If somethin’ had happened to her…
That would be the second time he would have failed as a husband.
A memory resurfaced uninvited.
Blood. Voices shouting. The midwife’s words.
“I’m sorry, me Laird. We did everythin’ we could. Lady MacLaren… she didnae make it.”
He took a swig of his whiskey, the desk shaking as he set it down with force. He hoped the memory would go down as quickly as the liquid.
But it did not.
And now I’m meant to share a bed with another.
He remembered her rigid posture during the wedding ceremony, her blue eyes never leaving his.
As if she were facin’ an execution. But she still went along with it. Didnae protest.
It did not sit right with him.
He rose from his desk and left the study, hoping to distract himself from his thoughts.
The corridors were quiet. Most of the keep had already settled for the night. He enjoyed walking most evenings, seeing with his own eyes that all was as it should be. But as he passed the stairs that led to the upper chambers, his steps slowed. That was where Sorcha would be.
His jaw tightened. He should leave her be. She’d endured enough for one day. And tonight…
Rowan exhaled slowly through his nose. Despite those thoughts, he found himself turning toward the stairs.
Just to make sure that she’s settled. Nothin’ more.
He nearly reached the top of the stairs when movement caught his eye. A figure holding a torch, walking carefully down the corridor.
Sorcha.
He went still. For a moment, he considered turning away, but then her eyes found his, holding him in place. She looked nothing like the mud-stained maiden he had brought earlier.
Her fair hair, now freshly cleansed, hung in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. Damp tendrils clung teasingly to her flushed cheeks and neck, the torchlight reflecting the dewy sheen on her skin.
She was startled, her eyes wide, her pink lips parted in a gasp.
It was dangerous how much he was starting to enjoy catching her off guard.
“Me Laird,” she greeted politely, gathering herself as she seemed to always do.
But Rowan knew better.
He took a step toward her, hoping to elicit that expression again. “Shouldnae ye be waitin’ for me back in yer chambers?”
Her eyes narrowed, but she remained calm. “Has Flora arrived yet?”
There it is again. That polite little mask she keeps pullin’ over herself. As if I didnae watch her throw herself into a fight like a wildcat this afternoon.
“Nay. The roads are slower with the carriages. She’ll be here soon.”
He climbed another step, now just below her. They stood nearly eye to eye.
“I see.”
Silence settled between them.
Rowan continued to watch her under the flickering flame. His gaze drifted lower before he could stop it, following the rise and fall of her chest. A mistake.
I should leave before I do something foolish.
He took a deep breath, turning away to go down the stairs. “Ye should go back to yer chambers. The hour’s too late to be wanderin’ the keep.”
Her eyebrow rose. “I didnae realize the lady of the keep needed permission to stretch her legs.”
He paused.
There it is. The stubborn courage that nearly got her killed today.
Quickly, he turned back around and climbed the rest of the steps. He stepped into her space, forcing her to take a few steps back until her back hit the wall.
Sorcha gasped, nearly dropping the torch, but he held her fingers over it with his own, his other arm braced beside her head. He became acutely aware of the warmth of her hand, of the floral scent of her damp hair.
“Why did ye come, truly?” he asked quietly.
Her fingers tensed under his, and her brow furrowed as she looked up at him. “What?”
“Why did ye agree to this marriage?”
“For the same reason any woman would,” she said carefully, trying to pull free from his grip, but he held firm. “Duty.”
Does she think I’m a fool?
“That answer would satisfy most men.” He leaned closer, his hand tightening slightly around hers. She did not look away, her eyes holding an intense fire that burned through him. “But I am nae most men.”
“I noticed.”
This close, he could see the faint freckles on her nose, the long fringe of lashes framing those stubborn blue eyes.
What is she hidin’?
“Daenae feign bravery with me. I’ll see right through it.”
Color crept into her cheeks, irritation flashing across her face. She opened her mouth to speak, when a sound interrupted her.
Their heads snapped towards the bottom of the stairs as heavy footsteps pounded down the corridor. Rowan closed his eyes, inhaling as he leaned back. He moved to the side lest he do something he’d regret.
But before she could step past him, he spoke, “I’ll see ye soon.”
“Good evenin’, me Laird,” she said quickly, her voice tight.
Her shoulder brushed his chest as she slipped past him, the contact brief enough to send a jolt of awareness through him.
Rowan watched her until she disappeared down the passage. Only when the door closed behind her did the pounding footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Me Laird!” A guard ran up to him. “The southern grain stores,” he panted. “They’re on fire.”