Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rowan did not ride back to the keep so much as drag the road behind him. The pouring rain had not let up as he rode home, his cloak heavy and damp, mud clinging to his skin.
His arms burned from hauling timber with the men. The ache was only driven deeper into his bones while riding home, each mile grinding exhaustion further into his muscles.
But at least the worst of the damage had been contained at the eastern border.
For now.
As the keep came into view, he could not stop his thoughts from going straight to Sorcha. He wondered how she was faring alone.
I should speak to her.
The thought came reluctantly.
He had faced battles with less hesitation, and yet the thought of standing alone in a room with Sorcha again stirred a feeling in his chest that he couldn’t name.
She is yer wife. Speak to her and be done with it.
Coward was not a word he would ever use to describe himself, but it crossed his mind these days.
He exhaled sharply, dismissing his thoughts.
As he rode on, he saw how the storm had left its mark here as well. Sections of the outer fence had collapsed, and men were already hauling new posts in place beside the gate. He slowed his horse as he passed them.
The men nodded in greeting.
“How fares the eastern border?” one of them called.
“Standing,” he called back.
It was the closest thing to good news anyone would hear for a while.
Once in the courtyard, Rowan dismounted his horse. He knew better than to expect Sorcha to greet him upon his arrival, but his eyes searched for her anyway, part of him hoping to see her wandering the keep with Elspeth.
Ewan approached him quickly, looking tense.
“Council chamber,” he said.
He had gone back earlier to update the council on their progress.
“They’ve been waitin’,” he added.
Rowan clenched his jaw. “Then let’s hear what trouble has found us now.”
He went straight to the council chamber, his muddy boots leaving dark marks on the stone.
Three days in mud and smoke, and they couldnae give me time to wash the ash from me hands.
The guards posted outside the council chamber opened the door the moment they saw him round the corner.
The councilmen rose, giving a nod of greeting as he took his seat. To his right was Hamish, a man as solid as an oak tree, opinionated and blunt. Next to him was Duncan, gaunt with sharp eyes. He was the sort of man one would expect to believe little and recollect all.
Torcall was broad in the chest, forever scowling as if the world had been letting him down for the past sixty years.
Angus, Hamish’s brother, was the most reserved of them all. A man who seldom spoke, but when he did, his words held weight.
And at the far end was the youngest member of the council, Iain. He even brought his sword to the council meetings, as if war hung between every sentence.
“Well…?” Rowan prompted.
If they had dragged him from the yard before he had even washed the ash from his hands, they could get straight to the point.
Torcall shifted heavily in his seat, his eyebrows drawing together beneath his thinning hair. “Word has reached Laird Kerr. The Mad Laird is furious.”
Rowan scoffed. “Since when has Kerr needed a reason to be furious?”
A few uneasy chuckles rippled through the table, but no one looked particularly comforted.
Duncan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing sharply. “He claims Sinclair was supposed to secure an alliance with him.”
“Aye.” Rowan nodded gravely. “And he claims the sun belongs to him as well when the mood strikes him.”
“This isnae a jest, Rowan,” Hamish said quietly. “Kerr has begun gatherin’ men.”
Iain spoke up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Scouts say he has doubled the watch along his eastern passes.”
“Preparin’ for winter,” Rowan emphasized, hands fisted in his lap. He was growing tired of these old men.
Angus, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. “Or preparin’ for war.”
Duncan nodded slowly. “Kerr has been restless for years. A marriage alliance slippin’ from his hands will bruise his pride.”
“His pride is nay concern of mine,” Rowan grunted.
“That may be true,” Hamish said. “But it becomes our concern if he marches.”
Rowan’s mouth hardened. “Let him.”
An uneasy silence fell over the room.
Laird Kerr had earned his nickname for a reason. The Mad Laird. A man who burned villages because of how someone looked at him.
If Kerr wants blood, he’ll find MacLaren steel waitin’.
“What in God’s—” Hamish’s eyes widened.
Rowan followed his gaze and saw a turtle creeping steadily towards the center of the room.
“Is that a… turtle?” Iain asked, rising from his chair to lean forward and get a better look.
The councilmen stared, as if trying to determine whether exhaustion had finally begun to cause hallucinations.
The door suddenly flew open, and Sorcha burst inside.
“Oh nay!” she exclaimed, her eyes meeting Rowan’s for a moment before landing on the turtle. She raised her hands to her mouth with theatrical horror.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair had come loose from her braid as if she’d run across half the keep chasing this creature. Her breath came in quick bursts, her chest heaving.
Of all the moments for the lass to appear.
And yet Rowan could not deny that she altered the room the instant she entered it. Even before she spoke, the councilmen’s attention shifted to her with a startled curiosity. She had that effect, it seemed.
“I beg yer pardon, me Laird,” she said quickly, rushing forward. “It appears Mr. Turtle has once again escaped his duties.”
The councilmen burst into laughter, the tension that had gripped the chamber moments ago now gone.
Rowan felt something unfamiliar tug at the corner of his mouth. Before he could stop it, his lip twitched. But only slightly.
Sorcha scooped up the shelled creature with careful hands. “I shall escort him out of the room before he proposes new laws. Excuse me, me Laird.”
Another ripple of laughter swept across the room.
Rowan’s gaze followed her as she left, the turtle tucked carefully in her arm.
Strange lass.
She had walked into a room filled with men discussing blood and border threats, and somehow left it lighter than she had found it. Not once had she looked foolish. Not once had she faltered.
The room fell quiet, but the tension had eased.
“Well,” Angus drawled, “that was new.”
Rowan said nothing, but the ghost of a smile lingered.
He had faced bloodier things than council debates, yet Sorcha had managed to do what no warrior had done in years—disarm an entire room with nothing but wit and a damned turtle.
The memory of her flushed cheeks and theatrical horror as she scooped up the creature lingered in his mind. She had turned potential embarrassment into laughter with a grace he hadn’t expected from the woman forced into his bed and his life.
Something warm and dangerously soft stirred in his chest.
He rubbed a thumb across his jaw, trying to push the feeling away. He couldn’t afford to be drawn to his wife’s fire.
And yet, he didn’t resent it.