Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The afternoon air hung heavy and still, thick with the promise of rain.
Sorcha had been wandering the keep for the better part of an hour, searching every corridor and every chamber for where Flora might have disappeared to.
But her maid was nowhere to be found.
Where has that woman gone off to?
She’d already checked the kitchens, the Great Hall, and even the solar, but there was nothing. The only place left was the eastern courtyard, where the work sheds and barns stood.
She sighed, lifting her skirts as she stepped out into the grey afternoon. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of damp earth and coming storm. The clansmen went about their work, nodding as she passed, but none had seen Flora.
The barn door stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open without thinking, stepping inside to escape the rising wind, and froze.
Rowan stood with his back to her, stripped down to the waist, his shirt draped over a nearby beam. His muscles flexed and shifted beneath his skin as he worked, his arms braced against a timber he was testing for weakness. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cool air.
Sorcha’s breath caught.
God above.
She had seen him clothed. Armored. But this… this was different. The way his shoulders bulged. The way his back narrowed to a lean waist.
The pale scars that stretched across his ribs were stories she could not read. And there, just above his hip, was a mark she found herself staring at before she could stop herself.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
What are ye doing, Sorcha? Look away.
But she could not.
He turned then, perhaps sensing her presence, and the full sight of him struck her. His chest was broad, dusted with dark hair that narrowed to a line down his stomach. Every muscle was defined, carved from years of labor and battle.
His eyes found hers.
She watched his expression turn from surprise into something else. His gaze swept over her once, then returned to her face.
“Lady Sorcha.” His voice was low. “Ye’ve lost yer way?”
Say somethin’. Anythin’.
“I…” She swallowed hard, her tongue suddenly useless. “Flora. I was lookin’ for Flora.”
His eyebrow rose slightly, and the corner of his lips quirked up. “In the barn?”
“I checked everywhere else.” The words came out too fast. She sounded like a fool. “I thought… she might have come to fetch firewood. For the chambers. For the evening. Because it gets cold and…”
Stop talkin’.
Rowan’s mouth curved again. “Is that so?”
“Aye.” Sorcha forced her gaze to stay on his face, though every instinct urged her to let it drift lower. “And what are ye doing here?”
He turned back to the timber, running his palm along its length. The movement drew her eyes to the flexing muscles in his arm and shoulders.
“The reconstruction of the eastern barns is nearly complete,” he said. “But this one needs work before winter. The roof leaks. The supports are rotted in places.”
She watched him test another beam, his muscles straining against the weight.
“Ye do this yerself?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
“I wouldnae ask me men to do what I wouldnae do.”
Nay, that isnae what I meant.
But before she could answer, he straightened and turned to face her fully. The air between them thickened.
“Come here.” It was not a request.
Sorcha hesitated, surprised by the command. He had barely spoken to her since the council meeting she had interrupted.
She crossed the barn slowly, the hay crunching beneath her boots, impossibly loud in the quiet space.
Rowan gestured to the timber beside him. “Hold this.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The beam. Hold it steady while I work.”
He wants me to help?
Sorcha stepped close and placed her hands where he indicated. The wood was rough beneath her palms, and the grain bit into her skin.
“Like this?”
“Tighter.”
He moved behind her, and she felt the heat of him before he touched her. His chest nearly brushed her back. His arms came around her, his hands covering hers on the beam.
“Ye brace it here,” he said near her ear, his voice clipped, “so it doesnae shift when ye work.”
Her breath grew shallow. She could smell him—leather and sweat and something woodsy beneath. Could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin.
He isnae wearin’ a shirt.
The words echoed in her mind over and over like a prayer.
“Ye understand?” His voice was closer now, his lips almost brushing her hair.
“Aye.” The word came out in a whisper.
He did not move away immediately. His hands lingered over hers for a moment longer than necessary, then he stepped back.
The loss of his warmth made her shiver.
“Come,” he said, his voice rougher now. “There is more.”
He led her to the adjoining stable, pointing out weak spots in the stalls, places where the wind would drift through. Sorcha followed, trying to focus on his words instead of the strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. Instead of the sweat trickling down his chest.
Why is he showin’ me this? Why now?
“This one needs new hinges,” Rowan said, gesturing to a stall door. “The latch is nearly rusted through.”
Sorcha reached for it at the same moment he did, and their fingers brushed. She snatched her hand back as though it had burned her. Rowan went still, his grey eyes fixed on her face.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Above them, the threatened rain finally broke loose, drumming fiercely against the wood, and water began to seep through gaps in the roof, dripping onto the straw below.
“Ye should go back to the keep,” he said quietly. “Before the mud makes the path treacherous.”
“And leave ye here to work alone?”
“I’ve worked alone before.”
Sorcha lifted her chin. “That doesnae mean ye must always.”
“Sorcha—”
A thunderclap cut him off.
The horse in the nearest stall started, rearing back with a panicked whinny. Sorcha stumbled toward the sound, reaching for the beast’s halter, but her foot slipped on the wet straw.
She fell, or started to. Rowan’s arm caught her around the waist, hauling her against his chest. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She pressed her hands flat against his bare skin to steady herself.
Oh…
His heart pounded beneath her palms. Or perhaps that was her heart.
They stood frozen, her body flush against his, her fingers spread across the warmth of his chest. Water dripped from the roof onto both of them, cold against her heated skin.
Rowan’s arm tightened around her waist. His jaw clenched, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them.
“Ye are determined to throw yerself into danger, are ye nae?” His voice was rough.
“Only when ye are near to catch me.” The words came out before she could stop them.
His breath hitched.
And then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was not gentle or slow. It was something else entirely. Hungry and desperate, as though the last thread of his restraint had finally snapped.
Sorcha rose onto her tiptoes, her fingers sliding into his wet hair and pulling him closer. She had no thought for propriety now. No thought for duty or obligation or any of the walls she had built around herself.
There was only him. The warmth of his skin beneath her palms. The sound he made against her mouth, a low groan that he swallowed back immediately.
He backed her against the stall door, one hand bracing beside her head, the other still firm on her waist. He pressed her into the wood, and she felt every inch of him, every hard line and solid muscle.
This is what I didnae ken I was waitin’ for.
His mouth left hers to trail kisses along her jaw and down the column of her throat. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, a soft sound escaping her lips.
“Rowan…”
He pulled back at the sound of his name, just far enough to look at her, and she opened her eyes. His chest heaved. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and she saw the war raging behind them.
Want.
Fear.
Want again.
Her hand rose before she could think, her fingers brushing the scar that ran from his brow to his cheek.
“Ye daenae have to stop,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened. “Sorcha…”
“I am yer wife.” She traced the scar, her touch feather-light. “I am nae afraid of ye.”
That isnae entirely true. I am afraid of how much I want ye. But that is different.
He caught her wrist and lowered her hand from his face. His eyes held hers for a moment, before they shuttered.
“Ye should be,” he said quietly.
“Rowan Maclaren!” Morag’s voice broke the moment.
Rowan went rigid. His hands dropped from Sorcha’s waist as though he had been burned. He stepped back, putting distance between them that felt like a wall.
Sorcha’s breath came in ragged gasps. Her back was still pressed against the stall door, her dress wrinkled where his hands had been. She could not think. Could not move. Could only stand there, trembling, as the world came rushing back.
“Rowan!” Morag’s voice came again, closer now. “I ken ye are out here. Supper is gettin’ cold, and ye have kept Elspeth waitin’ for an hour.”
Rowan scrubbed a hand down his face. His chest was still heaving, his lips still wet. But his eyes, those grey eyes that had been dark with want moments ago, had gone cold.
“Morag,” he called out, his voice steady. “We are comin’.”
“Daenae we are comin’ me. I have raised ye since ye were small enough to fall in the well, and I will come out there and drag ye by the ear if I must.”
Sorcha pressed herself harder against the stall door, willing herself to disappear. Her cheeks burned. Her hands shook as she smoothed her skirts, trying to make herself presentable, trying to erase any evidence of what had just happened between them.
Morag cannae ken. She cannae see.
Morag’s shadow fell across the stable doorway. She stood with her arms crossed, her silver hair escaping its braid. She took in the scene immediately: Rowan’s flushed face and Sorcha’s disheveled state, the hay scattered where they had stood. Her eyebrow rose.
Neither of them spoke.
“There ye are,” Morag said finally. “Both of ye. In the stable, wet from the rain, while supper grows cold and a six-year-old girl wonders why her faither has forgotten her.”
Rowan wore his shirt. He pulled it over his head in one motion, the damp fabric clinging to his shoulders.
“I havenae forgotten her,” he said.
“Could have fooled me.” Morag’s gaze flicked to Sorcha, then back to him. She did not ask what they had been doing. She did not need to. “The pair of ye, soaked through and red-faced. Get inside before ye catch yer deaths.”
Rowan said nothing. He walked past her without looking at Sorcha, without waiting to see if she would follow.
Morag watched him go, then turned to Sorcha. Her expression softened, just slightly.
“Come along, lass,” she said, not unkindly. “Ye look like ye have seen a ghost.”
Sorcha pushed off the stall door. Her legs were unsteady, and her lips still tingled. She followed Morag out of the stable into the rain, her heart pounding in her ears.
Rowan was already halfway to the keep. He did not look back.
Morag walked beside Sorcha in silence for a moment. “He has always been like that, ye ken. Pushin’ people away before they can get close.”
Sorcha said nothing.
He pushes people away.
Was that what he was doing to her? Keeping her at arm’s length, even as he pulled her closer in the dark?
The thought twisted painfully inside her, stirring up fear, frustration, and an ache she didn’t want to name.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight, but the words wouldn’t come. She could only stare straight ahead, Morag’s voice ringing in her ears.
And the worst part was that she was terrified the old woman was right.