Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The corridor was quiet, torchlight flickering against the stone walls as Rowan walked with Ewan beside him.
The council had finally adjourned, yet the old men’s voices still echoed in his skull like the buzzing of midges that plagued the summer months.
It had been a long evening. After the tense dinner, where every glance across the table had felt heavy with unspoken words and simmering heat, Rowan had hoped for some peace. Instead, the council meeting had dragged well into the night.
“Ye were quiet in there,” Ewan noted. “More than usual, I mean.”
“There was nothin’ to say,” Rowan grunted.
“Nothin’ at all?” Ewan’s mouth curled into a smile that usually preceded trouble. “The Mad Laird gathers men on our border, and ye have nothin’ to say about it?”
“I said what needed to be said.” Rowan’s jaw tightened as they walked, the muscle ticking beneath his scarred cheek. “Let him gather if he wants to gather. Let him march if he wants to march. He will find MacLaren steel waitin’ for him, and that will be the end of it.”
Ewan huffed a laugh that echoed off the stone walls. “Aye, there is the Rowan I ken. For a moment there, I thought marriage might have softened ye.”
Rowan stopped walking and turned his head slowly to his friend. His expression did not change, but his eyes must have flashed, because Ewan held up both hands in mock surrender with a grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I said nothin’,” he insisted. “Nothin’ at all.”
“See that ye daenae.”
Ewan reached the study door first and pushed it open without ceremony. “After ye, me Laird.”
Rowan stepped inside.
And stopped where he stood.
Sorcha sat at his desk with her back to him, her fair hair loose and spilling over her shoulders in waves that caught the firelight and turned the color of honey and gold.
She had not heard them enter, too focused on whatever occupied her hands.
Her head was bent low, her shoulders hunched in concentration.
When Rowan stepped closer on silent feet, he saw exactly what she was doing.
She was carving.
A little wooden horse rested in her palm, already taking shape beneath the blade of her knife.
Behind him, Ewan cleared his throat.
Sorcha started so badly that the knife slipped in her grip. She spun in the chair, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink.
“Me Laird.” She set the knife down on the desk and half rose from the chair, her movements jerky with nerves. “I didnae hear ye come in. I didnae mean to intrude. I only came in to find a quill.”
Rowan said nothing. He simply stared at her.
“The quill, I mean,” she continued, her words tumbling out faster than usual.
“Flora misplaced hers somewhere in the keep, and I needed one for the letters I have been meaning to write. To me braither, mostly, to let him ken that I’m fine.
Nae that he doesnae already ken, but I thought it would be proper to write it down anyway, and the fire was warm in here, and I only meant to stay for a moment… ”
She was rambling. Rowan had never heard her ramble before, not once in all the days since she had arrived at the castle.
“The fire was warm,” she said again. “I only meant to rest for a moment. I didnae mean to fall asleep, and I didnae mean to make meself comfortable in yer study without askin’ permission first. I ken that this is yer space, and I shouldnae have assumed that I was welcome here.”
Ewan’s mouth twitched with barely suppressed amusement. “A quill, was it?” He glanced at the wooden horse still sitting on the desk, then back at Sorcha’s flushed face. “That is a fine quill ye have there, me Lady. I have never seen one shaped quite like that before.”
Sorcha’s flush deepened to the color of roses. “I… The quill is… That is to say…”
“She fell asleep,” Rowan said flatly.
Sorcha’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide and startled, but then she gathered herself in the space of a single breath.
“The fire was warm,” she said again. “I only meant to rest for a moment.”
Ewan looked between them with his eyebrows raised high on his forehead, and the silence stretched out between the three of them until it became almost unbearable. Then he let out a low laugh and shook his head.
“Well,” he said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder with enough force to push him forward a step.
“I can see very clearly that I am nae needed here. I will leave ye two to… whatever this is.” He stepped back toward the door with his hands raised in surrender.
“Try nae to frighten the poor lass too badly, Rowan. She looks ready to bolt like a startled deer.”
The door closed behind him, and the latch clicked into place too loudly in the sudden silence.
They were finally left alone.
Rowan crossed the room slowly, taking his time, letting his boots fall quietly on the stone floor.
Sorcha watched him approach with her hands clasped in front of her, the wooden horse forgotten on the desk beside her. Her pulse beat visibly in the hollow at the base of her throat, a rapid flutter that betrayed the calm expression on her face.
Rowan picked up the horse and turned it over in his fingers, feeling the smooth wood and the careful cuts.
“Where did ye learn to do this?” he asked, turning the horse over again to study the delicate curve of its neck.
Sorcha’s eyes stayed on the carving in his hands, following his fingers as he traced the lines she had cut.
She cleared her throat. “When our parents died, the servants were the ones who cared for us. The housekeeper’s husband was a carpenter, a quiet man who spent his days in the workshop behind the kitchen.”
She paused.
“I spent hours with him watchin’ him work.
It fascinated me, the way he could take a piece of wood with nay form at all and make it into anything he wished.
A bird, a horse, a wee wooden doll for Ailis when she was frightened at night.
He taught me how to hold the knife, how to follow the grain, how to be patient when the shape wouldnae reveal itself right away. ”
“Anything?” he asked, still turning the horse over in his fingers.
“Anything,” she confirmed. “Within reason, of course. I never learned to carve anythin’ larger than me two hands put together, but the wee things… the wee things I can do.”
Rowan set the wooden horse down on the desk and moved closer to her, watching the way her breath caught in her chest as he invaded her space.
He could smell the lavender in her hair from here.
She smells so good.
“Why have ye never married?” The question came out sharper than he had intended, more like an accusation than an inquiry.
Great, just great.
She looked up at him, startled by his tone. “Duty to me family.”
“That isnae an answer, and ye ken it.”
“It is the truth,” she said. “There was nay one asking for me hand, nae really, and even if there had been, I wouldnae have left. Callan needed me after our parents died. Ailis needed me even more—a wee lass who had lost her maither and faither in a single night. There was nay room in me life for anything else, so I stopped expecting it.”
“And now?” He stepped even closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. “Ye’re married to me now. Do ye still feel only duty when ye look at this marriage?”
She did not answer him immediately. Her eyes searched his face, looking for something he was not sure he wanted her to find.
“I am here,” she said finally. “That is what matters in the end, is it nae? I am here, and I am trying, and I will continue to try for as long as this marriage lasts.”
He closed the last inches between them until he could count every faint freckle on her nose. “And what do ye truly ken about being a wife in this clan?”
Her flush told him everything he needed to know, spreading from her cheeks down her throat in a wave of pink that made his blood run hot.
“I have read about it,” she started, then paused, clearly flustered. “I have heard things, from Flora and from the other maids, about what happens between a husband and wife.”
“Ye’ve read about it.” His voice was flat, though he could feel his heart beating faster in his chest. “Ye’ve heard things from maids.”
“I am nae ignorant, Rowan. I ken that an heir must come of this marriage eventually, and I ken that I am meant to give ye that heir.”
“Ye’re innocent.” He said it quietly, not as an insult but as a simple statement of fact. “Ye daenae ken what ye’re askin’ for when ye invite me to yer bed. Ye daenae understand what it would mean, what it would cost, what it would change between us.”
Sorcha lifted her chin in that way she had, that stubborn tilt that made him want to kiss her and shake her in equal measure.
“Then teach me,” she demanded, her voice low and urgent. “If I daenae ken what I’m askin’ for, teach me. Show me.”
Her words hit him hard, knocking the breath from his lungs and setting fire to something deep in his belly.
“Teach me,” she said again in a whisper, pressing her hand against his chest.
She’s so stubborn.
Her words undid something in him, something he had been holding together with willpower and fear and the memory of blood on his hands.
“I am yer wife,” she murmured. “I am yer wife in truth, nae just in name. Nae just because me braither needed an alliance to keep his borders safe. I want ye to look at me and see me, nae duty, nae obligation, nae a replacement.”
I should step back. I should put distance between us. Remember all the blood and grief in the cold ground, Rowan.
But she was looking at him with those blue eyes, and her hand was pressed over his heart, and he could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin where his fingers had closed around her wrist without his permission.
He clenched his jaw, fighting the violent urge to claim her right then and there. He had spent years mastering control over his men, his clan, himself. Yet one gentle press of her palm against his chest and a single whispered plea threatened to undo everything.
He could feel the warmth of her hand through his shirt, the faint tremor in her fingers, and it broke him more than any shouted demand ever could.
His hand closed around her waist, firm and possessive, and he drew her against him in one smooth motion. The heat of her body was startling after so many days of keeping his distance, and he felt her gasp against his chest when her hips met his.
His mouth found hers, and she stiffened for half a heartbeat, just long enough for him to think she might push him away, but then she melted into him with a soft sound that made his blood sizzle.
Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair and tugging gently. She kissed him back like she had been starving for it, like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment and she was not going to waste a single second of it.
God, she tastes so good.
He groaned against her mouth, the sound low and rough in his throat, and she answered him with a desperate little moan that went straight through him.
Her body pressed closer to his, her breasts soft against his chest, and her hips bucked against him in a way that made him want to lift her onto the desk and bury himself inside her.
“Rowan,” she breathed, and the sound of his name on her lips was almost enough to undo him completely.
He kissed her harder and deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a rhythm that made her gasp and clutch at his shoulders. His hand slid from her waist down to her hip, gripping the curve through her skirts, and she arched into his touch with another desperate moan.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against her mouth, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to keep going. “Tell me to stop right now, and I will.”
She shook her head, her eyes dark and hazy. “Nay, daenae stop. I daenae want ye to stop.”
“Sorcha.”
“I mean it.” Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his mouth back down to hers.
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, tasting her like something forbidden and precious all at once. His other hand slid up her back, spanning the length of her spine, pulling her closer until there was no space left between their bodies.
She made a sound against his mouth, soft and wanting, and he swallowed it down like wine.
His hand left her hip and gathered her skirts, pushing the fabric up her legs until he could feel the bare skin of her thighs beneath his palm. She gasped when his fingers touched her, and he watched her face as he moved higher.
“Look at me,” he said, and her eyes fluttered open to meet his. “I want to see ye. I want to watch yer face when ye fall apart for me.”
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as his fingers found the heat between her legs. She was slick and ready, and the sound she made when he touched her was unlike anything he had ever heard from her before, raw and desperate and full of need.
“That’s it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Let me hear ye. Let me feel ye.”
“Rowan.” His name came out broken, fractured, and her hips moved against his hand in a rhythm that was all instinct and no thought.
“I have ye,” he said against her throat. “I am nae going anywhere.”
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails biting through the linen of his shirt as his fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles.
He watched her face the entire time, watched the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered shut.
Her breath came faster and faster until she was panting against his chest.
“Please,” she whispered.
He did not know what she was asking for, but he gave her more anyway.
He pressed into her harder, moved faster, watched the tension build in her body like a storm gathering on the horizon. Her back arched, her head fell back, and a broken cry tore from her throat as she shattered against his hand.
He held her through it, gathering her close as her body trembled and shook. He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing the same air. Her fingers clutched at his shirt like he was the only thing keeping her upright, and in that moment, he felt like he might be.
“Lass,” he said, his voice rough with want and wonder. “Ye stir the beast I keep chained inside me. Ye have nay idea what ye do to me.”