Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sorcha had never felt anything like this in all her life. Not fear, though there was fear there somewhere beneath the surface, a distant awareness that she was standing on the edge of something she did not fully understand.
It was not duty either, though duty had been her compass for so many years that she had almost forgotten there was any other way to navigate the world.
This was want. Pure and terrifying and so much bigger than she had ever imagined.
This felt so good.
Her body still hummed from his touch, from the way his fingers had moved inside her with such confidence and care. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her skin, the pressure and the rhythm and the way he had watched her face as she fell apart against him.
“Rowan,” she breathed, and her fingers slid into his hair of their own accord, tangling in the dark waves at the nape of his neck.
He groaned softly at the sound of his name on her lips, and the vibration of it traveled through his chest to where she was pressed against him.
His hand drifted down her waist, then up again, tracing the curve of her hip and the dip of her ribs as though he was trying to memorize her by touch alone.
She was trembling now, her whole body shaking with the aftermath of what he had done to her and the anticipation of whatever might come next.
It was all so overwhelming, the heat of him and the smell of him and the way he looked at her like she was something precious and dangerous all at once.
“More,” she whispered before she could stop herself, the word slipping out between her parted lips. Her forehead rested against his chest, and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her cheek, fast and strong. “Please, Rowan. I want more.”
His arms tightened around her for a moment, pulling her closer, and she thought he might lift her onto the desk or carry her to the chair by the fire or simply take her right there against the maps and the ledgers and the scattered wood shavings.
But then something changed.
His body went rigid beneath her hands, every muscle tensing at once like a bowstring pulled too tight. His hands, which had been moving so confidently over her skin, went still where they rested on her waist.
Nay…
She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at his face.
His jaw was clenched so hard that she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His grey eyes, which had been dark with want just moments ago, had gone distant and cold, looking at something she could not see.
“Rowan?” She reached up to touch his face, her fingers brushing against the scar that ran from his brow to his cheek. “What is it? What is wrong?”
He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and lowered her hand back down to her side. He stepped away from her, putting distance between their bodies that felt like a chasm after the closeness they had shared.
What’s going on?
Sorcha swayed slightly where she stood, still dazed from the pleasure and confused by the sudden change in his demeanor. Her body ached for his touch, still hungry and aching, and she did not understand why he had stopped when everything had felt so right.
“Rowan,” she said again, and she hated the way her voice trembled, hated the vulnerability that crept into the word. “What happened? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
He ran a hand through his hair, the dark waves falling across his forehead in disarray, and his jaw was clenched so tightly that she could see veins bulging in his neck.
“Nay more,” he said roughly.
He would not look at her when he spoke. His eyes flicked to the fire, to the wall, to anything in the room that was not her face.
“Nay more?” She repeated the words like she did not understand them, because she did not. “What do ye mean, nay more? Rowan, look at me. Please look at me.”
He shook his head. “I cannae. I shouldnae have done any of this. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake.” The words landed like stones in her chest. “Ye kissed me. Ye touched me. Ye made me feel things I have never felt before in me life.”
“I couldnae control meself.” His voice was rough, almost angry, but she did not think the anger was directed at her. “I should have been able to control meself, and I couldnae. Ye daenae understand what ye do to me, Sorcha. Ye daenae understand the danger.”
“What danger?” She stepped towards him, reaching for his arm, but he moved away before she could touch him. “Rowan, what are ye talkin’ about? There is nay danger. We are married. This is what married people do. This is what ye’re supposed to want from me.”
He turned away from her, his broad back presented to her like a wall she could not climb. He braced his hands on the edge of the desk, and she could see his shoulders rising and falling with each breath he took.
Why is he doing this?
“I cannae do this,” he said, his voice steadier now, colder, as though he was forcing the emotion out of it one word at a time. “I thought I could, but I cannae. Ye need to go back to yer chambers, Sorcha.”
She stood there, flushed and breathless, with her skirts still bunched around her thighs and her lips still swollen from his kisses. She wanted him still, wanted him with an ache that seemed to have no end, and he was telling her to leave.
“Rowan.”
“Go.” The word cracked through the room like a whip, and he still would not look at her. “Please, just go.”
I’m tired of trying to understand him. This is so exhausting!
She smoothed her skirts down with trembling hands and straightened her bodice where his hands had loosened the laces.
She walked to the door with her head held high, and though tears stung her eyes, she refused to shed them in front of him. She paused with her hand on the latch, waiting for him to call her back, to say something, to do anything that would show her that he did not want her to go.
He said nothing.
She opened the door and walked out into the corridor without looking back.
Her chamber was dark when she entered, the fire burned down to glowing embers, and the candles guttered low in their holders. Flora had left a fresh candle burning on the table near the window, and by its light, Sorcha could see the trunk where she kept her carving supplies.
I willnae cry. I willnae give him the satisfaction.
She tried to convince herself while her lips trembled. She sat down in the chair by the cold hearth, retrieving the carving knife she had hastily brought up from the study. Reaching into the nearby woodbox, she pulled out a thick, unshaped block of timber.
The wood was different from what she had expected, harder than the pine she usually worked with, and the blade did not glide as smoothly through the grain.
She welcomed the resistance, for she needed something to fight against, needed the strain in her hands to match the strain in her heart.
I cannae believe he called what happened a mistake.
She carved and carved, the shape slowly taking form beneath her fingers. She was not sure what she was making, did not care what it became, only knew that she needed to keep moving, keep cutting, keep doing something that did not involve thinking about him.
But I have never felt anythin’ that good. Why does he have to be the one to make me feel that way?
But the longer she worked, the weaker she felt.
Her arms grew heavy, the knife seeming to weigh more with each passing moment. Her head began to pound, a dull ache behind her eyes that spread to her temples and down her neck. She blinked, trying to focus on the wood in her hands, but the candlelight seemed to blur at the edges of her vision.
Strange.
She set the knife down and pressed her hand to her forehead. Her skin was damp with sweat, cold in a way that made her stomach turn.
What is happenin’ to me?
She tried to stand, to call out for Flora, to do anything that might stop the world from spinning around her. But her legs would not hold her. The floor rushed up to meet her face, and she felt her body hit the cold stone, and then there was nothing at all.
A blood-curdling scream ripped through the corridor.
“Sorcha!”
Rowan’s head snapped up. He was already moving before the second cry echoed off the stone walls.
“Help! Someone help me! The lady isnae breathin’ right!”
His heart slammed against his ribs as he broke into a run, his boots pounding against the floor. Servants and guards scattered out of his way. The terror in Flora’s voice sent ice through his veins.
He burst into Sorcha’s chamber, and the sight hit him like a blow to the chest.
Sorcha lay crumpled on the floor beside the dresser, deathly pale, her lips tinged blue. Her fingers were still curled tightly around the handle of her small knife. Flora knelt beside her, sobbing and shaking her shoulders, while Morag pressed a hand to her forehead.
“She is burnin’ up,” Morag said grimly. “This isnae natural.”
Rowan crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to one knee beside his wife. He reached out and brushed trembling fingers across her cold cheek.
“What the hell happened?” His voice came out rough, barely controlled.
The healer arrived moments later, took one look at Sorcha, and began barking orders. “Lay her on the bed. Gently! We need to get the poison out of her blood before it reaches her heart.”
Rowan’s stomach dropped.
“Poison?” he repeated, the word tasting like ash. The color drained from his face as the guards carefully lifted Sorcha onto the bed.
Who would dare do such a thing?
He stood up and went to the bed, looking down at Sorcha’s still form. Her face was so pale that she seemed to disappear into the white linen of the pillow, her fair hair spread around her like a golden halo.
“How? Who?” he asked.
“I daenae ken.” The healer was mixing powders in a cup of wine, her movements quick and efficient. “I only ken that if ye want her to live, ye need to let me work. Ye can question the servants and search for answers once she is out of danger.”
Rowan did not move. He stood at the foot of the bed like a statue carved from stone, his hands gripping the wooden frame so tightly that his knuckles went white.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and whoever is responsible will pay!
“Rowan.” Ewan appeared in the doorway, his sandy hair disheveled and his face creased with concern. “The cook is in the kitchen. The guards are searching the stores. We will find out who did this.”
“Find them,” Rowan said, his voice full of such fury that the healer flinched. “Find them and bring them to me. I daenae care who they are or who sent them. I want them in the dungeons before the sun sets.”
Ewan nodded and disappeared down the corridor, his boots echoing on the stone as he ran to carry out the order.
The healer lifted Sorcha’s head and pressed the cup to her lips, coaxing her to swallow. Sorcha choked and coughed, but some of the liquid went down, and the healer nodded with grim satisfaction.
“That will draw the poison from her blood,” she said. “But it will take time. She needs to rest. She needs to be kept warm. And she needs someone to stay with her, to watch for any change in her condition.”
“I will stay,” Flora said from her place by the window. “I willnae leave her.”
The healer nodded and stood, gathering her things. “I will return at midday to check on her progress. If her condition worsens before then, send for me immediately.”
She left, and the room fell silent except for the sound of Sorcha’s shallow breathing and the crackle of the fire that Morag had built up to warm the chamber.
Rowan still stood at the foot of the bed, still gripping the wooden frame, still staring down at his wife’s pale face.