Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rowan stood in the doorway of Sorcha’s chamber, watching the scene unfold before him.
Two days had passed since she had collapsed on the floor, two days of fever and sweating, and the healer’s hands moving in desperate haste.
Two days of sitting in the corridor outside her room because he could not bring himself to leave, but also could not bring himself to sit beside her bed and watch her fight for breath.
Coward, he cursed inwardly.
But Sorcha was awake now. The color had returned to her cheeks, though not all of it, and her eyes were clear when she looked at Elspeth, who was perched on the edge of the bed like a small bird ready to take flight at any moment.
“… and Mr. Turtle missed ye so much,” Elspeth was saying, her small hands wrapped around the turtle in her lap. “He sat by the window every day and waited for ye to wake up. Did ye nae, Mr. Turtle?”
The turtle did not respond, being a turtle and also currently hiding inside its shell, but Elspeth seemed satisfied with this answer.
Sorcha smiled, reaching out to brush a curl from Elspeth’s forehead. “I am sorry I worried ye, wee one. I didnae mean to sleep for so long.”
“Morag said ye were sick. She said the healer had to give ye special medicine to make ye better.” Elspeth leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She said the medicine tasted like dirt and worms, and that ye were very brave to drink it.”
“I was very brave,” Sorcha agreed. Her eyes darted to the doorway, to Rowan, before darting away again. “I had to be.”
Elspeth followed her gaze and spotted him. “Da! Ye came! I told Lady Sorcha ye would come. I told her ye were just busy with yer duties, but that ye would come as soon as ye could.”
She kept the turtle aside, and launched herself off the bed and ran to him, and he caught her against his legs, resting his hand on the top of her head.
“I came to see ye too,” he said.
“I ken. But mostly Lady Sorcha, aye? Because she was so sick, and ye were worried.”
Rowan did not answer that. He looked over Elspeth’s head at Sorcha, who was watching him with those blue eyes that seemed to see too much.
“Da,” Elspeth said, tugging on his sleeve, “now that Lady Sorcha is better, can we have a feast? A big one, with music and dancin’ and lots of food? Please?”
Rowan looked down at her. “A feast?”
“Aye. Morag says a cèilidh is the best way to celebrate anything. And we have somethin’ to celebrate, do we nae? Lady Sorcha didnae die.”
The words were blunt, spoken with the brutal honesty of a child who did not yet understand the weight of death.
Rowan felt something twist in his chest.
“Elspeth,” Sorcha said gently, “yer da is very busy. He doesnae have time to plan a feast.”
“But he could make time,” Elspeth insisted, turning to look at her father with wide grey eyes that were impossible to refuse. “Could ye, Da? Please? I want everyone to see that Lady Sorcha is well again.”
Rowan looked at Sorcha. She looked back at him.
“A cèilidh,” he said slowly. “Ye want to host a cèilidh.”
“Aye.” Elspeth nodded so vigorously that her curls bounced. “A big one. With music and dancin’ and maybe even some of those honey cakes that Cook makes. The ones with the little berries on top.”
Rowan thought about it. There had been no celebration for his wedding to Sorcha, no feast, no music, no dancing. Just a quick ceremony in a hall full of strangers and a long ride through the rain to a keep that did not welcome her.
She deserves more than that. She deserves to feel like the lady of this castle, nae just a replacement for the bride who ran away.
“Da.” Elspeth tugged on his sleeve again. “Are ye listenin’?”
“I am listening.” Rowan looked at Sorcha. “What do ye think? Would ye like to host a cèilidh?”
Sorcha’s eyes widened slightly, as though she had not expected him to ask for her opinion. “I… Ye daenae have to do this on me account. I am fine. I am recovering. There is nay need for a celebration.”
“But I want a celebration,” Elspeth said. “And Da wants ye to be happy. Right, Da?”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. He did not like that his daughter could read him so easily.
“A cèilidh would remind the clan that there is a new lady in this castle,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “It would give them a chance to meet ye properly. There was nay wedding feast, nay celebration. This would… It would help.”
He did not say what he really meant.
It would give ye importance. It would show everyone that ye arenae just a substitute, nae just a duty. It would show them that I—
He stopped that train of thought.
Sorcha was watching him with an expression he could not read. “If ye think it is best.”
“I think it is necessary.”
“Then aye.” She nodded slowly. “We can host a cèilidh.”
Elspeth clapped her hands together. “I am goin’ to tell Morag! I am goin’ to tell her right now!” She ran for the door, then stopped and turned back. “Lady Sorcha, ye have to promise to dance with me. At least once. Maybe twice.”
“I promise,” Sorcha said, and her smile was genuine this time, soft and warm.
Elspeth disappeared through the door, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Flora rose from the chair by the window. “I should go with her. That child will have Morag plannin’ a feast for a hundred people if someone doesnae intervene.”
She left, and the door closed behind her.
Rowan stayed where he was, his back to the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Sorcha looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. The silence between them was heavy, thick with all the things neither of them knew how to say.
“Ye didnae have to agree to the cèilidh,” he said finally.
“Elspeth wanted it.”
“Elspeth wants many things. That doesnae mean she gets them.”
Sorcha looked up at him. “Ye agreed too.”
He did not have an answer for that. He had agreed because he wanted to give her something. Because he wanted to show her that she mattered. Because he wanted…
I daenae ken what I want. I only ken that I cannae stop thinkin’ about her.
“Ye look better,” he said, because he did not know what else to say.
“I feel better.” She paused. “Weak still, but better.”
“The healer said ye need to rest.”
“The healer says many things.”
Rowan’s mouth twitched. “She said ye were stubborn.”
“She wasnae wrong.”
He almost smiled. Almost. But the memory of Sorcha’s pale face on the pillow, of the healer’s grim expression, of the fear that had clawed at his chest like a living thing—those memories were still too fresh.
I nearly lost her. I nearly lost her, and I wouldnae have even been there to see it. I would have been in me study, or walkin’ the walls, or anywhere but here.
He stepped away from the door and crossed to the window, looking down at the courtyard below. Men went about their work, carrying supplies and tending to the animals. The world continued on, indifferent to the fact that his wife had almost died.
Several long, quiet minutes passed between them, filled only by the crackle of the hearth, before the chamber door finally creaked open. Flora bustled back inside, carrying a stack of fresh linens and casting a cautious glance at Rowan to see if she was interrupting.
“Flora,” Sorcha said from the bed, her voice light, almost casual. “Thank ye for the wood ye left on me dresser. I wanted to carve charms for the midsummer festival, but I fainted before I could finish any of them.”
Rowan turned away from the window, frowning. He had not heard anything about wood on a dresser.
Flora, who had just reentered the room with a fresh pot of tea, stopped in her tracks. “The wood, me Lady?”
“Aye. The blocks on me dresser. The ones I was carvin’ when I fell ill. I assumed ye left them for me.”
Flora set the tea down on the table, her brow furrowed. “I didnae bring any wood, me Lady. I thought ye had brought it with ye from Sinclair Castle.”
Sorcha’s smile faltered. “Nay, I didnae. I thought… Perhaps Morag?”
Morag appeared in the doorway at that moment, Elspeth’s hand in hers. “I didnae bring any wood either. I assumed Flora or one of the other maids did.”
The room fell very quiet.
Rowan’s gaze sharpened. “Where is this wood?”
Sorcha pointed to the dresser against the far wall. “There. On the top. There were several blocks. I have been carvin’ them for days. I thought me weariness was just the damp, but it grew worse each time I worked.”
Rowan crossed to the dresser in three long strides. The blocks sat in a neat pile, dark and fine-grained, surrounded by a halo of fine sawdust. The wood looked expensive, likely imported from somewhere far away.
He reached out, but catching the strange, unnatural glisten of the grain, he hesitated. Pulling the edge of his plaid over his palm, he picked up a block and held it carefully near his nose.
The scent was faint but unmistakable. It was sharp and familiar.
Wolfsbane.
His blood ran cold.
“What is it?” Sorcha asked from the bed. “Rowan, what is wrong?”
He did not answer. He turned the block over in his cloth-covered hands, examining the grain, the color, the way the wood seemed to weep slightly in the light. It had been treated. Soaked in something that had seeped deep into the fibers.
“This wood is poisoned.” He could feel the rage building in his chest like a fire. “Wolfsbane.”
Sorcha’s face went pale. “Poisoned? But I have been carvin’ it for days. I have been breathin’ the dust. I have been holdin’ it in me bare hands.”
“Aye.” He looked at her, and he saw the realization dawn in her eyes. “That is why ye fell ill. Nae because of somethin’ ye ate, but because the dust crept into yer lungs over time.”
Flora’s hand flew to her mouth. “Who would do such a thing? Who would want to harm her?”
Morag stepped into the room, her sharp eyes fixed on the block in Rowan’s hand. “Wolfsbane,” she said slowly. “That grows thick in the fields near Kerr lands.”
Rowan’s mind raced. Laird Kerr. The Mad Laird. The man who had been negotiating for a Sinclair bride before Rowan had married Sorcha. The man whose pride had been wounded, whose alliance had been stolen.
Would he go this far? Would he try to kill me wife to punish me?
“Wolfsbane isnae easy to find,” Morag continued. “It doesnae grow in these parts. Someone brought it here. Someone wanted Lady Sorcha to carve that wood, to breathe the dust, to die slowly and quietly, so nay one would suspect a thing.”
“But why?” Flora’s voice was shaking. “Why would anyone want to kill her?”
Rowan did not answer. He was already moving toward the door, the block of wood still in his hand.
“Where are ye goin’?” Sorcha called after him.
“To find Ewan. To ready the horses.”
“For what?”
He stopped at the door and looked back at her. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide, but despite everything, despite the poison and the fear and the rage coursing through his veins, he felt something soften in his chest.
If Kerr wants war, he shall have it. But first, I will prove it was him. I will find the evidence, and I will make him answer for what he has done.
Sorcha opened her mouth to speak, but he was already gone, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he strode down the corridor.
Behind him, the door swung shut, and the fire snapped in the silence.
Rowan paused in the corridor, his fists clenched at his sides. The image of Sorcha lying pale and unmoving on the floor refused to leave him. Someone had tried to take her from him. Kerr had tried to kill her.
And for that, the Mad Laird would pay in blood.