Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The council chamber was thick with smoke from torches. Rowan sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers drumming against the worn wood, his patience fraying with each passing moment.
“A cèilidh,” Hamish repeated, as though the word itself offended him. “Ye want to host a cèilidh. Now. When Laird Kerr gathers men on our border and someone has tried to poison yer wife.”
Rowan’s fingers stilled. “Ye have a better idea?”
Hamish opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“The lady needs to be seen,” Rowan argued.
“She has been cooped up in the keep for weeks, and most of the clan have barely laid eyes on her. There was nay weddin’ feast, nay celebration.
The people need to ken who she is. They need to see her as their lady, nae as a stranger who appeared in their midst one day and nearly died the next. ”
Duncan leaned forward, his gaunt face sharp in the firelight. “And Laird Kerr? What of him?”
“Kerr will receive an invitation.” Rowan’s mouth curved, but there was no warmth in it. “Under the pretense of reconciliation. A chance to mend old wounds, to drink together, to dance together. To prove that there is nay bad blood between us.”
Torcall snorted from his end of the table. “Laird Kerr will never believe that.”
“Kerr will believe what his pride wants him to believe.” Rowan leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes trailing slowly across the faces of his councilmen.
“He will come because he wants to see for himself. He will come because he thinks I am weak, because he thinks I am afraid, and because he thinks I am tryin’ to buy his forgiveness with wine and music. ”
“And when he comes?” Iain asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as it always did. “What then?”
“Then we watch him. We listen. We learn what he kens about the poison, about the fires, about the men who attacked us on the road.” Rowan’s voice was cold. “And if he is guilty, we will have the proof we need before he leaves the keep.”
The councilmen exchanged glances. He could see the doubt in their eyes, the worry, the fear that he was taking too great a risk.
But he did not care. He had spent too many days sitting in corridors while his wife lay in a fevered sleep. He had spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, imagining what would have happened if Flora had found her an hour later.
I willnae sit idle. I willnae wait for the next attack. I will draw them out, and I will end this.
“There is somethin’ else,” he said. “I want invitations sent to me uncle. And me aunt.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Hamish was the first to speak. “Alistair? Ye havenae spoken to him in years. Nae since—”
“I ken how long it has been.” Rowan’s jaw tightened. “He is family. The clan expects me to mend that rift, eventually. And if I am sendin’ invitations to every other laird in the Highlands, it will look strange if I leave him out.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that the only reason?”
Rowan did not answer.
It was not the only reason. Alistair was his father’s brother, the last living connection to a family that had been decimated by plague and loss.
For years, Rowan had refused to see him, had refused to even speak his name, because the memory of his brother Gordon was too heavy to bear.
Gordon, who had been sent away to their uncle to escape the pox.
Gordon, who had died anyway, alone and far from home, buried in ground that did not belong to their family.
I couldnae save him. I couldnae save any of them. But I will save her.
Alistair was old now, and Rowan was tired of carrying the weight of grief that should have been shared.
“Send the invitations,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “To everyone. The Sinclairs, the Kerrs, the Stewarts, and anyone else who needs to be reminded that the MacLarens are still a force in these lands.”
His councilmen nodded reluctantly.
Rowan rose from his chair. “I will leave the arrangements to Morag. She kens better than any of us how to plan a cèilidh.” He paused at the door, looking back at the men who had served his family for decades. “And Hamish? Tell the guards to double the watch. I want nay surprises.”
He left before anyone could respond, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he walked through the quiet corridors of the keep.
The invitations would go out tomorrow. The guests would arrive within the fortnight. And then, finally, he would have answers.
The Great Hall was empty when Sorcha entered it, the long tables cleared and the rushes swept clean in preparation for the evening meal.
The fire in the massive hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting the room in shades of gold and shadow.
“Elspeth,” she called, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “I give up. Where are ye hidin’?”
Silence answered her, but she could hear the soft rustle of fabric and the barely suppressed giggle that came from somewhere near the high table.
They had been playing hide and seek for hours, ever since the midday meal. Elspeth had insisted, and Sorcha had been too tired to argue, though the healer had warned her not to overexert herself.
But the child had been so delighted that Sorcha was well again, so desperate for normalcy after days of fear and uncertainty, that Sorcha had not had the heart to refuse.
Now, where is the wee lass?
“I am goin’ to find ye,” Sorcha said, moving slowly toward the high table. “And when I do, I am goin’ to tickle ye until ye beg for mercy.”
Another giggle, louder this time, and she saw a small hand disappear beneath the heavy oak table.
She pretended to search the far end of the hall first, peering behind the tall chairs and under the benches, drawing out the game because she knew Elspeth loved the anticipation. Then, she made her way to the high table and peered underneath.
Elspeth was curled into a small ball, her hands pressed over her mouth to stifle her laughter, Mr. Turtle clutched against her chest. Her grey eyes, so like her father’s, sparkled with joy.
“I found ye,” Sorcha growled playfully, reaching under the table to scoop her out. “And now I am goin’ to tickle ye.”
“Nay!” Elspeth shrieked, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “Nay, please, Lady Sorcha! I surrender! I surrender!”
Sorcha tickled her anyway, gently, until Elspeth was gasping for air and begging for mercy. Then she set her down and smoothed her own skirts, her chest heaving with the effort.
“Ye are supposed to let me win,” Elspeth said, still giggling. “That is the rule.”
“I didnae ken that was the rule.”
“Everyone kens that rule.” Elspeth tucked Mr. Turtle more securely under her arm. “Da always lets me win. Except when he doesnae. But mostly, he does.”
Sorcha smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.
She had been thinking about Rowan all day, about the way he had looked at her when he discovered the poisoned wood, about the cold fury in his voice when he had called for Ewan and ordered the horses, and most importantly, their last encounter.
He was angry.
“Lady Sorcha,” Elspeth said, tugging on her sleeve. “Are ye sad?”
“Nay, wee one. I am just tired.”
“Ye should rest. Da says rest is important when ye have been sick.”
“Yer da is very wise.”
“He is.” Elspeth nodded solemnly. “He is the wisest da in the whole world.”
Sorcha smiled. “Ye should go find Morag,” she said gently. “It is almost time for yer supper.”
“Will ye come with me?”
“I will come find ye later. I need to walk for a while. Stretch me legs.”
Elspeth looked at her for a long moment, as though deciding whether to believe her, then nodded. “Ye promise?”
“I promise.”
Elspeth ran off, her small feet pattering against the stone floor. Sorcha watched her go until the sound faded into silence.
She did not know where she was walking. Her feet carried her through the corridors without any conscious direction, past the kitchens where servants were preparing the evening meal, past the guardroom where men laughed and talked, past the stairs that led to the upper chambers where her room waited.
She found herself in a part of the keep she had never visited before, a narrow corridor lined with doors that looked older than the rest, the wood dark and worn. One of the doors was open just a crack, and firelight spilled through the gap.
She should have walked past. She should have turned around and gone back to her room and left whatever was behind that door alone. But her feet would not obey.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was a small chamber, a study or a sitting room, with a fire burning low in the hearth and shadows clinging to the corners. And there, in a chair by the fire, sat Rowan.
He was alone. A glass of scotch rested on the small table beside him, the amber liquid catching the firelight. In his hand, he held a small wooden horse.
The one I carved. The one I left on his desk.
He did not look up when she entered. Perhaps he had not heard her, or he simply did not care.
“I apologize,” Sorcha whispered.
She was not sure what she was apologizing for.
She turned to leave.
“Nay.” His voice was low, rough. “Stay.”
She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe. Then she stepped further into the room, letting the door close behind her.
The fire crackled. The shadows danced. Rowan did not look at her. His thumb moved slowly over the carved horse, tracing the curve of its neck, the line of its mane.
“I used to make toys,” he admitted, his voice distant. “For me braither and sister. Carved them meself when I was nay older than Elspeth. They kept their hands busy, Morag said. Kept them from getting into trouble.”
Sorcha moved closer, her eyes fixed on the horse in his hands. “I didnae ken ye had a braither and sister.”
“Aye.” He gave a short laugh, but there was no joy in it, only a hollow echo of something that had once been warm. “They’re gone. Me parents too. One by one, the Baneshanks claimed them.”
The Baneshanks. The death that came for everyone, that could not be bargained with, fought, or escaped. Sorcha had heard old maids speak of it when she was young, had seen them cross themselves at the mention of its name.
“The plague took them fast,” Rowan continued. “I was away, fightin’ a battle I cannae even remember now. By the time I returned, the castle was a tomb. I found them in the Great Hall. Me father, me mother… and me sister. She was only fourteen.”
Sorcha’s throat tightened. She wanted to reach out to him, to touch his hand, to offer some comfort. But she was afraid he would pull away.
“All at once, like candles snuffed out in a storm,” he said, his voice hollow. “And me brother…” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “Me brother was sent away to our uncle, to keep him safe from the sickness. He died there anyway. Alone. Far from home.”
He lifted the scotch and took a long sip, the firelight catching the scar on his face, making it look deeper, darker.
“Then me wife.” His voice roughened. “Because she bore Elspeth. The birth was very difficult. The bleedin’ wouldnae stop, and I stood there uselessly, watchin’ her die.”
Sorcha’s breath caught. She had known that his first wife had died in childbirth. Morag had told her that much. But she had not known the rest, had not known that he had watched it happen, that he had stood by and been unable to stop it.
“Everyone dies, Sorcha.” He finally turned to look at her, and his grey eyes were dark with a grief so old and so deep that it seemed to have no end. “That is the truth I live with. Every day. Every night. Everyone I have ever loved has been taken from me, one way or another.”
The weight of his words pressed against her chest, heavy and suffocating. She wanted to speak, to say something that would ease the pain in his voice, but the words would not come.
Rowan set the scotch down and rose from the chair, moving toward her. He stopped when he was close enough that she could feel the heat of him, could see the pulse beating in his throat.
“I willnae see it happen again,” he said, his voice fierce. “Nae to ye, nor to the heir ye will bear.”
The heir I will bear?
Her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it in her ears. She opened her mouth to respond, to tell him that she did not need his protection, that she wanted more than just safety, that she wanted—
“Home, free all!” Elspeth’s voice shattered the moment.
Sorcha started, stepping back from Rowan, her cheeks flushing.
Rowan closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. She saw him gather himself, saw the walls come back up, saw the warmth in his gaze fade into something colder.
“Elspeth,” he called. “We are in here.”
The door burst open, and Elspeth ran into the room, Mr. Turtle held aloft like a banner. “I found ye! I found both of ye! That means I win!”
She skidded to a stop in front of them, looking between them with suspicion. “What were ye doing? Were ye sharin’ secrets?”
“Nay secrets,” Rowan said, reaching down to ruffle her hair. “Just grown-up things.”
Elspeth wrinkled her nose. “Grown-up things are boring.”
“Sometimes,” Sorcha agreed. “But they are necessary.”
Elspeth considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Can we go eat now? I am hungry, and I didnae find Morag. Mr. Turtle is hungry too.”
“I am sure Mr. Turtle can wait a few more minutes,” Rowan said.
“Mr. Turtle cannae wait. He is very impatient. He gets it from his maither.”
Sorcha laughed, and the sound seemed to break the tension that had been building in the room. Rowan looked at her.
“Come,” he said, taking Elspeth’s hand. “Let us find ye somethin’ to eat.”
He walked past Sorcha without looking at her, and Elspeth skipped along beside him, chattering about Mr. Turtle’s family and the pond and the honey cakes she hoped Cook had made for supper.
Sorcha stood alone in the chamber, the fire crackling beside her, Rowan’s words echoing in her mind.
She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat.
What am I going to do with this man?