Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The castle hummed with life in a way it had not in years.
Rowan stood at the window of the Great Hall, looking down at the courtyard below, and watched as carriage after carriage rolled through the gates.
Banners snapped in the autumn wind, the colors of a dozen clans bright against the grey stone. Servants rushed to greet the new arrivals, taking cloaks and offering wine, while grooms led horses toward the stables.
It is workin’. They are comin’.
He should have felt satisfied. This was what he had planned for, what he had orchestrated with careful precision.
All lairds of note in the Highlands would be gathered under his roof by nightfall, and among them would be the man who had tried to kill his wife.
But he did not feel satisfied. He felt restless and uneasy.
“Ye look like a man attendin’ his own funeral,” Ewan remarked from behind him. “Try to smile. It is a celebration.”
Rowan turned away from the window. “I am smilin’.”
“Ye are grimacin’. There is a difference.”
Ewan stepped up beside him, looking down at the courtyard. His sandy hair was neatly combed for once, and he had exchanged his usual worn plaid for something finer, though the battle scars on his arms were still visible where his sleeves were rolled up.
“The Sinclairs have arrived,” he said. “I saw their banner comin’ through the gate.”
Rowan’s chest tightened. “And Sorcha?”
“In the courtyard, I imagine. She went down to greet them.”
She should have waited for me. I should have been with her.
But he had been here, in the Great Hall, overseeing the final preparations.
He had told himself it was because he needed to ensure that everything was perfect, that the guests would be impressed, that no detail would be overlooked.
The truth was simpler and more cowardly. He had not wanted to watch her see her family for the first time since the wedding. He had not wanted to see the joy on her face that he had not been able to give her.
“Ye should go down,” Ewan urged, as though reading his thoughts. “She will want ye there.”
“She doesnae need me there.”
“Perhaps nae, but she might want ye there anyway.” Ewan clapped him on the shoulder. “Go, Rowan. I will keep an eye on things here.”
Rowan hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded and left the hall.
The courtyard was in chaos.
Sorcha had not expected the noise, the press of bodies, the way the air seemed to vibrate with the energy of so many people gathered in one place.
This is madness.
Servants wove between the carriages, carrying trunks and baskets and armfuls of fresh rushes for the floors.
Children darted between the legs of adults, chasing each other in games she could not follow.
And everywhere, there was music, the distant sound of fiddles tuning in the Great Hall, a promise of dancing to come.
She stood at the edge of the courtyard, her hands clasped in front of her, and watched the arrivals with a heart that felt too full for her chest.
So many people. All of them are here, in this keep, because Rowan invited them. Because he wanted to celebrate… me.
She still could not believe it. The Rowan she knew did not celebrate. He did not host cèilidhs and invite his enemies to dance.
But here they were, and here she was, and the sun was setting in a blaze of orange and gold, and somewhere in the kitchens, Morag was shouting orders at the cook while the smell of roasted meat drifted through the open windows.
“Lady Sorcha!” Flora appeared at her elbow, breathless and flushed. “Ye should come inside. The guests are arrivin’, and ye need to greet them. Ye are the lady of the castle now.”
The lady of the castle.
The words still sounded strange, like a dress that had been tailored for someone else.
“I will come in a moment,” Sorcha said. “I am watchin’ for me braither.”
Flora opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again, following Sorcha’s gaze to the gate. “Is that him now?”
A carriage had rolled through the gates, larger than the others, painted dark blue with the Sinclair crest emblazoned on the side. Sorcha’s breath caught in her throat.
Callan.
The carriage door opened, and her brother stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, his black curls longer than she remembered, streaked with grey at the temples.
He looked tired. Older than his years. But when his eyes found hers across the courtyard, he smiled, and he was the boy she had grown up with again, the brother who had taught her to ride and held her hand at their parents’ funeral.
“Sorcha!” His voice carried across the chaos as he strode towards her, pushing through the crowd as though it were not there.
She met him halfway, and he swept her into a fierce embrace, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around like she was a child again. She laughed, the sound surprising her.
When he set her down, his hands were shaking.
“Sorcha,” he said again, softer this time. “Me sister. At last.”
“Ye came,” she said, her voice thick with tears she refused to shed. “I didnae think… I hoped, but I didnae ken…”
“I wouldnae have missed it.” He held her at arm’s length, looking her over with a critical eye. “Ye look well. Pale, but well. When I heard ye had been ill…”
“I am fine now. Truly.”
Callan’s jaw tightened. “Poison, they said. Someone tried to kill ye.”
“It was a mistake. A misunderstanding.” She did not believe that, and she could tell from his expression that he did not believe it either. But this was not the time or the place for such conversations. “We will talk later, I promise.”
He nodded reluctantly and stepped aside.
And there, behind him, was Ailis.
She looked smaller than Sorcha remembered, younger, more fragile. Her brown hair was pinned up in an elaborate style that did not suit her, and her blue eyes were red-rimmed, as though she had been crying.
She clutched her cloak with both hands, her knuckles white.
“Sorcha.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I am so sorry. I should have been there. I should have—”
Sorcha shook her head, stepping forward to take her sister’s hands in her own. “Nay, daenae. I understand, Ailis. I have always understood.”
“But I left ye. I ran away, and ye had to take me place.”
“Stop.” Sorcha’s voice was firm but gentle. “Ye are here now. That is what matters. Ye are here, and ye are safe, and I am glad to see ye.”
Ailis’s eyes brimmed with tears, and Sorcha pulled her into an embrace, holding her tight.
She is still a child. She is still so young, and I forgot that. I forgot that she was terrified, that she was alone, that she didnae have the same strength I do.
“I am sorry,” Ailis whispered into her shoulder. “I am so sorry.”
“I ken.” Sorcha smoothed her hair, the way she used to when they were girls. “I ken, Ailis. And I forgive ye. Now, dry yer eyes. We’re going to celebrate tonight, and I willnae have ye lookin’ like a drowned kitten.”
Ailis laughed, a wet, shaky sound, and pulled back to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ye always ken what to say.”
“Someone has to.”
Callan put his arms around both of them, pulling them close. “Come. Let us go inside before I freeze to death. The Highlands are colder than I remember.”
Sorcha laughed, and for a moment, just a moment, the weight on her chest lifted.
Leaving the Great Hall behind, Rowan retreated to the sanctuary of his study. The room was quiet, the fire burning low in the hearth.
He stood before the blade that had belonged to his father, running the whetstone along the edge of the sword in slow, measured strokes. The metal gleamed in the firelight, catching the shadows and throwing them back.
He had sharpened this blade a thousand times over the years, had carried it into battles he could barely remember and skirmishes that had blurred together into a single long memory of blood and mud and rain.
But tonight, the sharpening felt different. Tonight, the blade felt heavier in his hand.
Because tonight, I may have to use it.
The hunt was tradition. Every cèilidh began with the Laird and his men riding out to bring back wild rabbit for the feast. It was a gesture, a nod to the old ways, a reminder that the clan provided for itself and asked nothing of anyone.
But tonight, the hunt was something else entirely.
Rowan tested the edge of the blade with his thumb, feeling the sharpness bite into his skin. A bead of blood rose, and he wiped it away without looking.
“Ye will dull that blade if ye keep at it much longer.”
Rowan looked up.
Callan Sinclair stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his black curls loose around his face. He had changed out of his travel clothes and into something more suitable for the evening, a dark tunic and a plaid in the blue of his clan.
“The blade is fine,” Rowan said, setting it down on the table. “I was just… thinkin’.”
“Thinkin’ is dangerous. Me maither used to say it got more men killed than war ever did.”
“Yer maither sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.” Callan crossed the room, his boots silent on the stone floor. He picked up the sword, testing its weight, then set it down again. “Ye are calculatin’.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I am nae.”
“Ye are. I can always tell. Still. Like a wolf watchin’ its prey.”
Like a wolf watchin’ its prey.
The description was apt. Rowan felt like a wolf tonight, coiled and waiting, ready to spring.
The guests had arrived, the hall was filled with music and laughter, and somewhere among them was the man who had tried to kill his wife.
“Kerr is here,” Rowan said. “I saw his carriage come through the gates.”
Callan nodded slowly. “I saw it too. He brought a dozen men with him. More than necessary for a cèilidh.”
“He is showin’ off. Tryin’ to remind everyone that he is still a force to be reckoned with.” Rowan picked up his sword and slid it into the sheath at his belt. “He will come to the hunt. He always does. He likes to prove that he is still strong, still capable, still worthy of being called a laird.”
“And when he is in the fields, away from the crowd?”
Rowan turned to face him. “Then I confront him. Nay more shadows or whispers. I ask him directly about the poison, about the fires, about the men who attacked us on the road, and I watch his face when he answers.”
Callan’s expression was grim. “And if he admits it?”
“Then I do what needs to be done.”
Callan held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I will be there,” he said. “Beside ye. Whatever happens, ye willnae face him alone.”
Rowan had not expected that. He had assumed Callan would stay in the keep, would keep his distance from the confrontation. It was not his fight, not really.
Kerr’s anger was directed at Rowan, at the marriage that had stolen the Sinclair alliance from him. But Callan’s eyes were steady, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“He tried to kill me sister,” he said, as though reading Rowan’s thoughts. “Whatever his reasons, whatever his grievances against ye, he tried to kill me sister. That makes it me fight.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “Then we ride together.”
“Aye.”
Inside him, a brutal storm churned, raw rage at Kerr for daring to poison Sorcha, bone-deep agony at how close he had come to losing her, and a fierce, possessive desire that refused to be silenced.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her leave his sight. He wanted to burn the man responsible to ashes. He wanted her safe, wanted her close, wanted her in ways he had no right to want her.
This was no longer just about war or justice. This was about her.
And he would destroy anyone who tried to take her from him again.