Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The corridor stretched before Rowan, the torchlight flickering against the stone walls and casting dancing shadows.
He had spent the better part of the day avoiding the east wing, avoiding the chambers where Flora had been helping Sorcha get ready.
He had told himself it was because the hunt required his attention, and because Kerr’s arrival demanded his focus, and because a dozen other duties needed his hands.
But the truth was simpler. He had not trusted himself to see her. Not like this. Not dressed for a cèilidh, not painted and perfumed and arranged like a gift he could not open.
The word echoed in his skull as he rounded the corner.
Coward.
And there she was.
She stood at the window at the end of the corridor, with her back to him, the dying sun pouring through the glass. The light caught her hair, the pale gold that had haunted his dreams, and turned it into something molten.
He stopped walking.
His breath left him in a rush, and he watched her turn at the sound, watched her expression shift from curiosity to surprise.
God help me.
Her gown was green. MacLaren green The same green as his banner, his plaid.
The fabric clung to her chest, the neckline cut lower than anything she had worn before, revealing the pale swell of her breasts and the shadow of the valley between.
Her waist was narrow where the dress cinched, her hips curved where it fell, and the skirt pooled at her feet like water at the edge of a loch.
Flowers were woven through her hair. White and purple heather, small and delicate, scattered through the golden waves like stars across a night sky.
Dear Lord…
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips redder than usual, and her eyes were the same blue as her gown and fixed on him.
“Sorcha.” Her name came out rough. He had not meant to speak. The word had simply escaped.
“Rowan.”
“I was just takin’ some air before the chaos of new arrivals from neighbouring clan.” She gestured vaguely toward the window.
Her hand trembled, and he saw it.
She is nervous.
The thought should have made him step back, should have reminded him of all the reasons he needed to keep his distance. Instead, it pulled him forward one step, then another, until the space between them had shrunk to something dangerous.
“The gown,” he said, his voice low. “It suits ye.”
“Flora chose it.” Her words came too fast, tumbling over each other. “I wasnae certain about the color, but she said that—”
“Flora was right.”
He stepped closer. Close enough to smell the lavender in her hair and the faint sweetness of whatever oil Flora had rubbed into her skin.
He could see the pulse beating in her throat, rapid and shallow.
I shouldnae. I should step back. I should walk away.
But his body did not obey. His body had stopped listening to him the moment he had seen her standing behind her brother at Sinclair Castle with her spine straight and her eyes fierce, refusing to flinch.
“The hunt,” he said, because he needed to say something. “I am ridin’ out with the men. It is tradition. We bring back the meat for the feast.”
“I ken.” She did not step back and did not look away. Her eyes held his, her pupils blown. He could hear her breath quicken. “Callan told me. He is going with ye.”
“Aye.”
“Be careful.”
“I will come back,” he promised. “I will always come back.”
He did not know why he said it. Perhaps because she looked afraid, or because he wanted her to know that someone would return to her, that she would not be left alone the way he had been left so many times before.
Sorcha nodded but did not speak.
He should leave. The men were waiting in the courtyard. Kerr was waiting somewhere among the guests. Every moment he stood here with her was a moment he was not doing what needed to be done.
But his feet would not move.
He reached for her before he could stop himself. His hand found her face, his palm cupping her cheek, and his fingers slid into the hair at the nape of her neck.
Her skin was warm beneath his touch, and he felt her lean into him, just slightly, a small surrender that made his chest ache and his breath catch.
She gasped.
The sound was soft, barely audible, but he heard it. He felt it against his palm when her lips parted. Her breath came faster now, and he watched the color rise in her cheeks, watched her chest rise and fall beneath the blue wool of her gown.
His body responded before his mind could intervene.
Heat spread through his hips and settled low in his belly. He felt himself harden against the wool of his breeches, the ache growing more insistent.
He was standing close enough that she could feel him if she moved, if she shifted her weight or pressed herself against him.
He wanted her to feel him. He wanted her to know what she did to him. But he did not pull her closer. He stood there with his hand on her face and his blood on fire and his body screaming at him to close the distance, and he did not move.
“Sorcha,” he said, his voice scraped raw by the effort of holding himself back. “I have to go.”
“Then go.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He dropped his hand. The loss of contact made him feel colder than the stone walls and emptier than the corridor stretching behind him.
He stepped back once, twice, putting distance between them that felt like miles.
“Sorcha.”
“Go, Rowan.” She lifted her chin. “Yer men are waitin’.”
He turned and walked away.
He did not look back, but he felt her gaze on him the entire way down the corridor.
His body still ached for her, still yearned for her, still remembered the heat of her skin beneath his palm and the sound of her gasp in his ears. He was still hard, straining against his breeches, and he walked with his jaw clenched and his hands clenched into fists and his mind full of her.
Tonight. When this is over, when Kerr is dealt with, when the danger has passed… Tonight, I willnae walk away.
The Great Hall was empty when Elspeth crept inside.
Morag had told her to stay in her chambers and had said that Flora would come for her when the dancing began. But Morag did not understand anything about Mr. Turtle.
Mr. Turtle needed to see the decorations. He had been waiting all day, and he would be terribly disappointed if he missed the excitement.
“Ye will be good,” Elspeth whispered to the turtle clutched against her chest. “Ye will be quiet. Nay one will see us. We will look at the flowers and ribbons, then go back. Morag will never ken.”
Mr. Turtle did not respond, being a turtle and also currently hiding inside his shell, but Elspeth chose to believe that he was listening.
The Great Hall was enormous when it was empty.
The long tables stretched toward the far wall like sleeping giants, their white linen gleaming in the candlelight.
Garlands of pine and heather hung from the rafters, filling the air with a sharp, sweet scent.
The hearth had been swept clean, and someone had placed candles everywhere, their flames flickering like captured stars.
“It is beautiful,” Elspeth breathed. She spun in a slow circle, her skirt flaring around her legs. “Is it nae beautiful, Mr. Turtle?”
A door slammed somewhere nearby.
Elspeth froze. Her heart kicked against her ribs when she heard the footsteps approaching. Heavy, fast, and angry.
She dropped to her knees and scrambled beneath the long oak table. She pressed herself against the wall, making herself as small as possible, and clutched Mr. Turtle so tightly that she could feel the hard curve of his shell through her dress.
Be quiet and still. Daenae make a sound.
The door to the Great Hall opened, and someone stepped inside.
“… worthless boy.” The voice was old and sharp and cruel. “I told ye to wait by the carriage. I told ye to stay where I could find ye. And where did ye go? Wanderin’ off like a lost puppy, embarrassin’ me in front of the MacLarens, makin’ me look like a fool.”
Elspeth pressed her hand over her mouth.
“I am sorry, Uncle,” a younger man replied. “I only wanted to see the decorations. I didnae mean to wander. I didnae mean to shame ye.”
“Shame.” The old man spat the word like poison. “Ye daenae ken the meaning of shame, boy. But ye will learn. Aye, ye will learn.”
A thud echoed through the hall, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
Elspeth squeezed her eyes shut.
I want Da. I want Da to come and make the bad man go away.
But her da was not here. He was outside, preparing for the hunt. He was in the yard with the horses and the men and the swords that glinted in the setting sun. He was too far away to hear her.
“Look at me.” The old man’s voice dropped lower. “Look at me when I am speaking to ye, boy.”
“I am sorry.”
“Ye are always sorry. Ye are sorry, and ye are useless, and ye are weak.”
He stopped. Elspeth heard him take a breath and heard the violence in his voice recede, just a little.
“The MacLaren woman,” he grunted. “The Laird’s new wife. Have ye seen her?”
“Nay, Uncle. I have been in the stables, as ye ordered.”
“Hmph.” The old man paced back and forth, his boots scraping against the stone floor. “They say she is pretty. Fair-haired. Composed. Nae the tremblin’ sort.”
“I wouldnae ken, Uncle.”
“Ye will ken soon enough.” The pacing stopped. “I have business with the MacLaren woman. Business that requires a gentle touch and a quiet hand. And ye will help me.”
“Uncle?”
“Daenae question me, boy. Just do as ye are told.”
The old man’s footsteps moved toward the door, and Elspeth heard the scrape of wood against stone as he pulled it open.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “Wait for me return. And if I find that ye have wandered off again…”
He did not finish the threat, but he did not need to.
The door slammed shut, and the footsteps faded.
Elspeth stayed beneath the table for a long time. Her body would not stop shaking. Her heart would not slow down. Mr. Turtle was tucked against her chest, his shell cold against her skin through the fabric of her dress.
I want to go back to me chambers. I want Sorcha. I want Da.
But the young man was still here. She had heard the way his voice shook and the way the old man spoke to him like he was nothing, less than nothing.
Slowly and carefully, she crawled out from beneath the table.
The young man stood near the hearth with his back to her and his shoulders hunched. He was young, older than her, but not by much. His hair was the color of autumn leaves, red and gold, and his clothes did not quite fit, as though they belonged to someone else.
He turned when he heard her move, his eyes widening.
“I see ye there,” he said. His voice was gentle now, nothing like the trembling thing it had been when he spoke to the old man. “I am Gordon.”
Elspeth hesitated and clutched Mr. Turtle tighter. She did not know this young man, and did not know if she could trust him. But he had sounded so sad, and she knew what it was like to be sad, to be alone, and to have no one to play with.
“I am Elspeth.” She lifted her chin, trying to sound brave and trying to sound like the lady her father had taught her to be. “Lady Elspeth. It is an honor to meet ye.”
Gordon’s mouth curled into a small smile, and something in his face softened. The tightness around his eyes eased just a little.
“The honor is mine, Lady Elspeth.”
He glanced around the Great Hall at the empty tables and the flickering candles and the shadows gathering in the corners.
“Are ye playin’ hide and seek?” he asked. “Can I play?”
Elspeth wavered. Morag had told her never to speak to strangers, and her da had told her the same. But this young man did not feel like a stranger. He felt like someone who understood, someone who had been hurt the way she had, someone who needed a friend the way she needed a friend.
He is playin’ alone, too. He has nay one.
“I daenae ken…” Uncertainty made her voice small.
Gordon’s expression did not change. He did not push, demand, or do anything to make her feel frightened or cornered.
“Daenae worry,” he said gently. “Me uncle will bring Lady Sorcha too. We will all play together.”
Lady Sorcha. He kens Lady Sorcha.