Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The silence in the chamber was heavier than the stones that surrounded them.
Rowan stood with his sword still in his hand, his uncle’s blood still wet on the blade, and looked at the young man who had just collapsed against him, weeping like a child.
Gordon’s body shook with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been locked away for years. His fingers clutched at Rowan’s shirt, his forehead was pressed against Rowan’s shoulder, and he held on as though he were drowning and Rowan was the only thing keeping him afloat.
“I didnae ken,” he sobbed, the words muffled against the fabric. “I didnae ken any of it. He told me ye hated me. He told me ye sent me away because I was weak, because I was a burden, because ye couldnae bear to look at me. I believed him. I believed everythin’ he said.”
Rowan’s throat tightened. He could not speak. He could only hold his brother tighter and press his cheek against the autumn-colored hair and breathe in the scent of him.
Elspeth’s small hand tugged at his sleeve. “Da? Da, who is he? Why is he crying?”
Rowan looked down at his daughter, at her tear-streaked face and her wide grey eyes, at the wooden turtle still clutched in her small fingers. She was trembling, her whole body shaking with the aftermath of fear, but she was alive. She was safe. She was here.
“This is Gordon,” Rowan said, his voice scraped raw by emotions he could not name. “He is me braither. Yer uncle.”
Elspeth’s eyes widened, and she looked at the young man with suspicion and curiosity and something that might have been hope. “I thought ye didnae have a braither. I thought he died.”
“I thought so too.” Rowan’s hand came up to rest on the back of Gordon’s head, holding him close. “But I was wrong. He is alive. And he is comin’ home with us.”
Sorcha stepped forward, her hands still raw from where the ropes had bound them, her throat still stained with blood. She moved slowly, carefully, as though her body had not yet caught up with the fact that she was free.
“The child,” she said, her voice hoarse, barely a whisper. Her trembling hands reached out, needing the physical proof that the ordeal was truly over. “Elspeth...”
“She is safe,” Rowan said softly, his large hand resting protectively on the girl’s head as Elspeth pressed closer to his leg.
Elspeth nodded up at Sorcha, her small voice shaking. “I was brave. I didnae cry when he was holdin' the knife.”
Sorcha’s eyes found Gordon’s, and she searched his face for a long moment. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she nodded slowly and reached out to touch his arm.
“Thank ye,” she murmured. “For keepin’ her safe.”
Gordon flinched at her touch, his eyes wide and desperate. “I held a knife to her throat. I threatened to kill her. How can ye thank me for anythin’?”
“Because ye didnae hurt her.” Sorcha’s voice was firm and steady, despite the tears on her cheeks. “Because ye had the chance, and ye chose nae to. Because when yer uncle told ye to kill her, ye dropped the knife instead.”
Gordon’s face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. “I didnae ken. I didnae ken he was lyin’. I didnae ken any of it.”
Sorcha looked at Rowan, and he saw the question in her eyes. Can we trust him? Can we forgive him? Can we bring him home?
He did not have an answer. Not yet. But he looked at his brother’s face, at the fear and the guilt and the desperate hope, and he remembered a boy with dirt on his knees and a wooden sword in his hand, following him through the corridors of the castle, calling his name.
“Come,” he said, pulling Gordon upright, though he kept one hand on his shoulder. “We are leaving this place. We are going home.”
The ride back to the castle was quiet.
Gordon rode at the back of the group, flanked by two of Rowan’s guards, his head bowed and his hands loose on the reins. He did not speak, and no one spoke to him.
The weight of what had happened hung over them all, heavy and suffocating, and the only sounds were the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the wind in the trees.
Rowan rode at the front with Sorcha sitting before him in the saddle, her back pressed against his chest and her head resting against his shoulder.
Elspeth sat in front of Sorcha, her small body tucked between their arms. Every few minutes, she would reach up and touch Sorcha’s face, as though making sure she was still there.
“Are ye all right?” Sorcha asked, her voice soft, meant only for him.
“I am fine.”
“Ye arenae fine.” She turned slightly, just enough to look at his face. “Ye just killed yer uncle. Ye just found out that yer braither is alive. Ye arenae fine, Rowan. And ye daenae have to pretend that ye are.”
He did not answer. He only tightened his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her hair.
She sees me. She sees through all of it—the walls and the armor and the years of pretense—and is still here.
The gates of the castle rose before them, revealing a crowded courtyard. Flora stood near the well, her red hair bright in the torchlight, and Morag was beside her, her silver hair escaping its braid and her sharp eyes red from weeping.
Ailis was there, her brown hair pinned up in a style that did not suit her, her blue eyes wide and wet with tears.
Sorcha slid down from the horse before Rowan could help her. She ran to her sister and threw her arms around her. Ailis wept and clung to her, and Callan wrapped his arms around both of them, holding them close.
“I am sorry,” Ailis sobbed. “I am so sorry. I shouldnae have run. I shouldnae have left ye. This is all me fault.”
“It isnae yer fault.” Sorcha’s voice was firm, though she was crying too. “None of this is yer fault. Do ye understand me, Ailis? None of it.”
Callan pulled back and looked at Sorcha’s face, at the blood on her throat and the dirt on her gown and the shadows under her eyes.
“I am taking Ailis home,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Daenae worry, Sister. I will protect her. I will keep her safe.”
Sorcha nodded and pressed her hand to his cheek. “I ken ye will. Ye are a man of yer word, Callan. Ye always have been.”
Callan’s jaw tightened, and he pulled her into another embrace before stepping back. “If ye need anythin’—”
“I will send word.”
He nodded. Then he turned away, Ailis’s hand in his, and together they walked toward the carriage that waited at the edge of the courtyard.
Sorcha watched them go, before turning and walking back to Rowan.
Morag approached them, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression uncertain. “The lady needs a healer. Her throat—”
“I will see to it,” Rowan cut in. He looked at Morag, at the tears on her cheeks, at the way her hands trembled despite her efforts to steady them. “Ye did well tonight. All of ye. Thank ye.”
Morag’s eyes widened, as though she had not expected gratitude from him, and then she nodded and stepped back.
Rowan’s gaze swept across the courtyard, coming to rest on the woman his guards had just escorted from her chambers.
Marion stood near the gates, flanked by the two men who had been watching her door, her grey-streaked hair loose around her shoulders, her fine clothes wrinkled from hours of waiting. Her face was pale, her eyes red from weeping, and she clutched her hands together as though she were praying.
She looked terrified.
Rowan walked toward her, watching her flinch with every step he took.
“Rowan.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I didnae ken. I swear to ye, I didnae ken he would take them. I didnae ken he would—”
“Marion.” He stopped before her, close enough to see the tears on her cheeks and the fear in her eyes. “Ye are forgiven.”
She stared at him. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
“I should have told ye.” Marion’s voice broke. “Years ago, when I first realized that Gordon was alive, I should have sent word. I should have—”
“Ye were afraid.” Rowan’s voice was gentle, gentler than he had intended. “Ye were afraid of him. I understand that. I daenae hold it against ye.”
Marion’s face crumpled, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for everything.”
“I ken.” Rowan reached out and took her hand, holding it between both of his. “Ye are family, Marion. And family forgives.”
She nodded, unable to speak, and he released her hand and turned away.
The Great Hall was quiet when they entered it, the long tables empty, the candles burning low in their holders. The fire in the hearth had died down to embers, and the shadows gathered in the corners like watchers waiting for something to happen.
Rowan stood at the center of the hall with Sorcha beside him and Elspeth in his arms. Gordon stood a few paces behind them, his head bowed, his hands hanging at his sides. Ewan, Morag, and Flora stood near the doors, watching, waiting.
“There is somethin’ I need to say,” Rowan began, and put Elpseth down. “Somethin’ I should have said a long time ago.”
Sorcha looked up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.
“When I married ye,” he said, turning to face her fully, “I told meself it was duty. I told meself it was an obligation. I told meself that ye were a replacement for the bride who ran away, a means to an end, a way to secure an heir and silence me council.”
Sorcha’s breath caught. He saw the fear in her eyes, the fear that he was about to push her away again and retreat behind the walls he had built around his heart.
“That was a lie,” he said. “The lie I told meself because I was afraid. Afraid of losin’ ye. Afraid of lovin’ ye. Afraid of what would happen if I let meself want somethin’ as much as I want ye.”
“Rowan.” His name on her lips was soft, almost a whisper.
“Ye arenae a replacement.” He reached for her hands and held them in his own, his thumbs tracing circles on her palms. “Ye arenae a duty or an obligation or a means to an end. Ye are me wife. Me chosen wife. The woman I have chosen to stand beside me, nae because I had to, but because I want to. Because I cannae imagine me life without ye in it.”
Tears spilled down Sorcha’s cheeks, and she did not try to wipe them away. “I love ye,” she rasped. “I have loved ye for so long. I was afraid to say it because I didnae think ye loved me back.”
“I do.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers. “I love ye, Sorcha. I love ye, and I am sorry it took me so long to say it.”
Elspeth tugged on his sleeve, and he looked down at her. “Da? Does this mean Lady Sorcha is going to stay?”
“She is goin’ to stay,” Rowan affirmed. “She is goin’ to stay forever.”
Elspeth’s face broke into a smile, and she launched herself at Sorcha, wrapping her small arms around her legs. “I am so glad. I am so glad ye are stayin’. I didnae want ye to go. I wanted ye to be me maither. I wanted—”
“Shh.” Sorcha held her close, her voice thick with tears. “I am nae going anywhere, sweet one. I am here. I am staying.”
Gordon stood, watching, his eyes wet. He did not speak, did not move, did not do anything except stand there with his hands at his sides and his heart on his sleeve.
Rowan saw him and crossed the hall toward him. He stopped before him and looked at him for a long moment.
“I am sorry again,” Gordon said, his voice hoarse. “I am sorry for everything. For the knife. For the threats. For believin’ his lies for so long.”
“Ye were a child.” Rowan’s voice was steady. “I never hated ye.” Rowan pulled him into an embrace, holding him close the way he had held him when they were boys.
Gordon sobbed against his shoulder, his body shaking with the force of it. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
“I forgive ye.” Rowan’s voice was low but steady, and he meant every word. “I forgive ye, Gordon. For everythin’.”
Gordon held him tighter, weeping, and Rowan let him, because there were no words for such pain, such loss, such reunion.
The shadows of betrayal lifted, and he stood not as a beast or a monster or the Wolf of the North, but as a brother, a protector, a husband, a father. A man who had reclaimed what was nearly lost and would spend the rest of his life making sure it never slipped through his fingers again.
Sorcha watched him from across the room, Elspeth still in her arms, and she smiled through her tears.
This is me family. This is where I belong. This is everythin’ I never kent I wanted and everythin’ I will fight to keep.