Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The water was hot against Sorcha’s skin, almost scalding, but she welcomed the burn. It was something to feel besides the ache in her throat, the rawness of her wrists, and the hollow place in her chest where fear had been living for hours that felt like years.
She leaned back against the rim of the wooden tub and closed her eyes.
The steam rose around her in gentle curls, carrying the scent of lavender and rosemary, the same oils Flora had been using since the first night she had arrived at the castle.
That night felt like a lifetime ago. The woman who had stood in this same tub, trembling and uncertain, felt like a stranger now.
So much had changed.
She had changed.
“Ye are goin’ to turn into a prune if ye stay in there much longer.”
Sorcha opened her eyes to find Flora standing in the doorway, her red hair escaping its pins and her green eyes still red-rimmed from weeping. She was holding a cup of something steaming, and her hands were still shaking, though she was trying very hard to hide it.
“I am nae ready to get out yet,” Sorcha said. “The water is still hot.”
Flora crossed the room and set the cup on the small table beside the tub. “It is chamomile. Morag said it would help ye sleep.”
“I daenae want to sleep.”
“Ye need to sleep.” Flora knelt beside the tub and dipped her fingers into the water, testing the temperature. “Ye have been through more in the past few hours than most women experience in a lifetime. Yer body needs rest.”
Sorcha opened her eyes and looked at her maid, at the tears still clinging to her lashes, at the way her lower lip trembled despite her efforts to keep it steady.
“Flora.” She reached out and took her hand. “I am all right. I am here. Ye daenae need to be afraid anymore.”
Flora’s face crumpled, and the tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks. “I was so scared. When I found ye on the floor, when I saw ye lying there pale and still, I thought… I thought ye were going to die. And then when ye disappeared, when we couldnae find ye anywhere, I thought—”
“Shh.” Sorcha squeezed her hand. “I am here. I am nae going anywhere.”
“Ye daenae ken that.” Flora’s voice was thick with tears. “Ye daenae ken what it was like, standing in the courtyard, watching the Laird ride through the gates with his face like stone and his eyes like ice. I have never seen a man look so terrifying. I have never seen a man look so… broken.”
Sorcha’s chest tightened. “Broken?”
“Aye.” Flora wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“He wasnae angry, nae really. He was afraid. More afraid than I have ever seen anyone. And when he rode out to find ye, when he left with those men, I thought—” She stopped and pressed her hand to her mouth.
“I thought he might nae come back. I thought neither of ye might come back.”
“But we did.”
“Aye.” Flora let out a shaky breath. “Ye did. Because of him. Because he found ye. Because he killed that monster with his own hands and carried ye out of that place.”
Sorcha said nothing. She only held Flora’s hand and watched her tears fall and thought about the man who had burst into that crumbling fortress with his sword raised and his heart on his sleeve.
“The Laird,” Flora said, her voice steadier now, though her tears would not stop falling, “he isnae what I expected. When I first came here, I thought he was made of stone. I thought he had nay heart, nay feeling, nothing inside of him.”
“And now?”
“Now I think he is the bravest man I have ever ken. Nae because he is strong, or because he can fight, or because men fear him. But because he loves ye. Because he loves that little girl. Because he would burn the world down to keep ye safe.”
Sorcha’s throat tightened, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall.
“I told him that I love him, and he also told me that he loved me too.” she whispered
Flora let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “Then what are ye doing in here, hiding in the bath? Go to him. Tell him again. Show him.”
Sorcha shook her head. “He is with his braither. They have years of lost time to make up for. I daenae want to interrupt.”
“Ye wouldnae be interrupting.” Flora squeezed her hand and stood up, smoothing her skirts. “But I understand. Ye need time. Ye both need time.” She walked toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “I am glad ye are alive, me Lady. I am glad ye are here. And I am glad ye found him.”
She left before Sorcha could respond, the door closing softly behind her.
Sorcha sat in the cooling water and stared at the flames flickering in the hearth.
He loves me. Rowan MacLaren loves me. And I love him.
The door opened again, and she looked up, expecting Flora with more tea or Morag with more salve for her wrists. But it was not Flora or Morag.
It was Rowan.
He stood in the doorway, with his shoulder braced against the frame and his grey eyes fixed on her face.
His hair was damp from his own bath, and he had changed out of his bloodstained clothes into a simple linen shirt and dark breeches.
His feet were bare, and his scar stood out stark against his cheek in the firelight.
Sorcha’s heart began to pound, and she was suddenly very aware of her nakedness beneath the water, of the way the steam rose around her, of the way Rowan’s eyes traveled over her face and down her throat and lower still, though the water hid the rest of her from view.
“Rowan.” His name came out breathless. “What are ye doing here?”
He did not answer. He crossed the room slowly, his bare feet silent on the stone floor, and stopped beside the tub.
“Stand up,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Stand up and let me see ye.”
“Rowan, I am—”
“I ken what ye are.” He knelt beside the tub, bringing himself to her eye level, and reached out to brush a strand of wet hair from her face.
“Ye are me wife. Ye are the woman I love. And I have spent too many days and too many nights keeping me distance because I was afraid. I daenae want to be afraid anymore.”
Sorcha’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Ye arenae afraid?”
“I am terrified.” His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking gently over her cheekbone. “But I am more terrified of losing ye than I am of anythin’ else. So I am askin’ ye, Sorcha. Stand up. Let me see ye. Let me touch ye. Let me love ye the way I should have loved ye from the beginning.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.
She stood.
The water cascaded down her body in rivulets, streaming over her shoulders and breasts and hips. Her hands hung at her sides, and she did not cover herself, though every instinct screamed at her to hide, to shrink, to make herself small.
But she was done being small. She was done hiding. She was done being the woman who stood in the shadows while everyone else took what they wanted.
“Ye are beautiful.” Rowan’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes traveled over her slowly, reverently, as though he were memorizing every inch of her. “I have dreamed of this. Of ye. Of the way ye would look standing before me like this. And the dreams didnae do ye justice.”
Sorcha’s cheeks flushed, and her breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. She could feel his gaze on her like a touch, hot and heavy, and between her legs, she felt a pulse of warmth that made her thighs press together.
“Rowan.” His name came out soft, almost a plea.
He rose to his feet and stood before her.
His hands rose to cup her face, tilting her chin toward him.
He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body through his shirt, could see the pulse beating in his throat, could smell the soap he had used and something else, something that was uniquely him.
“I lost everyone,” he said, his voice rough. “I lost me parents, me sister, me braither, and me first wife. I thought I was cursed. I thought that everyone I loved would die, and it would be me fault. So I stopped lovin’. I stopped wantin’. I stopped hopin’.”
Tears stung Sorcha’s eyes, and she reached up to cover his hands with her own.
“But ye,” he continued, his thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled down her cheeks.
“Ye came into me life and refused to leave. Ye stood behind yer braither and looked at me like I wasnae a monster. Ye loved me daughter. Ye carved wooden turtles and wooden horses and showed me that there was still something soft in this world.”
“I love ye,” Sorcha whispered. “I love ye, Rowan.”
“I love ye too.” He leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. “Ye are me heart. The woman I want to spend the rest of me life with, if ye will have me.”
Sorcha let out a shaky breath and rose onto her tiptoes, closing the distance between them.
She kissed him.
It was soft at first, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. But then his hands slid into her wet hair, and his mouth opened over hers, and the kiss deepened. His tongue swept against hers, and she moaned, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
He walked her backward until her bare back pressed against the cool stone wall, and she gasped, a shiver running through her. He pressed his body against hers, and she felt him through his breeches, hard and thick. The pulse between her legs grew stronger, more insistent.
“Rowan.” She broke the kiss, gasping for air. “Please.”
“Please, what?” His mouth traveled down her throat, kissing and nipping, and she tilted her head back to give him better access. “Tell me what ye want, Sorcha. I have been waitin’ so long to hear ye say it.”
“I want ye.” Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling at the fabric. “I want all of ye. I want—”
He kissed her again, cutting her off, and his hands slid down her body. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she cried out at the sensation. They were hard and sensitive, and every touch sent sparks of pleasure straight to her core.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against her throat. “So perfect. I have dreamed of touchin’ ye like this.”
His mouth followed his hands and closed around a nipple, sucking gently. Sorcha’s back arched, and her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him against her. The pleasure was sharp and sweet, and she could feel herself growing wetter between her legs, could feel the ache building.
“Rowan, please, I need—”
“I ken what ye need.” He switched to the other breast, his tongue circling her nipple, and she whimpered. “I ken what ye need, and I am going to give it to ye. But first, I want to taste ye. I want to make ye fall apart on me tongue before I take ye.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he was lowering himself to his knees in front of her. He spread her thighs with his hands and looked up at her, his grey eyes dark with desire.
“Hold onto the wall,” he said. “And daenae let go.”
Sorcha pressed her palms against the stone and watched as he lowered his mouth to the place between her legs.
The first touch of his tongue made her cry out. He licked her slowly, deliberately, tasting her, and the pleasure was so intense that her knees buckled. He caught her hips, holding her steady, and his tongue circled her most sensitive spot.
“Oh… Rowan…”
She could not form words. Could not think. Could only feel. His mouth on her, his tongue moving in ways that made her see stars behind her closed eyes. He sucked gently, and she screamed, her nails scraping against the stone.
He did not stop. He held her hips and licked and sucked and drove her higher and higher until she was trembling, until she was begging, until she was so close that she could not breathe.
“Let go,” he purred against her. “Let go, Sorcha. I have ye. I am nae goin’ anywhere.”
She shattered.
The pleasure crashed over her in waves, and she cried out his name, her body shaking, her hips bucking against his mouth. He held her through it, gentling his touch as the waves subsided, pressing soft kisses to the inside of her thighs.
When she could breathe again, he rose to his feet and looked at her.
“I need ye,” she begged, her voice hoarse. “I need ye inside me. Please.”
He unfastened his breeches and pushed them down, and she saw him for the first time. He was thick and hard and ready, and her body clenched at the sight of him.
He lifted her easily, his hands gripping her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the soft furs, then climbed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
“I love ye,” he said, then pushed inside her.
Sorcha gasped at the stretch, the way he filled her completely. He was so large that she felt split open, but the pain was fleeting, drowned by the pleasure that followed.
He went still, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Tell me if it is too much.”
“It is perfect.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. “Move, Rowan. Please.”
He began to move.
Slowly at first, rocking into her with a rhythm that made her moan. He was watching her face, watching every expression, and she let him see everything. The pleasure. The love. The way he made her feel whole.
“Faster,” she begged. “Please, I need—”
He thrust harder, deeper, and she cried out. His hand slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her sensitive bud, and he circled it in time with his thrusts.
The pleasure built again, higher this time, more intense. She could feel herself tightening around him, could feel the pressure coiling in her belly.
“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me when ye come, Sorcha.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, at the man she loved, at the man who had saved her and protected her and shown her what it meant to be chosen.
“I love ye,” she murmured.
“I love ye too.” His thumb pressed harder, and his thrusts grew faster, more frantic. “Now, come for me. Come for me, Sorcha.”
She shattered again, and this time, he came with her, his body shuddering above hers, his face buried in her neck.
They lay there afterward, tangled together in the furs, their bodies slick with sweat and their hearts pounding in unison.
“Ye are me wife,” Rowan said, his voice quiet. “Me chosen wife. The woman I will love for the rest of me life.”
Sorcha smiled and pressed a kiss to his chest. “I love ye, Rowan MacLaren, and I am never lettin’ ye go.”