Page 12 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Rowan wasted no time, lifting her onto his horse without asking permission. Her breath left her sharply as she landed against his chest, his arms sliding around her front to hold the reins.
“Ye’ll sit steady,” he murmured against her ear. “Or ye’ll fall.”
The brush of his voice against her ear sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.
He took off at full speed, not bothering to wait for his men or her carriages. The scenery was painted in blurs of green, the keep growing smaller and smaller too quickly for Sorcha to comprehend.
“Do ye always ride this fast?” she yelled over the wind.
“Aye.”
She waited, thinking he would give her a reason.
He did not.
“Yer lands… are they far from here?”
“Aye.”
Sorcha gripped the saddle. “Ye’re nae much for conversation, are ye?”
A quiet breath brushed her ear, but he did not answer.
So, this is how it will be.
Whether the sting in her eyes was from the wind whipping at her skin or the heaviness tugging at her chest, she did not know. But she could not stop the tears that escaped.
She did not try to speak again. Whatever words she had left felt wasted on the wind.
Her hands grew numb as time went on, a chill spreading through her. Reluctantly, she leaned back against Rowan’s chest, letting the warmth of his arms soothe her.
How unfair that the only comfort I have left is in the arms of a stranger.
She felt his arms tighten slightly around her. Or perhaps it was only the horse shifting beneath them.
Suddenly, a child’s sob pierced the quiet.
Sorcha’s heart clenched, her grip tightening on the saddle. Looking around, she spotted a child in the middle of the field behind the tree line.
“Rowan, stop.” Her voice cracked as she struggled to speak over the wind.
He ignored her.
“Stop!” she cried, twisting in the saddle.
She slipped her foot from the stirrup, her heart pulling her forward, but his grip on her wrist stopped her.
“Sinclair,” he said sharply. “Hold.”
He would leave the child there.
Pulling forward with a jerk, she jumped down before he could protest further. Her boots struck the grass, momentum sending her pitching forward to the ground. Pain shot up her arms as she caught herself on her hands, but she pushed through it, scrambling to her feet.
She heard Rowan call out, hooves pounding the ground farther behind her, but she did not stop. She kept running, practically sliding on her knees when she reached the boy.
He was young, at least seven years old, and his face was stained with tears. His clothes were dirty, his hair unkempt.
How long has he been out here? He must be freezing.
