Page 26 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Ah, the fall.
“Good heavens, me Lady,” she breathed. “What happened to ye?”
“I’ll tell ye another time.” Sorcha nodded toward the door. “I am certain Rowan will be here soon.”
Flora hummed thoughtfully, following her gaze. “Well, all right. Daenae think I’ll forget.”
Stepping forward one last time, she smoothed the shoulders of the shift before taking Sorcha’s hair out of its braid.
“There,” she said, admiring her work. “Perfect.”
Sorcha huffed. “Hardly.”
Flora gave her a knowing smile. “He’s a man, me Lady. I doubt he’ll be terribly critical.”
At the door, she turned back to Sorcha with a warm smile.
“Ye’ll be all right,” she said gently, before leaving the room.
There was no avoiding it now. Sooner or later, Rowan would come for his bride.
CHAPTER NINE
Smoke was still rising from the southern grain store when Rowan arrived, the night wind carrying the smell of burnt barley. He had wasted no time riding out as soon as he had been alerted to the incident.
I’m too late.
His stomach tightened as he neared the carnage. Half the structure had burned down before the fire was contained. Men moved through the wreckage, stamping out stubborn embers with sand and the heels of their boots.
They glanced up as he approached, their faces weary and covered with soot. One of the men straightened, offering him the torch he carried.
“Near lost the whole roof before we caught it, me Laird,” he muttered, eyes trained on the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Rowan took the torch and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Ye caught it in time,” he reassured him.
I’m the one who wasnae here to help.
The man nodded, clearly relieved, before returning to putting out the embers.
Rowan entered what was left of the barn, his boots grinding ruined grain. He crouched down at the center and scooped a handful of it. It was still warm, gritty as it slipped through his fingers like sand. He let it fall, watching as it scattered across the ash.
Weeks of food gone.
He straightened slowly, his eyes sweeping across the ruins. The barley that had taken an entire season to harvest now lay blackened beneath his boots. Every sack lost meant harder choices in the months ahead.
The heat that had been building beneath his ribs since the road attack flared hotter, a burn that the Highland cold could not soothe.
A familiar voice sounded behind him. “What a terrible wedding gift.”
Ewan MacMarten, his closest friend and man-at-arms, joined him. The torchlight caught the sandy hair tied loosely at the napeof his neck and the battle scars on his arms. His plaid was slung carelessly over one shoulder, colors faded from years of wear.
Surveying the damage, he gave a low whistle. “They made a proper mess of it.”
“How much?”
“Hard to say yet.” Ewan crouched beside one of the collapsed beams, examining the wood. “But if I had to wager, half the grain for winter. Maybe more if the damp got into the rest.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened, his mind going to the ledgers he kept in his study and the careful rationing already planned for the year. Now those numbers were smoke.
