Page 47 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
The door opened.
He felt Sorcha’s presence without looking at her, subtle but immediate. It shifted something in the air that had nothing to do with the cold. His hand rested on the stone beside the window, his fingers flexing as he kept his focus on the dark sky.
“Me Laird.” Her soft voice resonated in the space between them, steady in a way that did not match the tension he could feel beneath it.
He took a deep breath, steadying something in his chest that had no business shifting at all.
This is daft. I shouldnae have this much trouble facin’ her.
He forced himself to turn to her, immediately taking her in without meaning to.
Her light hair was loose, falling soft around her shoulders, catching the low candlelight as it shifted. Her shawl sat unevenly where it had been draped too quickly in place, as if she had been in a hurry. It had slipped just enough to bare the delicate line of her collarbone, the pale skin beneath it flushed with the faintest pink that made his throat tighten.
There was a softness to her that did not match the set of her mouth or the storm behind her eyes.
The memory struck him before he could stop it. A brief, unwelcome echo of that first night. Of how she had looked similar then and how close he had been to giving in.
But she looked even more dangerous now.
He turned back to the window, forcing the memory away as he settled back into something controlled. Distant. Though part of him was ashamed for having to hold back this much.
“I’ve sent for ye,” he uttered.
“So I gathered,” she replied dryly.
His mouth twitched.
“There’s been another fire,” he said, deciding it was best to get straight to the point. “Near the eastern border. Lower stores.”
“Another?” she asked, surprised. “When was the first?”
He heard her step further into the room. He hadn’t told her about the first fire. He hadn’t deemed it necessary. But the worry in her voice now suggested otherwise.
Something warm spread through his chest at her concern. Though it was expected of her as his wife, it still comforted him to hear it in her voice.
“The night ye arrived.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, her steps coming to a halt.
“Have ye found who was responsible?” Then she let out a small gasp. “Was it the man who ran from us on the road?”
“I daenae ken,” he said, turning again to face her fully. “I cannae say for certain. But I mean to end it, nay matter who was responsible.”
He crossed the room, slow, deliberate, stopping just short of where she stood. He didn’t like seeing her worried. He didn’t like that she thought it was her fault. Even if he’d never married her, no laird was ever safe from making enemies.
Her expression was grave as she processed what he’d said. “Was anyone hurt?”
Her question caught him off guard. Again, he was touched and surprised by her concern.
“I daenae ken. I’ll see for meself tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She searched his face, as though she were trying to understand what he’d said.
“See for yerself?” she repeated.
Of course. What else would I do?
To him, it was simple. When something threatened his lands, he dealt with it. But the way she was looking at him now suggested that was not the answer she had expected.
