Page 5 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Bundles of heather adorned the courtyard, ribbons fluttering from the archways. Bread and oat bannocks were arranged on a long table meant to look abundant.
Something doesnae feel right.
He felt it in the way voices fell when they passed. In the way a child was tugged behind their mother’s skirts as if he might bite.
Fearful whispers rippled through the gathered crowd.
“That’s him… the Wolf.”
“God save the girl.”
Rowan heard it all, but it mattered little to him. He used the fear to his advantage. Men who feared him rarely tested his patience.
His true concern was the assessment of his surroundings.
He’d already taken into account every weakness, the number of men, the lack of archers in the corner of the yard. Every exit, every shadow, every loose stone did not go unnoticed.
A habit after a lifetime of loss.
He had never met Laird Sinclair before, but the man standing at the front could be no one else. He stood tall, his back rigid, the blue tartan of his cape draped across his shoulder. A fair-haired woman waited behind him.
His gaze drifted down against his will, tracing the slender line of her form. The blue wool of her dress clung faintly to the gentle swell of her bosom and the narrow curve of her waist.
Look away, ye fool.
Rowan frowned, dragging his gaze back up.
He’d seen fairer women in his life. Women who knew how to smile sweetly and keep their eyes lowered. Yet something abouther manner unsettled him. She stood straight, her blue eyes steady as any warrior he had faced in battle.
He felt the strange urge to test that steadiness.
Rowan dismounted, stripping off his gloves. He deliberately let the silence stretch as he discreetly watched his betrothed.
She was nothing like the fragile bride he had expected. Instead, she observed his every move with no hesitation. As if she were learning him the same way he was learning her.
“Is this young Ailis?” He tilted his head toward the woman as he spoke to Callan, not bothering with pleasantries.
He saw the flicker of hesitation in Callan’s eyes.
Rowan’s eyes went back to the woman, narrowing. Her expression did not change.
“There has been a change of plans. But ye will have a Sinclair bride, as promised.”
Ever the proud Laird, Callan tried to look resolved. Confident. But he was young, and by the rigidity of his posture, Rowan could tell he was tense.
Rowan brushed his thumb against the hilt at his belt before he stilled the impulse.
A change of plans without warning? Are they desperate? Is this a test?
The agreement had been simple: Ailis Sinclair in exchange for MacLaren protection before winter’s turn. Steel for grain. Blood for blood.
He studied Callan in silence.
Callan’s mouth was pressed into a hard line, but his eyes kept flicking to the woman and then back to Rowan. The courtyard was too quiet. Sinclair men tightened their grips, as if expecting steel.
The lass is the truth of it.
Without a word, Rowan strode to her. Before he could speak, she curtsied, shallow but proper. Her gaze rose quickly to meet his through blonde curls, unflinching, even as he loomed over her.
