Page 56 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
An uneasy silence fell over the room.
Laird Kerr had earned his nickname for a reason.The Mad Laird.A man who burned villages because of how someone looked at him.
If Kerr wants blood, he’ll find MacLaren steel waitin’.
“What in God’s—” Hamish’s eyes widened.
Rowan followed his gaze and saw a turtle creeping steadily towards the center of the room.
“Is that a… turtle?” Iain asked, rising from his chair to lean forward and get a better look.
The councilmen stared, as if trying to determine whether exhaustion had finally begun to cause hallucinations.
The door suddenly flew open, and Sorcha burst inside.
“Oh nay!” she exclaimed, her eyes meeting Rowan’s for a moment before landing on the turtle. She raised her hands to her mouth with theatrical horror.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair had come loose from her braid as if she’d run across half the keep chasing this creature. Her breath came in quick bursts, her chest heaving.
Of all the moments for the lass to appear.
And yet Rowan could not deny that she altered the room the instant she entered it. Even before she spoke, the councilmen’s attention shifted to her with a startled curiosity. She had that effect, it seemed.
“I beg yer pardon, me Laird,” she said quickly, rushing forward. “It appears Mr. Turtle has once again escaped his duties.”
The councilmen burst into laughter, the tension that had gripped the chamber moments ago now gone.
Rowan felt something unfamiliar tug at the corner of his mouth. Before he could stop it, his lip twitched. But only slightly.
Sorcha scooped up the shelled creature with careful hands. “I shall escort him out of the room before he proposes new laws. Excuse me, me Laird.”
Another ripple of laughter swept across the room.
Rowan’s gaze followed her as she left, the turtle tucked carefully in her arm.
Strange lass.
She had walked into a room filled with men discussing blood and border threats, and somehow left it lighter than she had found it. Not once had she looked foolish. Not once had she faltered.
The room fell quiet, but the tension had eased.
“Well,” Angus drawled, “that was new.”
Rowan said nothing, but the ghost of a smile lingered.
He had faced bloodier things than council debates, yet Sorcha had managed to do what no warrior had done in years—disarm an entire room with nothing but wit and a damned turtle.
The memory of her flushed cheeks and theatrical horror as she scooped up the creature lingered in his mind. She had turned potential embarrassment into laughter with a grace he hadn’t expected from the woman forced into his bed and his life.
Something warm and dangerously soft stirred in his chest.
He rubbed a thumb across his jaw, trying to push the feeling away. He couldn’t afford to be drawn to his wife’s fire.
And yet, he didn’t resent it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The afternoon air hung heavy and still, thick with the promise of rain.
