Page 62 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Well,” he said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder with enough force to push him forward a step. “I can see very clearly that I am nae needed here. I will leave ye two to… whatever this is.” He stepped back toward the door with his hands raised in surrender. “Try nae to frighten the poor lass too badly, Rowan. She looks ready to bolt like a startled deer.”
The door closed behind him, and the latch clicked into place too loudly in the sudden silence.
They were finally left alone.
Rowan crossed the room slowly, taking his time, letting his boots fall quietly on the stone floor.
Sorcha watched him approach with her hands clasped in front of her, the wooden horse forgotten on the desk beside her. Her pulse beat visibly in the hollow at the base of her throat, a rapid flutter that betrayed the calm expression on her face.
Rowan picked up the horse and turned it over in his fingers, feeling the smooth wood and the careful cuts.
“Where did ye learn to do this?” he asked, turning the horse over again to study the delicate curve of its neck.
Sorcha’s eyes stayed on the carving in his hands, following his fingers as he traced the lines she had cut.
She cleared her throat. “When our parents died, the servants were the ones who cared for us. The housekeeper’s husband was a carpenter, a quiet man who spent his days in the workshop behind the kitchen.”
She paused.
“I spent hours with him watchin’ him work. It fascinated me, the way he could take a piece of wood with nay form at all and make it into anything he wished. A bird, a horse, a wee wooden doll for Ailis when she was frightened at night. He taught me how to hold the knife, how to follow the grain, how to be patient when the shape wouldnae reveal itself right away.”
“Anything?” he asked, still turning the horse over in his fingers.
“Anything,” she confirmed. “Within reason, of course. I never learned to carve anythin’ larger than me two hands put together, but the wee things… the wee things I can do.”
Rowan set the wooden horse down on the desk and moved closer to her, watching the way her breath caught in her chest as he invaded her space.
He could smell the lavender in her hair from here.
She smells so good.
“Why have ye never married?” The question came out sharper than he had intended, more like an accusation than an inquiry.
Great, just great.
She looked up at him, startled by his tone. “Duty to me family.”
“That isnae an answer, and ye ken it.”
“It is the truth,” she said. “There was nay one asking for me hand, nae really, and even if there had been, I wouldnae have left. Callan needed me after our parents died. Ailis needed me even more—a wee lass who had lost her maither and faither in a single night. There was nay room in me life for anything else, so I stopped expecting it.”
“And now?” He stepped even closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. “Ye’re married to me now. Do ye still feel only duty when ye look at this marriage?”
She did not answer him immediately. Her eyes searched his face, looking for something he was not sure he wanted her to find.
“I am here,” she said finally. “That is what matters in the end, is it nae? I am here, and I am trying, and I will continue to try for as long as this marriage lasts.”
He closed the last inches between them until he could count every faint freckle on her nose. “And what do ye truly ken about being a wife in this clan?”
Her flush told him everything he needed to know, spreading from her cheeks down her throat in a wave of pink that made his blood run hot.
“I have read about it,” she started, then paused, clearly flustered. “I have heard things, from Flora and from the other maids, about what happens between a husband and wife.”
“Ye’ve read about it.” His voice was flat, though he could feel his heart beating faster in his chest. “Ye’ve heard things from maids.”
“I am nae ignorant, Rowan. I ken that an heir must come of this marriage eventually, and I ken that I am meant to give ye that heir.”
“Ye’re innocent.” He said it quietly, not as an insult but as a simple statement of fact. “Ye daenae ken what ye’re askin’ for when ye invite me to yer bed. Ye daenae understand what it would mean, what it would cost, what it would change between us.”
