Page 69 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
I nearly lost her. I nearly lost her, and I wouldnae have even been there to see it. I would have been in me study, or walkin’ the walls, or anywhere but here.
He stepped away from the door and crossed to the window, looking down at the courtyard below. Men went about their work, carrying supplies and tending to the animals. The world continued on, indifferent to the fact that his wife had almost died.
Several long, quiet minutes passed between them, filled only by the crackle of the hearth, before the chamber door finally creaked open. Flora bustled back inside, carrying a stack of fresh linens and casting a cautious glance at Rowan to see if she was interrupting.
“Flora,” Sorcha said from the bed, her voice light, almost casual. “Thank ye for the wood ye left on me dresser. I wanted to carve charms for the midsummer festival, but I fainted before I could finish any of them.”
Rowan turned away from the window, frowning. He had not heard anything about wood on a dresser.
Flora, who had just reentered the room with a fresh pot of tea, stopped in her tracks. “The wood, me Lady?”
“Aye. The blocks on me dresser. The ones I was carvin’ when I fell ill. I assumed ye left them for me.”
Flora set the tea down on the table, her brow furrowed. “I didnae bring any wood, me Lady. I thought ye had brought it with ye from Sinclair Castle.”
Sorcha’s smile faltered. “Nay, I didnae. I thought… Perhaps Morag?”
Morag appeared in the doorway at that moment, Elspeth’s hand in hers. “I didnae bring any wood either. I assumed Flora or one of the other maids did.”
The room fell very quiet.
Rowan’s gaze sharpened. “Where is this wood?”
Sorcha pointed to the dresser against the far wall. “There. On the top. There were several blocks. I have been carvin’ them for days. I thought me weariness was just the damp, but it grew worse each time I worked.”
Rowan crossed to the dresser in three long strides. The blocks sat in a neat pile, dark and fine-grained, surrounded by a halo of fine sawdust. The wood looked expensive, likely imported from somewhere far away.
He reached out, but catching the strange, unnatural glisten of the grain, he hesitated. Pulling the edge of his plaid over his palm, he picked up a block and held it carefully near his nose.
The scent was faint but unmistakable. It was sharp and familiar.
Wolfsbane.
His blood ran cold.
“What is it?” Sorcha asked from the bed. “Rowan, what is wrong?”
He did not answer. He turned the block over in his cloth-covered hands, examining the grain, the color, the way the wood seemed to weep slightly in the light. It had been treated. Soaked in something that had seeped deep into the fibers.
“This wood is poisoned.” He could feel the rage building in his chest like a fire. “Wolfsbane.”
Sorcha’s face went pale. “Poisoned? But I have been carvin’ it for days. I have been breathin’ the dust. I have been holdin’ it in me bare hands.”
“Aye.” He looked at her, and he saw the realization dawn in her eyes. “That is why ye fell ill. Nae because of somethin’ ye ate, but because the dust crept into yer lungs over time.”
Flora’s hand flew to her mouth. “Who would do such a thing? Who would want to harm her?”
Morag stepped into the room, her sharp eyes fixed on the block in Rowan’s hand. “Wolfsbane,” she said slowly. “That grows thick in the fields near Kerr lands.”
Rowan’s mind raced. Laird Kerr. The Mad Laird. The man who had been negotiating for a Sinclair bride before Rowanhad married Sorcha. The man whose pride had been wounded, whose alliance had been stolen.
Would he go this far? Would he try to kill me wife to punish me?
“Wolfsbane isnae easy to find,” Morag continued. “It doesnae grow in these parts. Someone brought it here. Someone wanted Lady Sorcha to carve that wood, to breathe the dust, to die slowly and quietly, so nay one would suspect a thing.”
“But why?” Flora’s voice was shaking. “Why would anyone want to kill her?”
Rowan did not answer. He was already moving toward the door, the block of wood still in his hand.
