Page 70 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Where are ye goin’?” Sorcha called after him.
“To find Ewan. To ready the horses.”
“For what?”
He stopped at the door and looked back at her. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide, but despite everything, despite the poison and the fear and the rage coursing through his veins, he felt something soften in his chest.
If Kerr wants war, he shall have it. But first, I will prove it was him. I will find the evidence, and I will make him answer for what he has done.
Sorcha opened her mouth to speak, but he was already gone, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he strode down the corridor.
Behind him, the door swung shut, and the fire snapped in the silence.
Rowan paused in the corridor, his fists clenched at his sides. The image of Sorcha lying pale and unmoving on the floor refused to leave him. Someone had tried to take her from him. Kerr had tried to kill her.
And for that, the Mad Laird would pay in blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The council chamber was thick with smoke from torches. Rowan sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers drumming against the worn wood, his patience fraying with each passing moment.
“A cèilidh,” Hamish repeated, as though the word itself offended him. “Ye want to host a cèilidh. Now. When Laird Kerr gathers men on our border and someone has tried to poison yer wife.”
Rowan’s fingers stilled. “Ye have a better idea?”
Hamish opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“The lady needs to be seen,” Rowan argued. “She has been cooped up in the keep for weeks, and most of the clan have barely laid eyes on her. There was nay weddin’ feast, nay celebration. The people need to ken who she is. They need to see her as their lady, nae as a stranger who appeared in their midst one day and nearly died the next.”
Duncan leaned forward, his gaunt face sharp in the firelight. “And Laird Kerr? What of him?”
“Kerr will receive an invitation.” Rowan’s mouth curved, but there was no warmth in it. “Under the pretense of reconciliation. A chance to mend old wounds, to drink together, to dance together. To prove that there is nay bad blood between us.”
Torcall snorted from his end of the table. “Laird Kerr will never believe that.”
“Kerr will believe what his pride wants him to believe.” Rowan leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes trailing slowly across the faces of his councilmen. “He will come because he wants to see for himself. He will come because he thinks I am weak, because he thinks I am afraid, and because he thinks I am tryin’ to buy his forgiveness with wine and music.”
“And when he comes?” Iain asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as it always did. “What then?”
“Then we watch him. We listen. We learn what he kens about the poison, about the fires, about the men who attacked us on the road.” Rowan’s voice was cold. “And if he is guilty, we will have the proof we need before he leaves the keep.”
The councilmen exchanged glances. He could see the doubt in their eyes, the worry, the fear that he was taking too great a risk.
But he did not care. He had spent too many days sitting in corridors while his wife lay in a fevered sleep. He had spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, imagining what would have happened if Flora had found her an hour later.
I willnae sit idle. I willnae wait for the next attack. I will draw them out, and I will end this.
“There is somethin’ else,” he said. “I want invitations sent to me uncle. And me aunt.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Hamish was the first to speak. “Alistair? Ye havenae spoken to him in years. Nae since?—”
“I ken how long it has been.” Rowan’s jaw tightened. “He is family. The clan expects me to mend that rift, eventually. And if I am sendin’ invitations to every other laird in the Highlands, it will look strange if I leave him out.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that the only reason?”
Rowan did not answer.
