Page 71 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
It was not the only reason. Alistair was his father’s brother, the last living connection to a family that had been decimated by plague and loss.
For years, Rowan had refused to see him, had refused to even speak his name, because the memory of his brother Gordon was too heavy to bear. Gordon, who had been sent away to their uncle to escape the pox. Gordon, who had died anyway, alone and far from home, buried in ground that did not belong to their family.
I couldnae save him. I couldnae save any of them. But I will save her.
Alistair was old now, and Rowan was tired of carrying the weight of grief that should have been shared.
“Send the invitations,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “To everyone. The Sinclairs, the Kerrs, the Stewarts, and anyone else who needs to be reminded that the MacLarens are still a force in these lands.”
His councilmen nodded reluctantly.
Rowan rose from his chair. “I will leave the arrangements to Morag. She kens better than any of us how to plan a cèilidh.” He paused at the door, looking back at the men who had served his family for decades. “And Hamish? Tell the guards to double the watch. I want nay surprises.”
He left before anyone could respond, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he walked through the quiet corridors of the keep.
The invitations would go out tomorrow. The guests would arrive within the fortnight. And then, finally, he would have answers.
The Great Hall was empty when Sorcha entered it, the long tables cleared and the rushes swept clean in preparation for the evening meal.
The fire in the massive hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting the room in shades of gold and shadow.
“Elspeth,” she called, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “I give up. Where are ye hidin’?”
Silence answered her, but she could hear the soft rustle of fabric and the barely suppressed giggle that came from somewhere near the high table.
They had been playing hide and seek for hours, ever since the midday meal. Elspeth had insisted, and Sorcha had been too tired to argue, though the healer had warned her not to overexert herself.
But the child had been so delighted that Sorcha was well again, so desperate for normalcy after days of fear and uncertainty, that Sorcha had not had the heart to refuse.
Now, where is the wee lass?
“I am goin’ to find ye,” Sorcha said, moving slowly toward the high table. “And when I do, I am goin’ to tickle ye until ye beg for mercy.”
Another giggle, louder this time, and she saw a small hand disappear beneath the heavy oak table.
She pretended to search the far end of the hall first, peering behind the tall chairs and under the benches, drawing out the game because she knew Elspeth loved the anticipation. Then, she made her way to the high table and peered underneath.
Elspeth was curled into a small ball, her hands pressed over her mouth to stifle her laughter, Mr. Turtle clutched against her chest. Her grey eyes, so like her father’s, sparkled with joy.
“I found ye,” Sorcha growled playfully, reaching under the table to scoop her out. “And now I am goin’ to tickle ye.”
“Nay!” Elspeth shrieked, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “Nay, please, Lady Sorcha! I surrender! I surrender!”
Sorcha tickled her anyway, gently, until Elspeth was gasping for air and begging for mercy. Then she set her down and smoothed her own skirts, her chest heaving with the effort.
“Ye are supposed to let me win,” Elspeth said, still giggling. “That is the rule.”
“I didnae ken that was the rule.”
“Everyone kens that rule.” Elspeth tucked Mr. Turtle more securely under her arm. “Da always lets me win. Except when he doesnae. But mostly, he does.”
Sorcha smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.
She had been thinking about Rowan all day, about the way he had looked at her when he discovered the poisoned wood, about the cold fury in his voice when he had called for Ewan and ordered the horses, and most importantly, their last encounter.
He was angry.
“Lady Sorcha,” Elspeth said, tugging on her sleeve. “Are ye sad?”
