Page 72 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Nay, wee one. I am just tired.”
“Ye should rest. Da says rest is important when ye have been sick.”
“Yer da is very wise.”
“He is.” Elspeth nodded solemnly. “He is the wisest da in the whole world.”
Sorcha smiled. “Ye should go find Morag,” she said gently. “It is almost time for yer supper.”
“Will ye come with me?”
“I will come find ye later. I need to walk for a while. Stretch me legs.”
Elspeth looked at her for a long moment, as though deciding whether to believe her, then nodded. “Ye promise?”
“I promise.”
Elspeth ran off, her small feet pattering against the stone floor. Sorcha watched her go until the sound faded into silence.
She did not know where she was walking. Her feet carried her through the corridors without any conscious direction, past the kitchens where servants were preparing the evening meal, past the guardroom where men laughed and talked, past the stairs that led to the upper chambers where her room waited.
She found herself in a part of the keep she had never visited before, a narrow corridor lined with doors that looked older than the rest, the wood dark and worn. One of the doors was open just a crack, and firelight spilled through the gap.
She should have walked past. She should have turned around and gone back to her room and left whatever was behind that door alone. But her feet would not obey.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was a small chamber, a study or a sitting room, with a fire burning low in the hearth and shadows clinging to the corners. And there, in a chair by the fire, sat Rowan.
He was alone. A glass of scotch rested on the small table beside him, the amber liquid catching the firelight. In his hand, he held a small wooden horse.
The one I carved. The one I left on his desk.
He did not look up when she entered. Perhaps he had not heard her, or he simply did not care.
“I apologize,” Sorcha whispered.
She was not sure what she was apologizing for.
She turned to leave.
“Nay.” His voice was low, rough. “Stay.”
She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe. Then she stepped further into the room, letting the door close behind her.
The fire crackled. The shadows danced. Rowan did not look at her. His thumb moved slowly over the carved horse, tracing the curve of its neck, the line of its mane.
“I used to make toys,” he admitted, his voice distant. “For me braither and sister. Carved them meself when I was nay older than Elspeth. They kept their hands busy, Morag said. Kept them from getting into trouble.”
Sorcha moved closer, her eyes fixed on the horse in his hands. “I didnae ken ye had a braither and sister.”
“Aye.” He gave a short laugh, but there was no joy in it, only a hollow echo of something that had once been warm. “They’re gone. Me parents too. One by one, the Baneshanks claimed them.”
The Baneshanks. The death that came for everyone, that could not be bargained with, fought, or escaped. Sorcha had heard old maids speak of it when she was young, had seen them cross themselves at the mention of its name.
“The plague took them fast,” Rowan continued. “I was away, fightin’ a battle I cannae even remember now. By the time I returned, the castle was a tomb. I found them in the Great Hall. Me father, me mother… and me sister. She was only fourteen.”
Sorcha’s throat tightened. She wanted to reach out to him, to touch his hand, to offer some comfort. But she was afraid he would pull away.
