Page 74 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Rowan stood at the window of the Great Hall, looking down at the courtyard below, and watched as carriage after carriage rolled through the gates.
Banners snapped in the autumn wind, the colors of a dozen clans bright against the grey stone. Servants rushed to greet the new arrivals, taking cloaks and offering wine, while grooms led horses toward the stables.
It is workin’. They are comin’.
He should have felt satisfied. This was what he had planned for, what he had orchestrated with careful precision.
All lairds of note in the Highlands would be gathered under his roof by nightfall, and among them would be the man who had tried to kill his wife.
But he did not feel satisfied. He felt restless and uneasy.
“Ye look like a man attendin’ his own funeral,” Ewan remarked from behind him. “Try to smile. It is a celebration.”
Rowan turned away from the window. “Iamsmilin’.”
“Ye are grimacin’. There is a difference.”
Ewan stepped up beside him, looking down at the courtyard. His sandy hair was neatly combed for once, and he had exchanged his usual worn plaid for something finer, though the battle scars on his arms were still visible where his sleeves were rolled up.
“The Sinclairs have arrived,” he said. “I saw their banner comin’ through the gate.”
Rowan’s chest tightened. “And Sorcha?”
“In the courtyard, I imagine. She went down to greet them.”
She should have waited for me. I should have been with her.
But he had been here, in the Great Hall, overseeing the final preparations.
He had told himself it was because he needed to ensure that everything was perfect, that the guests would be impressed, that no detail would be overlooked.
The truth was simpler and more cowardly. He had not wanted to watch her see her family for the first time since the wedding. He had not wanted to see the joy on her face that he had not been able to give her.
“Ye should go down,” Ewan urged, as though reading his thoughts. “She will want ye there.”
“She doesnae need me there.”
“Perhaps nae, but she might want ye there anyway.” Ewan clapped him on the shoulder. “Go, Rowan. I will keep an eye on things here.”
Rowan hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded and left the hall.
The courtyard was in chaos.
Sorcha had not expected the noise, the press of bodies, the way the air seemed to vibrate with the energy of so many people gathered in one place.
This is madness.
Servants wove between the carriages, carrying trunks and baskets and armfuls of fresh rushes for the floors. Children darted between the legs of adults, chasing each other in gamesshe could not follow. And everywhere, there was music, the distant sound of fiddles tuning in the Great Hall, a promise of dancing to come.
She stood at the edge of the courtyard, her hands clasped in front of her, and watched the arrivals with a heart that felt too full for her chest.
So many people. All of them are here, in this keep, because Rowan invited them. Because he wanted to celebrate… me.
She still could not believe it. The Rowan she knew did not celebrate. He did not host cèilidhs and invite his enemies to dance.
But here they were, and here she was, and the sun was setting in a blaze of orange and gold, and somewhere in the kitchens, Morag was shouting orders at the cook while the smell of roasted meat drifted through the open windows.
“Lady Sorcha!” Flora appeared at her elbow, breathless and flushed. “Ye should come inside. The guests are arrivin’, and ye need to greet them. Ye are the lady of the castle now.”
