Page 76 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Someone has to.”
Callan put his arms around both of them, pulling them close. “Come. Let us go inside before I freeze to death. The Highlands are colder than I remember.”
Sorcha laughed, and for a moment, just a moment, the weight on her chest lifted.
Leaving the Great Hall behind, Rowan retreated to the sanctuary of his study. The room was quiet, the fire burning low in the hearth.
He stood before the blade that had belonged to his father, running the whetstone along the edge of the sword in slow, measured strokes. The metal gleamed in the firelight, catching the shadows and throwing them back.
He had sharpened this blade a thousand times over the years, had carried it into battles he could barely remember and skirmishes that had blurred together into a single long memory of blood and mud and rain.
But tonight, the sharpening felt different. Tonight, the blade felt heavier in his hand.
Because tonight, I may have to use it.
The hunt was tradition. Every cèilidh began with the Laird and his men riding out to bring back wild rabbit for the feast. It was a gesture, a nod to the old ways, a reminder that the clan provided for itself and asked nothing of anyone.
But tonight, the hunt was something else entirely.
Rowan tested the edge of the blade with his thumb, feeling the sharpness bite into his skin. A bead of blood rose, and he wiped it away without looking.
“Ye will dull that blade if ye keep at it much longer.”
Rowan looked up.
Callan Sinclair stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his black curls loose around his face. He had changed out of his travel clothes and into something more suitable for the evening, a dark tunic and a plaid in the blue of his clan.
“The blade is fine,” Rowan said, setting it down on the table. “I was just… thinkin’.”
“Thinkin’ is dangerous. Me maither used to say it got more men killed than war ever did.”
“Yer maither sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.” Callan crossed the room, his boots silent on the stone floor. He picked up the sword, testing its weight, then set it down again. “Ye are calculatin’.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I am nae.”
“Ye are. I can always tell. Still. Like a wolf watchin’ its prey.”
Like a wolf watchin’ its prey.
The description was apt. Rowan felt like a wolf tonight, coiled and waiting, ready to spring.
The guests had arrived, the hall was filled with music and laughter, and somewhere among them was the man who had tried to kill his wife.
“Kerr is here,” Rowan said. “I saw his carriage come through the gates.”
Callan nodded slowly. “I saw it too. He brought a dozen men with him. More than necessary for a cèilidh.”
“He is showin’ off. Tryin’ to remind everyone that he is still a force to be reckoned with.” Rowan picked up his sword and slid it into the sheath at his belt. “He will come to the hunt. He always does. He likes to prove that he is still strong, still capable, still worthy of being called a laird.”
“And when he is in the fields, away from the crowd?”
Rowan turned to face him. “Then I confront him. Nay more shadows or whispers. I ask him directly about the poison, about the fires, about the men who attacked us on the road, and I watch his face when he answers.”
Callan’s expression was grim. “And if he admits it?”
“Then I do what needs to be done.”
