Page 77 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Callan held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I will be there,” he said. “Beside ye. Whatever happens, ye willnae face him alone.”
Rowan had not expected that. He had assumed Callan would stay in the keep, would keep his distance from the confrontation. It was not his fight, not really.
Kerr’s anger was directed at Rowan, at the marriage that had stolen the Sinclair alliance from him. But Callan’s eyes were steady, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“He tried to kill me sister,” he said, as though reading Rowan’s thoughts. “Whatever his reasons, whatever his grievances against ye, he tried to kill me sister. That makes it me fight.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “Then we ride together.”
“Aye.”
Inside him, a brutal storm churned, raw rage at Kerr for daring to poison Sorcha, bone-deep agony at how close he had come to losing her, and a fierce, possessive desire that refused to be silenced.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her leave his sight. He wanted to burn the man responsible to ashes. He wanted her safe, wanted her close, wanted her in ways he had no right to want her.
This was no longer just about war or justice. This was about her.
And he would destroy anyone who tried to take her from him again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The corridor stretched before Rowan, the torchlight flickering against the stone walls and casting dancing shadows.
He had spent the better part of the day avoiding the east wing, avoiding the chambers where Flora had been helping Sorcha get ready.
He had told himself it was because the hunt required his attention, and because Kerr’s arrival demanded his focus, and because a dozen other duties needed his hands.
But the truth was simpler. He had not trusted himself to see her. Not like this. Not dressed for a cèilidh, not painted and perfumed and arranged like a gift he could not open.
The word echoed in his skull as he rounded the corner.
Coward.
And there she was.
She stood at the window at the end of the corridor, with her back to him, the dying sun pouring through the glass. The light caught her hair, the pale gold that had haunted his dreams, and turned it into something molten.
He stopped walking.
His breath left him in a rush, and he watched her turn at the sound, watched her expression shift from curiosity to surprise.
God help me.
Her gown was green. MacLaren green The same green as his banner, his plaid. The fabric clung to her chest, the neckline cut lower than anything she had worn before, revealing the pale swell of her breasts and the shadow of the valley between. Her waist was narrow where the dress cinched, her hips curved where it fell, and the skirt pooled at her feet like water at the edge of a loch.
Flowers were woven through her hair. White and purple heather, small and delicate, scattered through the golden waves like stars across a night sky.
Dear Lord…
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips redder than usual, and her eyes were the same blue as her gown and fixed on him.
“Sorcha.” Her name came out rough. He had not meant to speak. The word had simply escaped.
“Rowan.”
“I was just takin’ some air before the chaos of new arrivals from neighbouring clan.” She gestured vaguely toward the window.
Her hand trembled, and he saw it.
