Page 84 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Both of them. Sorcha and Elspeth. Gone.
“Search the castle again.” His voice came out cold, though inside he was screaming. “Every chamber, every corridor, every closet and cupboard and corner. I want them found.”
The guards scattered, their boots pounding against the stone floors as they ran to obey.
Ewan appeared at Rowan’s side, his sandy hair disheveled and his expression grim.
“I will track them,” he said. “If they left the castle, there would be signs. Footprints in the mud, broken branches, something. I will find them.”
“I am coming with ye.” Callan pushed through the crowd of servants, his face pale and his black curls wild around his shoulders. “She is me sister. I willnae stand here and wait while someone else searches for her.”
Rowan nodded, but he did not speak. He could not speak. His throat had closed around something hot and thick, and he was afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth.
I’m sorry for being such an idiot. I left her here, defenseless, while I rode off to play the hero.
Ewan and Callan disappeared through the gates, the thundering of their horses’ hooves fading into the distance. The guards spread through the castle, searching every room they could find, calling Sorcha’s name and Elspeth’s name until the walls echoed with the sound.
Rowan stood in the courtyard and did nothing.
He could not move. Could not think. Could only stand there with his hands hanging at his sides and his heart pounding against his ribs and his mind replaying every moment he had wasted, every moment he had pushed Sorcha away, every moment he had chosen fear over her.
I willnae bury her. I cannae. I willnae bury either of them.
He turned and walked toward the castle. Not because he had a plan, not because he knew where to look, but because he could not stand still any longer.
Because moving was better than standing, and doing something was better than doing nothing.
His boots carried him through the corridors without conscious direction. Past the Great Hall, where the tables still waited for the feast that would never come. Past the kitchens, where the maids huddled together and wept. Past the stairs that led to the upper chambers, where the candles had burned low in their holders and the shadows gathered in the corners.
He found himself in his study.
The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was cold and dark. The maps still lay scattered across the table where he had left them, and the ledgers still sat in their piles, and the world still spun on as though nothing had changed.
But something had changed.Everythinghad changed.
Rowan had never believed in luck. Luck was for gamblers and fools, for men who trusted in chance rather than steel. He had survived the plague and war and loss because he was strong and because he was careful and because he never allowed himself to hope for more than he could hold in his hands.
But he believed in her.
And he knew, with a certainty that had no reason and no logic and no place in the mind of a man who had seen as much death as he had seen, that the small wooden horse would guide him to her.
He left the study and walked back to the courtyard. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his jaw was set, and his eyes were dry, though something inside him was weeping.
I am comin’, Sorcha. I am comin’ for ye both. Hold on.
The courtyard was still in chaos when he emerged, but it was a different kind of chaos. Men shouted orders, and women wept. Somewhere, a child was crying, though whether from fear or confusion, he could not tell.
He was about to mount his horse when a woman stepped into his path. She was older, perhaps sixty, with grey streaking her brown hair and lines etched deep into her face. Her clothes were fine but plain.
He did not recognize her at first. The chaos of the courtyard and the fear pounding in his blood had blurred his vision, and she was just another body in a sea of bodies, just another face in a crowd of strangers.
But then she spoke.
“Rowan.” Her voice was shaking, and tears streaked her face. She clutched her hands together as though she were praying. “Rowan, please. Ye must listen to me.”
He stopped and looked at her, and recognition struck him.
“Marion.” His father’s sister-in-law. The woman who had married his uncle Alistair and then disappeared from his life, first by distance and then by choice.
