Page 89 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Sorcha.” His voice was rough, broken. “Sorcha, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I shouldnae have left ye. I shouldnae have?—”
“Ye came back.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, and he could feel her tears soaking through his shirt. “Ye came back for us.”
“I will always come back for ye.” He pulled back and looked at her face, at the blood on her throat and the dirt on her gown and the tears on her cheeks, and he thought she had never looked more beautiful. “I will always come back for ye. I swear it.”
Behind him, he heard Elspeth’s sobs, and he turned and opened his arms. The little girl ran into them, clutching him around the neck and burying her face in his shoulder.
“Da,” she wept. “Da, I was so scared. The bad man had a knife, and the boy had a knife, and I thought—I thought?—”
“Hush.” He pressed his lips to her hair and held her close, one arm around her and the other around his wife. He felt tears well up in his eyes. “It is over. It is all over. I have ye. I have ye both.”
Gordon stood away from them, his hands hanging at his sides, his face pale and his eyes hollow. He looked at the body on the floor, at the blood spreading across the stone, at the family embracing in the center of the room.
“I didnae ken,” he mumbled. “I didnae ken any of it.”
Rowan looked at his brother and saw the years of pain, loneliness, and manipulation written all over his face. He saw a boy who had been told he was worthless, who had been raised by a monster, who had been turned into a weapon and then discarded when he was no longer useful.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.
Gordon stared at him, his tears falling faster. “I held a knife to her throat. I threatened to kill yer daughter. How can ye?—”
“Come here, Gordon.”
Gordon crossed the room on shaking legs, and when he reached them, Rowan pulled him into the embrace.
“I have ye,” he said, his voice breaking on the words. “I have ye, Braither. And I am never lettin’ ye go again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The silence in the chamber was heavier than the stones that surrounded them.
Rowan stood with his sword still in his hand, his uncle’s blood still wet on the blade, and looked at the young man who had just collapsed against him, weeping like a child.
Gordon’s body shook with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been locked away for years. His fingers clutched at Rowan’s shirt, his forehead was pressed against Rowan’s shoulder, and he held on as though he were drowning and Rowan was the only thing keeping him afloat.
“I didnae ken,” he sobbed, the words muffled against the fabric. “I didnae ken any of it. He told me ye hated me. He told me ye sent me away because I was weak, because I was a burden, because ye couldnae bear to look at me. I believed him. I believed everythin’ he said.”
Rowan’s throat tightened. He could not speak. He could only hold his brother tighter and press his cheek against the autumn-colored hair and breathe in the scent of him.
Elspeth’s small hand tugged at his sleeve. “Da? Da, who is he? Why is he crying?”
Rowan looked down at his daughter, at her tear-streaked face and her wide grey eyes, at the wooden turtle still clutched in her small fingers. She was trembling, her whole body shaking with the aftermath of fear, but she was alive. She was safe. She was here.
“This is Gordon,” Rowan said, his voice scraped raw by emotions he could not name. “He is me braither. Yer uncle.”
Elspeth’s eyes widened, and she looked at the young man with suspicion and curiosity and something that might have been hope. “I thought ye didnae have a braither. I thought he died.”
“I thought so too.” Rowan’s hand came up to rest on the back of Gordon’s head, holding him close. “But I was wrong. He is alive. And he is comin’ home with us.”
Sorcha stepped forward, her hands still raw from where the ropes had bound them, her throat still stained with blood. She moved slowly, carefully, as though her body had not yet caught up with the fact that she was free.
“The child,” she said, her voice hoarse, barely a whisper. Her trembling hands reached out, needing the physical proof that the ordeal was truly over. “Elspeth...”
“She is safe,” Rowan said softly, his large hand resting protectively on the girl’s head as Elspeth pressed closer to his leg.
Elspeth nodded up at Sorcha, her small voice shaking. “I was brave. I didnae cry when he was holdin' the knife.”
Sorcha’s eyes found Gordon’s, and she searched his face for a long moment. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she nodded slowly and reached out to touch his arm.
