Page 90 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Thank ye,” she murmured. “For keepin’ her safe.”
Gordon flinched at her touch, his eyes wide and desperate. “I held a knife to her throat. I threatened to kill her. How can ye thank me for anythin’?”
“Because ye didnae hurt her.” Sorcha’s voice was firm and steady, despite the tears on her cheeks. “Because ye had the chance, and ye chose nae to. Because when yer uncle told ye to kill her, ye dropped the knife instead.”
Gordon’s face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. “I didnae ken. I didnae ken he was lyin’. I didnae ken any of it.”
Sorcha looked at Rowan, and he saw the question in her eyes.Can we trust him? Can we forgive him? Can we bring him home?
He did not have an answer. Not yet. But he looked at his brother’s face, at the fear and the guilt and the desperate hope, and he remembered a boy with dirt on his knees and a wooden sword in his hand, following him through the corridors of the castle, calling his name.
“Come,” he said, pulling Gordon upright, though he kept one hand on his shoulder. “We are leaving this place. We are going home.”
The ride back to the castle was quiet.
Gordon rode at the back of the group, flanked by two of Rowan’s guards, his head bowed and his hands loose on the reins. He did not speak, and no one spoke to him.
The weight of what had happened hung over them all, heavy and suffocating, and the only sounds were the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the wind in the trees.
Rowan rode at the front with Sorcha sitting before him in the saddle, her back pressed against his chest and her head resting against his shoulder. Elspeth sat in front of Sorcha, her small body tucked between their arms. Every few minutes, she wouldreach up and touch Sorcha’s face, as though making sure she was still there.
“Are ye all right?” Sorcha asked, her voice soft, meant only for him.
“I am fine.”
“Ye arenae fine.” She turned slightly, just enough to look at his face. “Ye just killed yer uncle. Ye just found out that yer braither is alive. Ye arenae fine, Rowan. And ye daenae have to pretend that ye are.”
He did not answer. He only tightened his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her hair.
She sees me. She sees through all of it—the walls and the armor and the years of pretense—and is still here.
The gates of the castle rose before them, revealing a crowded courtyard. Flora stood near the well, her red hair bright in the torchlight, and Morag was beside her, her silver hair escaping its braid and her sharp eyes red from weeping.
Ailis was there, her brown hair pinned up in a style that did not suit her, her blue eyes wide and wet with tears.
Sorcha slid down from the horse before Rowan could help her. She ran to her sister and threw her arms around her. Ailis weptand clung to her, and Callan wrapped his arms around both of them, holding them close.
“I am sorry,” Ailis sobbed. “I am so sorry. I shouldnae have run. I shouldnae have left ye. This is all me fault.”
“It isnae yer fault.” Sorcha’s voice was firm, though she was crying too. “None of this is yer fault. Do ye understand me, Ailis? None of it.”
Callan pulled back and looked at Sorcha’s face, at the blood on her throat and the dirt on her gown and the shadows under her eyes.
“I am taking Ailis home,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Daenae worry, Sister. I will protect her. I will keep her safe.”
Sorcha nodded and pressed her hand to his cheek. “I ken ye will. Ye are a man of yer word, Callan. Ye always have been.”
Callan’s jaw tightened, and he pulled her into another embrace before stepping back. “If ye need anythin’—”
“I will send word.”
He nodded. Then he turned away, Ailis’s hand in his, and together they walked toward the carriage that waited at the edge of the courtyard.
Sorcha watched them go, before turning and walking back to Rowan.
Morag approached them, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression uncertain. “The lady needs a healer. Her throat?—”
“I will see to it,” Rowan cut in. He looked at Morag, at the tears on her cheeks, at the way her hands trembled despite her efforts to steady them. “Ye did well tonight. All of ye. Thank ye.”
