Page 93 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Sorcha said nothing. She only held Flora’s hand and watched her tears fall and thought about the man who had burst into thatcrumbling fortress with his sword raised and his heart on his sleeve.
“The Laird,” Flora said, her voice steadier now, though her tears would not stop falling, “he isnae what I expected. When I first came here, I thought he was made of stone. I thought he had nay heart, nay feeling, nothing inside of him.”
“And now?”
“Now I think he is the bravest man I have ever ken. Nae because he is strong, or because he can fight, or because men fear him. But because he loves ye. Because he loves that little girl. Because he would burn the world down to keep ye safe.”
Sorcha’s throat tightened, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall.
“I told him that I love him, and he also told me that he loved me too.” she whispered
Flora let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “Then what are ye doing in here, hiding in the bath? Go to him. Tell him again. Show him.”
Sorcha shook her head. “He is with his braither. They have years of lost time to make up for. I daenae want to interrupt.”
“Ye wouldnae be interrupting.” Flora squeezed her hand and stood up, smoothing her skirts. “But I understand. Ye need time.Ye both need time.” She walked toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “I am glad ye are alive, me Lady. I am glad ye are here. And I am glad ye found him.”
She left before Sorcha could respond, the door closing softly behind her.
Sorcha sat in the cooling water and stared at the flames flickering in the hearth.
He loves me. Rowan MacLaren loves me. And I love him.
The door opened again, and she looked up, expecting Flora with more tea or Morag with more salve for her wrists. But it was not Flora or Morag.
It was Rowan.
He stood in the doorway, with his shoulder braced against the frame and his grey eyes fixed on her face. His hair was damp from his own bath, and he had changed out of his bloodstained clothes into a simple linen shirt and dark breeches. His feet were bare, and his scar stood out stark against his cheek in the firelight.
Sorcha’s heart began to pound, and she was suddenly very aware of her nakedness beneath the water, of the way the steam rose around her, of the way Rowan’s eyes traveled over her face and down her throat and lower still, though the water hid the rest of her from view.
“Rowan.” His name came out breathless. “What are ye doing here?”
He did not answer. He crossed the room slowly, his bare feet silent on the stone floor, and stopped beside the tub.
“Stand up,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Stand up and let me see ye.”
“Rowan, I am?—”
“I ken what ye are.” He knelt beside the tub, bringing himself to her eye level, and reached out to brush a strand of wet hair from her face. “Ye are me wife. Ye are the woman I love. And I have spent too many days and too many nights keeping me distance because I was afraid. I daenae want to be afraid anymore.”
Sorcha’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Ye arenae afraid?”
“I am terrified.” His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking gently over her cheekbone. “But I am more terrified of losing ye than I am of anythin’ else. So I am askin’ ye, Sorcha. Stand up. Let me see ye. Let me touch ye. Let me love ye the way I should have loved ye from the beginning.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.
She stood.
The water cascaded down her body in rivulets, streaming over her shoulders and breasts and hips. Her hands hung at her sides, and she did not cover herself, though every instinct screamed at her to hide, to shrink, to make herself small.
But she was done being small. She was done hiding. She was done being the woman who stood in the shadows while everyone else took what they wanted.
“Ye are beautiful.” Rowan’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes traveled over her slowly, reverently, as though he were memorizing every inch of her. “I have dreamed of this. Of ye. Of the way ye would look standing before me like this. And the dreams didnae do ye justice.”
Sorcha’s cheeks flushed, and her breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. She could feel his gaze on her like a touch, hot and heavy, and between her legs, she felt a pulse of warmth that made her thighs press together.
“Rowan.” His name came out soft, almost a plea.
