Page 21 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Trouble, that one.
But the attack on the road refused to leave his mind either. He had witnessed similar situations before along the southerntrade routes. Common thieves set up traps often enough. But something about it did not feel right.
They had known exactly when to strike, and they had not fled when they had seen him. Instead, they had doubled down, determined.
He drummed his fingers against the desk.
Perhaps they had simply been fools. The Highlands produce plenty of those.
But he’d almost lost Sorcha to them. He remembered her, breathless, with mud on her cheek. Eyes wide as the attacker swung at her, barely missing as she rolled away.
Foolish lass. If somethin’ had happened to her…
That would be the second time he would have failed as a husband.
A memory resurfaced uninvited.
Blood. Voices shouting. The midwife’s words.
“I’m sorry, me Laird. We did everythin’ we could. Lady MacLaren… she didnae make it.”
He took a swig of his whiskey, the desk shaking as he set it down with force. He hoped the memory would go down as quickly as the liquid.
But it did not.
And now I’m meant to share a bed with another.
He remembered her rigid posture during the wedding ceremony, her blue eyes never leaving his.
As if she were facin’ an execution. But she still went along with it. Didnae protest.
It did not sit right with him.
He rose from his desk and left the study, hoping to distract himself from his thoughts.
The corridors were quiet. Most of the keep had already settled for the night. He enjoyed walking most evenings, seeing with his own eyes that all was as it should be. But as he passed the stairs that led to the upper chambers, his steps slowed. That was where Sorcha would be.
His jaw tightened. He should leave her be. She’d endured enough for one day. And tonight…
Rowan exhaled slowly through his nose. Despite those thoughts, he found himself turning toward the stairs.
Just to make sure that she’s settled. Nothin’ more.
He nearly reached the top of the stairs when movement caught his eye. A figure holding a torch, walking carefully down the corridor.
Sorcha.
He went still. For a moment, he considered turning away, but then her eyes found his, holding him in place. She looked nothing like the mud-stained maiden he had brought earlier.
Her fair hair, now freshly cleansed, hung in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. Damp tendrils clung teasingly to her flushed cheeks and neck, the torchlight reflecting the dewy sheen on her skin.
She was startled, her eyes wide, her pink lips parted in a gasp.
It was dangerous how much he was starting to enjoy catching her off guard.
“Me Laird,” she greeted politely, gathering herself as she seemed to always do.
But Rowan knew better.
