Page 30 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Rowan stood on the other side of the door with his hand still wrapped around the latch.
He should have kept walking, having already said what needed to be said. There were stores to replenish, borders to secure. Yet he did not move.
His fist tightened. The image of Sorcha’s loose hair with the white linen skimming her curves haunted his mind.
She waited for me.
He heard the catch in her breath again when he stepped near. Saw again the way his hand had reached for her. One more inch, and he would have touched her. Another breath, and he might have done far more than that.
Then what?
He pushed away from the door, taking two steps down the corridor before stopping again.
A fool. That’s what I am.
He walked to nowhere in particular. He needed movement to distract him. But the same memory came back, his mind betraying him all the same. His first wife crying out until her voice broke. Blood on the sheets. Blood on the floor. Him standing uselessly beside her bed.
I couldnae save her.
His chest tightened.
I drove her to it. I put her there. An heir at the price of her life.
For years, he had kept that truth buried beneath duty, council demands, and war. But tonight, it had found its voice again when Sorcha presented herself to him.
The council had pushed him to marry, his daughter having no place in the rulings of men. The borders held for now, but borders moved constantly. Rivals watched. Every marriage bed in the Highlands carried politics with it.
That was why he had agreed to wed again. He had hoped to silence them, delay the inevitable. Yet one look at her, and his blood had turned faithless.
That was the truth of it.
Want.
He wanted Sorcha.
But if he lost control, it would lead where all marriages led—a child, risk, a grave.
He drew a slow breath, forcing his mind back to the matters that demanded it. The fires. His people. Wanting Sorcha was dangerous enough. Acting on it would lead somewhere he had sworn to never go again.
I willnae bury another wife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sorcha hardly slept, waking up with a heaviness she could not shake. The room still smelled of lavender, making her stomach twist with the memory of the night before.
The dull ache in her chest had turned into something worse than hurt. It had turned into shame.
Flora moved quietly near the bed, laying out fresh linen and combing Sorcha’s hair. Sorcha had already told her that she and Rowan did not consummate their marriage last night.
“Can we please get rid of the lavender?”
Flora looked at her pityingly. “Daenae do this to yerself.”
Sorcha looked back at her. “Do what?”
“Take a man’s failings and wear them as if they were yer own.”
Sorcha sighed, her shoulders sinking. “Flora?—”
