Page 67 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Rowan still stood at the foot of the bed, still gripping the wooden frame, still staring down at his wife’s pale face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rowan stood in the doorway of Sorcha’s chamber, watching the scene unfold before him.
Two days had passed since she had collapsed on the floor, two days of fever and sweating, and the healer’s hands moving in desperate haste.
Two days of sitting in the corridor outside her room because he could not bring himself to leave, but also could not bring himself to sit beside her bed and watch her fight for breath.
Coward, he cursed inwardly.
But Sorcha was awake now. The color had returned to her cheeks, though not all of it, and her eyes were clear when she looked at Elspeth, who was perched on the edge of the bed like a small bird ready to take flight at any moment.
“… and Mr. Turtle missed ye so much,” Elspeth was saying, her small hands wrapped around the turtle in her lap. “He sat by the window every day and waited for ye to wake up. Did ye nae, Mr. Turtle?”
The turtle did not respond, being a turtle and also currently hiding inside its shell, but Elspeth seemed satisfied with this answer.
Sorcha smiled, reaching out to brush a curl from Elspeth’s forehead. “I am sorry I worried ye, wee one. I didnae mean to sleep for so long.”
“Morag said ye were sick. She said the healer had to give ye special medicine to make ye better.” Elspeth leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She said the medicine tasted like dirt and worms, and that ye were very brave to drink it.”
“I was very brave,” Sorcha agreed. Her eyes darted to the doorway, to Rowan, before darting away again. “I had to be.”
Elspeth followed her gaze and spotted him. “Da! Ye came! I told Lady Sorcha ye would come. I told her ye were just busy with yer duties, but that ye would come as soon as ye could.”
She kept the turtle aside, and launched herself off the bed and ran to him, and he caught her against his legs, resting his hand on the top of her head.
“I came to see ye too,” he said.
“I ken. But mostly Lady Sorcha, aye? Because she was so sick, and ye were worried.”
Rowan did not answer that. He looked over Elspeth’s head at Sorcha, who was watching him with those blue eyes that seemed to see too much.
“Da,” Elspeth said, tugging on his sleeve, “now that Lady Sorcha is better, can we have a feast? A big one, with music and dancin’ and lots of food? Please?”
Rowan looked down at her. “A feast?”
“Aye. Morag says a cèilidh is the best way to celebrate anything. And we have somethin’ to celebrate, do we nae? Lady Sorcha didnae die.”
The words were blunt, spoken with the brutal honesty of a child who did not yet understand the weight of death.
Rowan felt something twist in his chest.
“Elspeth,” Sorcha said gently, “yer da is very busy. He doesnae have time to plan a feast.”
“But he could make time,” Elspeth insisted, turning to look at her father with wide grey eyes that were impossible to refuse.“Could ye, Da? Please? I want everyone to see that Lady Sorcha is well again.”
Rowan looked at Sorcha. She looked back at him.
“A cèilidh,” he said slowly. “Ye want to host a cèilidh.”
“Aye.” Elspeth nodded so vigorously that her curls bounced. “A big one. With music and dancin’ and maybe even some of those honey cakes that Cook makes. The ones with the little berries on top.”
Rowan thought about it. There had been no celebration for his wedding to Sorcha, no feast, no music, no dancing. Just a quick ceremony in a hall full of strangers and a long ride through the rain to a keep that did not welcome her.
She deserves more than that. She deserves to feel like the lady of this castle, nae just a replacement for the bride who ran away.
“Da.” Elspeth tugged on his sleeve again. “Are ye listenin’?”
