He didn’t answer.
Could he be sleeping?
“Me Laird?” she called again, a little louder, her heart beating fast.
Nay. Nay. Nay.
She rushed to the bed to rouse him. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be.
She put a hand on his shoulder, and reared back at how cold he was.
“Me Laird?” She lowered her hand again to shake him.
He was still as a statue, all traces of warmth gone from his body. She didn’t have to check to know that his heart had stopped beating.
Her feet gave out before she knew it, and she fell to the floor with a loud thud that drew Poppy into the room.
“Me Lady!” she cried, rushing to her side.
“The Laird is dead,” Sorcha forced out, the words tasting like bile.
Her stomach churned as reality sank in with a finality that made her feel as cold as Laird Dunrath’s dead body. She felt bile crawl up her throat, but didn’t want to be seen emptying her guts in front of everyone, so she forced it down.
“He’s dead!” she cried, tears of frustration gathering in her eyes.
She couldn’t help but feel as though she had conjured whatever curse had killed her husbands with the fear that had plagued her since she had said her vows. Now, she had brought sorrow to yet another clan and made two lovely girls fatherless.
“Oh nay…” Poppy turned to look at the Laird and then at Sorcha. “I will go get help, but first I must escort ye to yer chambers.”
“Nay!” Sorcha cried. “Daenae touch me!”
“Me Lady!” Poppy gasped.
“I daenae want to curse ye as well,” Sorcha choked out.
How could she ever return to her clan, now that she had another death on her conscience? They would surely exile her, fearing for their lives.
Poppy regarded her with a mournful look and left, only to return later with a few servants who hurried to their Laird. Caelan came in as well with an unreadable look on his face, but before she could say anything, he lifted her into his arms with practiced ease.
“Think nothing of his death, Sorcha,” he whispered. “All will be well.”
“I cannae help but believe that I am indeed cursed,” she sniffled.
“Ye arenae cursed, Sorcha,” he said firmly. “If anyone’s cursed, it is these old bastards for marrying a girl young enough to be their daughter.”
She allowed him to tuck her into bed, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come even if she willed it to.
In the past, it had been others who found her husbands dead. Now, it was her, and the sight and feel of that stillness had filled her veins with ice that the roaring fire in the grate couldn’t thaw.
“Shall I prepare the carriage to take us back home?” Caelan asked.
“I daenae ken,” she mumbled.
How could she return home a widowagain?
“Ye have to decide, Sorcha,” Caelan urged. “I can leave ye to rest tonight, but tomorrow, ye need to make a decision.”
He left her room.
