But then his frown deepened further, pulling her out of her reverie. For a man who had her battling with her emotions, one irritated look from him was enough to bring her to her senses.
His eyes continued to trace her nightgown with obvious disregard. She could not tell whether it was her boldness in barging into his study or the revealing fabric that drew such disapproval. Either way, he made no effort to hide it.
Sorcha opened her mouth to speak, to say something that would break the suffocating tension. But Myles beat her to it.
“Well,” he drawled, his eyes flicking over her with frank appreciation, “I cannae say the night has lost its charm. Ye’ve nearly given me a heart attack and a blessing all in one breath.”
Her lashes fluttered at those words. She might have answered him in kind, might even have found her words. But then William spoke.
“Enough.” His voice cut through the air like a blade, low, rough, dangerous.
He did not shout, yet the word carried a warning that made the room go still. She could feel it in her bones.
Myles turned his head toward him, genuine surprise flickering across his features.
Sorcha watched them, fascinated despite herself. She had never seen William react like this, never heard him speak in such a raw tone.
Myles blinked once, before a knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He glanced between her and William, as though wanting to catch the tension. And whatever he saw clearly delighted him.
“Right,” he said lightly, sheathing his sword. “I’ll take me leave.” He inclined his head toward Sorcha. “Sleep well, me Lady.”
Then, with a final knowing look at William, he turned and slipped out of the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Heavy silence ensued.
10
So now what, Sorcha?
Ye’ve been standin’ here for five minutes. Say something.
The voice in her head was far louder than the silence pressing in from all sides.
Sorcha was rooted to the spot. The room smelled faintly of parchment, leather, and… him.
Light danced across the walls, but none of it distracted her from the man who was watching her as though she were a puzzle he did not know how to solve.
William MacLean. Dark brown eyes. Unblinking.
He did not move, nor did he speak. However, his frown was still there, etched deeply between his eyebrows. It had smoothed enough to suggest the curiosity that had slipped beneath his irritation.
He was watching her, measuring her as though she posed some sort of threat just by standing there with nothing but thin fabric and defiance. Her heart kicked in her chest.
Sorcha opened her mouth to speak.
“Ye lose sleep just to stare at me,” he said flatly, beating her to it. “Or is there a point to this visit?”
She blinked at his words, before scoffing. “If I wished to admire yer face, me Laird, I’d do it in daylight. Less chance of trippin’ over yer ego.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely.
She opened her mouth again, determined not to let another silence reign, when he took a step toward her. Just one. But it was enough to shrink the distance between them.
Her body reacted instantly, heat curling low in her belly.
Daenae come any closer.
He stopped, as though he could hear her thoughts.
