Sorcha stood a short distance away. He was right; she met his gaze unflinchingly. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the red strands catching the light. Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress.
A week. A whole goddamn week, and it has done nothing.
The distance had been useless. Futile. Seeing her now only confirmed it. She was so striking, so perfect, that it would do him more harm if he didn’t touch her.
Her gaze stayed on his face, openly searching.
He knew what she was looking for—anger, irritation, the satisfaction of having succeeded in unnerving him.
She had changed his hall—no, hiscastleinto something grander and deliberately foreign.
The corner of her mouth curled with expectation, a smirk she tried to hide. So instead of giving her what she wanted, he did the opposite.
He turned his attention back to the paintings. “What possessed ye,” he drawled, “to think I’d be offended by this?”
She made a soft sound, a gasp that proved she had not expected those words. Then she stepped up to him.
With her standing so close, whatever was coiling low in his gut had no business returning so quickly.
Her eyes flicked over the painting, then to him. “I’ll take that as a compliment, me Laird,” she replied lightly. “Though I did worry ye might accuse me of tryin’ to turn yer castle into something delicate.”
“Delicate,” he repeated, glancing down at her. “It isnae the word I’d choose.”
Her lips twitched. “Then what would ye choose?”
He let silence reign for a moment, let his eyes linger for too long on her mouth. She stood just close enough, like a challenge ready to be undertaken.
“Intentional,” he said at last.
The word made her blink. Not once, but twice.
“That’s a dangerous word,” she remarked.
“So isboring,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving just slightly.
Her gaze followed the movement, her eyebrows squeezing slightly.
As though he hadn’t shocked her enough, he let out a low chuckle. Something barely audible, his lips parting just enough.
Sorcha had frozen by now, utterly stunned. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes wide, disbelief written plainly all over her face. She was staring at him as though he had done something impossible, something that changed her perception of him entirely.
William felt her surprise, her fascination, and it pleased him more than he cared to admit.
“That…” she trailed off. “Ye laughed.”?
He arched an eyebrow. “Does it trouble ye?”
“Nay,” she answered quickly, then hesitated. “I just… didnae expect it. I expected ye to?—”
“Ye expected me to rage,” he said calmly.
She didn’t respond, but the answer was clear in her eyes. He hated to admit it, but he was enjoying it far too much.
Another chuckle escaped his lips.
“If that troubles ye,” he said quietly, “I apologize.”
Sorcha scoffed, turning her head away. “Daenae flatter yerself.”
