He watched the elegant line of her neck as she did, and could almost feel the quick beat of her heart. His fingers itched again, and he knew that was his cue to distance himself from her.
He shrugged. “The journey was long, and I’m tired. I’m going to retire to bed.” He turned to walk away.
Immediately, he heard her footsteps following him. Still, he did not look back. He knew she had questions, but he was too tired to answer any of them.
“Why are ye nae angry?” she threw at him.
That drew him to a slow halt. He had asked himself the same question earlier, and truly, he had no idea. Maybe it was because he didn’t care how much she had spent. Yet he knew it was deeper than that. Deeper than he dared to admit.
Slowly, he turned back, his gaze settling on her face. “I daenae care how ye spend me money,” he said, stepping closer. “And I have more than enough for yer… entertainment.”
She inhaled sharply at his nearness but didn’t pull away. Instead, a warm flush coated her cheeks..
The flecks of gold in her eyes darkened; she clearly refused to believe him. However, when she opened her mouth to reply, a strong wind rattled through the high windows, followed immediately by a sharp crack overhead.
William’s head snapped up, but it was too late. One of the paintings, which must have been poorly secured, came loose and fell straight toward her.
His eyes widened at the sight, instinct taking over as he lunged toward her. “Sorcha!”
16
William had faced danger more times than he could count.
Was it when he clashed swords with other lads in the darkness? Or when enemies tried to attack from the shadows?
Even worse, he had watched his parents get killed. That was the first time he experienced genuine fear. He had learned young how to meet fear without flinching, how to swallow it down until it became nothing more than a tool.
That incident had happened years ago. He was thirty now, and he couldn’t believe Sorcha was the one who made him feel fear again.
The sharp crack above, the heavy wood collapsing… it was a harrowing sight, because it meant only one thing: Sorcha was in danger.
His body reacted before his mind caught up, before logic had time to intervene.
He turned just in time. He did not remember how he moved. He could only feel the urgency to reach for her, to move her, before the worst could happen.
His arms wrapped around her, yanking her back with a force that startled even him. The painting crashed where she had been standing moments ago.
For a split second, all he did was listen to his own breathing as he muttered a few words of gratitude.
Her curves pressed against him as he held her. Without thought, he locked his arms around her, one holding her back, the other tight around her waist.
Her face was pressed into his chest, and he could feel her body trembling slightly. Could feel her fingers curl into his coat. The feel of her rapid heartbeat tore him in a way no blade ever had.
In response, his heart started pounding violently, a brutal rhythm that he could not slow even if he wanted to. He had not felt it race like that since he was a boy, standing helplessly as he watched his parents’ life’s blood escape them.
But not again.
He had managed to prevent her from getting hurt, and that was enough to be grateful for. Watching her, he did not know whether he should speak. He could not trust his own voice.
When he finally did, it came low and rough near her ear. “Are ye hurt?”
She did not answer.
Her silence made his heart clench. Still, it was all right. She had enough time to recover from the shock. His hand moved from her waist to the back of her head.
He forced himself to be gentle, his fingers stroking her hair, patting it slowly. He was grounding her. And maybe himself, too.
Almost immediately, she let out a shaky breath. He knew what it was. It was the fear she was trying to hide.
