The Laird’s Sinful Obsession (Preview)
Chapter One
1520, Ball at Dunstaffnage Castle
“Another glass of wine, me lady?”
Alba MacKinnon glanced up at the servant hovering at her elbow, his silver tray gleaming in the torchlight. She shook her head, offering a polite smile beneath her delicate mask. “Nay, thank ye.”
The servant bowed and moved away, leaving Alba alone once more at the edge of Dunstaffnage Castle’s grand ballroom.
Around her, the masquerade swirled in a riot of color and sound—silk gowns in jewel tones, masks adorned with feathers and gold thread, the rich notes of fiddles and pipes blending with laughter and conversation.
It was beautiful. Intoxicating, even. A rare gathering where Highland clans came together for diplomacy and celebration rather than rivalry.
Alba was looking around, taking in everything, when she saw Lachlann Macneil and she just couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He stood across the room, near the massive stone hearth, speaking with Laird MacDonald and another man she didn’t recognize. Even with half his face concealed by a simple black mask, surrounded by other warriors and lairds, Lachlann commanded attention.
His broad shoulders filled out his formal doublet, and when he moved, it was with the ease and authority of a man born to lead—someone equally comfortable on a longship’s deck or a battlefield.
Alba’s fingers tightened around her wine goblet as she watched him laugh at something David, one of the covenant brothers, said. The sound carried across the room, rich and warm, and she felt it settle somewhere low in her belly.
She shouldn’t have been watchin’ him like that. Shouldn’t let her gaze linger on the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair was tied back but had a few rebellious strands escapin’ to frame his face. Shouldn’t wonder what it would feel like if those storm-grey eyes turned her way with something other than brotherly affection.
But Alba had been fighting that pull toward Lachlann MacNeil for years now, and it only seemed to grow stronger with time.
Why on earth does he have tae be me braither’s best friend.
“Lady MacKinnon, what a vision ye are this evenin’!”
Alba turned to find Lady Moira Campbell approaching, her round face flushed with excitement and wine. The older woman’s mask was decorated with peacock feathers that bobbed enthusiastically as she spoke.
“Lady Campbell,” Alba greeted, grateful for the distraction from her dangerous thoughts. “Ye look lovely as well.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Moira waved a dismissive hand at her emerald gown, though her pleased smile suggested she was quite satisfied with her appearance. “Tell me, dear, are ye enjoyin’ the festivities? I saw ye sittin’ here alone and thought ye might want some company.”
Just wanted tae be alone tae admire Lachlan.
“That’s kind of ye. Aye, it’s a beautiful celebration.”
“Beautiful indeed! Though I must say—” Moira leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to what she likely thought was a whisper but was still quite audible, “—I’ve never seen so many eligible young men in one place. Surely ye’ve noticed? Half the unmarried lairds in the Highlands are here taenight.”
Alba forced her smile to remain pleasant. “I hadnae given it much thought.”
“Hadn’t ye?” Moira’s eyebrows rose above her mask. “A bonnie lass like yerself? Come now, ye must have caught the eye of more than a few.”
“I’m here tae represent me clan, Lady Campbell, nae tae find a husband.”
“Nonsense! Ye can dae both.” Moira’s gaze swept the room appraisingly. “Now, let me see… Young Laird Fraser over there has been watchin’ ye. And I believe MacGordon is still unwed, though he’s a bit sour fer me taste…”
Alba’s pleasant expression faltered. “I’m nae lookin’ fer a match taenight, me lady.”
“Every woman is lookin’ fer a match, dear, whether she admits it or nae.” Moira patted her arm with maternal condescension. “Mark me words, by the end of the season, half the lasses here will be betrothed. Ye’d dae well tae consider yer options while ye have them.”
Before Alba could formulate a response that wouldn’t be outright rude, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of young men had started some sort of drinking competition, their raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls.
“Goodness!” Moira pressed a hand to her ample chest. “Young men these days have nay sense of decorum. If ye’ll excuse me, dear, I should go find me husband before he joins them.”
She swept away in a flutter of peacock feathers, leaving Alba alone once more.
Alba took a sip of wine and let her gaze drift back across the room, only to find Lachlann looking directly at her.
Her breath caught. For a moment, their eyes met across the crowded ballroom, and the noise and movement around her seemed to fade. Lachlann’s expression was unreadable behind his mask, but something in the intensity of his gaze made heat bloom in her cheeks.
Then someone said something that drew Lachlann’s attention away, and the moment shattered.
This was madness. Lachlann was her brother’s closest friend, one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant.
They’d all grown up together after that terrible battle, forged into brothers through shared trauma and honor. Which made any attraction she felt toward him completely, utterly forbidden.
She set her empty goblet on a passing servant’s tray and smoothed her hands over her blue silk gown. Perhaps she should find some of the other ladies, engage in the sort of social conversation expected of her. Or—
“Lady Alba.”
The voice was smooth as honey and twice as cloying. Alba’s spine stiffened before she even turned around.
Torquil MacLean stood far too close, a goblet in one hand and a predatory smile on his lips. His mask was adorned with silver thread that matched the excessive embroidery on his doublet. She’d felt his eyes on her throughout the evening, watching her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
“Laird MacLean.” Alba dipped her head in the barest acknowledgment courtesy demanded.
“Ye look absolutely enchantin’ this evenin’.” His gaze traveled over her in a way that made her wish she’d worn something far less fitted. “That shade of blue is remarkably becomin’ on ye.”
“Ye’re too kind.”
“Nae at all. I speak only the truth.” He shifted closer, and Alba caught the sharp scent of wine on his breath, too much wine. “I’ve been hopin’ fer a chance tae speak with ye all evenin’. Ye’re a difficult woman tae catch alone.”
Alba forced her expression to remain neutral. “The celebration has kept me quite occupied.”
“I’m sure it has. A woman of yer… qualities must be in high demand.” His cold blue eyes glittered behind his mask. “But surely ye can spare a moment fer me? I’ve been most eager tae better make yer acquaintance.”
Every instinct Alba possessed was screaming at her to leave, to make some excuse and put distance between herself and this man. But they were at a diplomatic gathering, surrounded by representatives from a dozen different clans. Insult him too obviously, and it would reflect poorly on the MacKinnons.
“What did ye wish tae discuss, Laird MacLean?” she asked carefully.
Torquil’s smile widened, and there was something sharp and dangerous in it.
“Dance with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “The musicians are starting a new set, and I would be honored tae have ye as me partner.”
Alba’s fingers trembled as Torquil’s hand reached for hers. She could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on her—the eyes of other guests who’d noticed the exchange, the rules of Highland hospitality and courtesy that bound her, the dangerous glint in Torquil’s eyes that promised consequences if she refused.
Refusing a dance at a formal gathering like this would be seen as a grave insult. It would cause talk, speculation, possibly even offense that could ripple out into clan politics.
“Aye,” she heard herself say, her voice steadier than she felt. “I would be honored.”
Torquil’s smile sharpened as he led her onto the dance floor. His hand settled on her waist—too tight, too possessive—and Alba fought the urge to pull away as they began to move through the steps of the reel.
“Ye dance beautifully, Lady Alba,” Torquil murmured, leaning closer than the dance required. “Just as I knew ye would.”
“Ye’re too kind, Laird MacLean.”
“Nae at all.” They turned, and his grip tightened fractionally. “I’ve been watchin’ ye all evenin’, ye ken. Waitin’ fer the right moment tae approach.”
Alba’s pulse quickened, but not with pleasure. “Have ye?”
“Aye. Because I have somethin’ important tae discuss with ye.” His cold blue eyes locked on hers. “Somethin’ that concerns both our futures.”
Dread pooled in Alba’s stomach. “I dinnae understand—”
“I think ye dae, lass.” Torquil pulled her closer as they moved through another turn. “Ye’re a clever woman. Surely ye’ve considered what a union between our clans could mean? The MacLeans and the MacKinnons, bound together… think of the power, the influence.”
Alba’s breath caught. “Laird MacLean, I—”
“I’m askin’ fer yer hand, Alba.” His voice dropped lower, more intense. “Marry me. Become Lady MacLean.”
Alba stiffened, recognizing the danger immediately. This was no polite inquiry or a tentative courtship—this was a demand dressed up as an offer, and the possessive way Torquil held her made it clear he’d already decided she would be his.
“I’m afraid that’s nae possible,” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Any discussions about marriage would need tae go through me braither, as is proper—”
“Yer braither is in England.” Torquil’s smile turned cold. “And from what I understand, he’s made nay arrangements fer ye. I’m offerin’ ye security, Alba. Protection. Nae many lairds would be so generous tae a woman whose braither left her so… vulnerable.”
The threat beneath his words was unmistakable. Alba’s mind raced, searching for a way out of the conversation, out of the dance, away from that man who was holding her too tight and smiling like a predator who’d cornered his prey.
“I must respectfully decline,” she said firmly, lifting her chin. “I have nay interest in marriage at this time, and even if I did—”
“Ye misunderstand, lass.” Torquil’s fingers dug into her waist hard enough to bruise. “I wasnae askin’ fer yer permission. I was extendin’ ye the courtesy of hearin’ it from me first, before I make the formal arrangements with yer clan.”
Alba’s heart hammered against her ribs. She opened her mouth, though she had no idea what words would come out—
“I’m afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me.”
Chapter Two
“I’m afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me.”
The voice was deep and familiar, and it sent relief flooding through Alba’s veins like whisky warmth.
Lachlann MacNeil stood at her shoulder, his storm-grey eyes fixed on Torquil with an intensity that could have frozen a loch in summer.
He was taller than the MacLean laird, broader through the shoulders, and there was something in his posture—relaxed but ready—that spoke of a warrior who’d seen real battle.
Torquil’s smile tightened. “I wasnae aware Lady MacKinnon had made any prior commitments.”
“Well, now ye are.” Lachlann’s tone was pleasant enough, but there was steel beneath it. He turned to Alba, and his expression softened slightly. “Are ye ready, lass?”
Alba’s heart hammered against her ribs for an entirely different reason now. “Aye,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “I am.”
She placed her hand in Lachlann’s, and the warmth of his palm against hers made her breath catch.
His fingers closed around hers—gentle but sure—and she felt the calluses from years of sword work, of hauling ropes on longships, of a life lived in service to his clan.
Torquil’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps after this dance, Lady MacKinnon—”
“I’m afraid Lady MacKinnon’s evenin’ is quite full,” Lachlann interrupted smoothly. “But I’m sure ye’ll find nay shortage of willin’ partners, Laird MacLean. Lady Blair was just mentionin’ how much she enjoys dancin’.”
It was a dismissal, polite but absolute.
Torquil’s cold blue eyes flickered between them, and Alba could practically see him calculating whether to push the matter. But Lachlann was a laird in his own right and one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant. Challenging him publicly would be foolish.
“Of course,” Torquil finally said, his smile sharp as broken glass. “Enjoy yer dance.”
He melted back into the crowd, but Alba could feel his gaze on her like ice water down her spine.
“Come,” Lachlann murmured, his hand moving to the small of her back as he guided her toward the center of the ballroom where other couples were forming sets. “Let’s get ye away from that bastard.”
“Lachlann…”
“Later.” His voice was low, meant only for her ears. “Smile, Alba. Half the room is watchin’.”
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the attention they’d drawn.
Lady Campbell was whispering behind her fan to another woman. Several young warriors were watching with poorly concealed interest. Even David MacDonald had turned from his conversation to observe them with a thoughtful expression.
Alba lifted her chin and let Lachlann lead her into position as the musicians began a reel. His hand settled on her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath it.
“Ye shouldnae have done that,” she said quietly as they began to move through the steps. “Torquil MacLean isnae a man who takes kindly tae bein’ thwarted.”
“Torquil MacLean can go straight to hell,” Lachlann replied, his tone conversational despite the venom in his words. “Did ye want tae dance with him?”
“Nay.”
“Then I did exactly what I should have done.” His grey eyes met hers, and there was something fierce in them that made her pulse quicken. “Ye looked like a hare caught in a snare, Alba. Did ye truly think I’d just stand there and watch?”
“It wasnae yer responsibility.”
“Aye, it was.” They turned in time with the music, his hand firm and steady at her waist. “Calum asked me tae keep an eye on ye while he’s in England. That’s exactly what I’m daein’.”
Alba’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course that’s why he’d intervened. Her brother had asked him to watch over her, to protect her in his absence. It had nothing to do with her specifically, and everything to do with Lachlann’s loyalty to Calum.
She should be grateful. She was grateful. But beneath the relief was a treacherous thread of disappointment that she had no right to feel.
“I didnae ken Calum had asked that of ye,” she said, keeping her voice light.
Lachlann’s hand tightened fractionally on her waist as they moved through a turn. “Yer braither’s in England dealin’ with trade negotiations, and ye’re at a ball full of ambitious lairds and too much wine. Of course I’ve been watchin’ ye.”
“How… reassurin’.”
His lips quirked. “Ye’re angry.”
“I’m nae angry.”
“Ye are. Yer shoulders just tightened, and ye get this particular look in yer eyes when ye’re tryin’ nae tae lose yer temper.” He guided her through another series of steps with easy confidence. “I’ve known ye since ye were a wee lass, Alba. I can read ye better than ye think.”
That was precisely the problem, wasn’t it? Lachlann had known her for years—watched her grow from a grieving child into a woman. But he still saw her as Calum’s little sister, someone to be protected and watched over. Not as…
Not as what? What did she want him to see when he looked at her?
Alba pushed the dangerous thought away. “I’m nae angry,” she repeated, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m grateful ye intervened. Torquil was makin’ me uncomfortable.”
“I noticed.” Something dark flickered across Lachlann’s face.
Lachlann was quiet for a moment as they moved through the dance. Around them, other couples swirled and laughed, but Alba was hyperaware of the man holding her—the warmth of his hand, the way he smelled of leather and salt air, the small scar above his left eyebrow that she’d never dared ask about.
“If he approaches ye again taenight,” Lachlann finally said, his voice low and serious, “ye come find me immediately. Dae ye understand?”
“Lachlann, I’m nae helpless.”
“I ken ye’re nae helpless, Alba. But Torquil MacLean is dangerous.” His grey eyes held hers, and she could see genuine concern there beneath the command. “He’s ambitious and cunnin’, and he daesnae take nay fer an answer. Promise me ye’ll be careful.”
The intensity in his gaze made her throat tight. “I promise.”
“Good.”
They finished the reel in silence, moving through the final steps with a synchronicity that felt natural, inevitable. When the music ended and Lachlann released her, Alba felt the loss of his touch like cold wind against her skin.
He glanced around the ballroom, and his jaw tightened. “When are ye leavin’?”
“Soon. Me escorts are probably waitin’ already, I told them I wouldnae stay late.”
“Good. I’ll walk ye out.”
“Ye dinnae need tae.”
“Alba.” He gave her a look that brooked no argument. “I’m walkin’ ye tae yer carriage. Let me dae this without a fight, aye?”
She wanted to argue, to prove she didn’t need constant watching over. But the memory of Torquil’s cold eyes and possessive smile was still too fresh. “Aye. Thank ye.”
They made their way through the crowd toward the castle’s entrance. Alba could feel eyes following them, speculation and curiosity in equal measure.
The cool night air was a relief after the press and heat of the ballroom. Alba’s escorts, two MacKinnon warriors, were indeed waiting near where the carriages had been arranged. They straightened when they saw her approaching with Lachlann.
“Lady MacKinnon,” the older of the two, Finn, greeted with a respectful nod. “We were just about tae come fetch ye.”
“I’m ready tae leave.” Alba turned to Lachlann, suddenly unsure what to say. Thank ye seemed inadequate, but what else was there? “Will ye be stayin’ much longer?”
“Nay. Another hour, perhaps, then I’ll be headin’ back tae me ship.” His grey eyes searched her face. “Ye’ll be safe with Finn and Dougal. They’re good men.”
“I ken.”
“And ye’ll write to Calum about what happened taenight? With Torquil?”
Alba hesitated. Her brother had enough to worry about with the English trade negotiations. The last thing she wanted was to add to his burdens. “I’ll… consider it.”
“Alba.”
“I’ll be fine, Lachlann. Truly.” She managed a smile. “Go enjoy the rest of yer evenin’. Dance with some of those lasses who’ve been watchin’ ye all night.”
Something flickered in his expression—surprise? amusement? —but before she could identify it, Finn stepped forward to help her into the carriage.
“Safe travels, Lady MacKinnon,” Lachlann said formally, stepping back.
“And ye, Laird MacNeil.”
The title felt strange on her tongue, too formal, too distant for someone she’d known most of her life. But it was proper, appropriate for a public farewell.
Alba settled into the carriage, and Dougal closed the door. Through the window, she could see Lachlann standing in the torchlight, watching as Finn climbed up to the driver’s seat.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Alba let her head fall back against the cushioned seat, releasing a long breath. Her heart was still racing from the dance, from the warmth of Lachlann’s hand at her waist, from the fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he’d faced down Torquil.
She was a fool. A complete and utter fool for letting herself feel anything beyond gratitude.
The road leading away from Dunstaffnage Castle was dark, lit only by the moon and the single lantern on the carriage. The sound of hoofbeats and creaking wheels filled the silence as they traveled through the wooded path toward the main road that would take them north to MacKinnon lands.
Alba closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing thoughts. In a few days, Calum would return from England, and life would return to normal. She’d go back to her duties, to managing the household and representing her clan at smaller gatherings. And Lachlann would go back to Barra, to his own responsibilities and his own life.
That night would become just another memory to lock away, another moment when she’d let herself pretend, just for a dance, that forbidden things might be possible.
The carriage continued through the darkness, carrying Alba away from the castle, from the ball, from Lachlann MacNeil and all the dangerous feelings he stirred in her heart.
***
“Something daes nae seem right.”
The first arrow struck the lantern as Finn was done making his quick observation.
Glass shattered, plunging the road into darkness save for the pale moonlight filtering through the trees. Alba lurched forward as the carriage jerked violently, Finn’s shout of alarm cutting through the night.
“What—” Alba began, but her words were drowned out by the whistle of more arrows slicing through the air.
The horses screamed. The carriage tilted dangerously as one of them went down, and Alba was thrown against the side panel hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. The world became a chaos of sound and motion as the carriage tipped, skidded, and finally crashed onto its side with bone-jarring force.
Alba’s head cracked against something solid. Stars burst behind her eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but lie there in the wreckage trying to remember which way was up.
If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here
Where can I buy this book. Amazon canceled my pre order.
Thank you so much for your interest! I truly apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, I’m currently experiencing a major issue with Amazon, which is why the pre-order was cancelled. However, I’m doing my best to resolve it as soon as possible and you should receive an update from me shortly regarding this matter. ❤️
Super start to this engaging tale, Shona! Where’s a hunky laird when you need one? I’m sure he’ll magically materialize!
This means so much to me my dear! Thank you! 🧡