Author: Shona Thompson
The Laird’s Sinful Obsession – Bonus Prologue
A few hours before the ball
“If ye pull that any tighter, Maisie, I willnae be able tae breathe.”
“Ye need tae breathe less and look even more beautiful,” Maisie said from behind her, tugging at the laces of Alba’s stays with the determination of someone who took her duties very seriously. “Now hold still.”
Alba gripped the bedpost and tried not to think about how her ribs were slowly being compressed into her spine.
Around them, her chamber was in a state of controlled chaos. Gowns spread across the bed, jewelry scattered on the dressing table, ribbons and pins and pots of rouge everywhere.
“I can feel me heart beatin’ in me throat,” Alba said.
“That’s just nerves,” Orla said, giving another firm tug. “Ye’re always like this before a ball.”
“I’m nae always like this.”
“Ye are. Remember the Midwinter feast last year? Ye made me re-lace ye three times because ye said it didnae feel right.”
“That was different,” Alba protested. “The Duke of Atholl was goin’ tae be there.”
“And tonight Lachlann MacNeil is goin’ tae be there,” Maisie said, and Alba could hear the grin in her voice even without seeing her face. “Which is clearly much more terrifying.”
Alba felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I dinnae ken what ye mean.”
“Ye ken exactly what I mean. Ye’ve been talkin’ about him fer weeks.”
“I’ve mentioned him twice.”
“Ye’ve mentioned him at least a dozen times,” Maisie corrected, giving one final tug before tying off the laces. “And every time ye dae, ye get that look on yer face.”
“What look?”
“The look ye’re wearin’ right now.” Maisie came around to face her, hands on her hips. “There. Perfect. Now sit so I can dae yer hair.”
Alba moved to the dressing table and sat, grateful to finally be able to draw a full breath, even if it was somewhat restricted.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Face flushed, hair still hanging loose down her back, eyes bright with what she was absolutely not going to admit was excitement.
Maisie appeared behind her in the reflection, already reaching fer the brush.
“So. Are ye actually goin’ tae talk tae him taenight, or are ye just goin’ tae stare at him from across the room like ye did at the last gatherin’?”
“I talked tae him at the last gatherin’.”
“Aye, but ye acted like ye barely kenned him, forget havin’ grown up with him around.”
“That’s still talkin’.”
“That’s barely acknowledgement,” Maisie said, beginning to work through Alba’s hair with practiced efficiency. “Ye need tae actually have a conversations with the man if ye want him tae see ye as anything other than Calum’s sister.”
“He kens I exist, that’s enough.”
“Daes he? Because from what ye’ve told me, lately yer conversations are stilted.”
Alba opened her mouth to argue, then closed it because Maisie was, unfortunately, correct.
“He’s just, he’s very, how dae I put it?” She gestured vaguely. “He’s him.”
“I ken he’s him,” Maisie said, gathering sections of Alba’s hair and beginning tae pin them. “That’s why ye need tae talk tae him properly taenight. Otherwise ye’re just goin’ tae spend another six months thinkin’ about what ye should have said. Ye used tae play with him and tease him all the time when ye were a bairn.”
“What am I supposed tae say? ‘Good evenin’, Lachlann MacNeil, I’ve been thinkin’ about ye fer years, would ye like tae dance?'”
“That would be a start.”
“I cannae say that!”
“Why nae?”
“Because he’s…” Alba stopped, trying to find words for what Lachlann MacNeil was.
Tall. Quiet. Possessed of the kind of steady competence that made her feel slightly unsteady by comparison.
“He’s nae the kind of man ye just walk up tae and say things like that tae.”
“What kind of man is he, then?”
“The intimidatin’ kind.”
“He’s one of yer braither’s closest friends,” Maisie pointed out. “He’s nae intimidatin’, he’s just reserved.”
“Reserved people are intimidatin’ tae people who talk too much.”
“Ye dinnae talk too much.”
“I dae when I’m nervous,” Alba said. “Remember when I met the Countess of Mar? I told her about our entire family history goin’ back four generations and she hadnae even asked.”
Maisie winced. “That was unfortunate.”
“That was mortifyin’,” Alba corrected. “And if I dae that tae Lachlann MacNeil, he’s goin’ tae spend the rest of the evenin’ avoidin’ me.”
“So dinnae,” Maisie said reasonably, working another section of hair into place. “Just be yerself. But the version of yerself that can complete a sentence without panic.”
“That’s a very narrow version.”
Maisie paused in her work and met Alba’s eyes in the mirror. “Me lady, if I may?”
“Of course.”
“The gentleman ye’re describin’ sounds like a good man. A quiet man. And in me experience, quiet men appreciate women who can talk, because it means they dinnae have tae.” She resumed pinning. “So if ye dae happen tae talk too much, it might nae be the disaster ye’re imaginin’’.”
Alba considered this. “Ye really think so?”
“I’ve been dressin’ ye fer enough gatherings tae ken when ye’re frettin’ fer good reason and when ye’re just frettin’,” Maisie said. “This is just frettin’.”
“But what if he’s nae interested? What if he’s just bein’ polite every time we talk and he’s actually just toleratin’ me because I’m Calum’s sister?”
“Then he’s nae worth yer time,” Orla said firmly. “But I dinnae think that’s the case.”
“How would ye ken?”
Maisie smiled slightly. “Because I saw the way he looked at ye at the last gatherin’ when ye were walkin’ away. That wasnae tolerance. That was interest.”
Alba’s head whipped around so fast that several pins fell out. “What? When? Why didnae ye tell me?”
“I’m tellin’ ye now,” Orla said, retrieving the pins with a long-suffering sigh. “Turn back around before I lose all me progress.”
Alba turned, but her heart was beating faster now. “What kind of look was it?”
“The kind that meant he was sorry tae see ye leave,” Maisie said. “Now stop movin’ or I’ll never get this finished in time.”
Alba forced herself to sit still, but her mind was racing.
Lachlann had looked at her. Had watched her leave. Had been, what? Sorry? Interested?
“What if I mess it up?” she asked quietly.
“Then ye mess it up and we’ll fix yer hair again tomorrow while ye tell me all about it,” Maisie said. “But at least ye’ll have tried.”
Alba looked at herself in the mirror as Maisie worked. Her hair was already taking shape, an elaborate arrangement she’d never be able to replicate on her own, woven through with ribbons that would match the deep blue of her gown.
“Right,” she said, taking a breath, or as much of one as the stays allowed. “Right. I can dae this.”
“Of course ye can,” Orla said. “Ye’re Alba MacKinnon. Ye’ve never been afraid of anythin’ in yer life.”
“That’s nae true. I’m afraid of spiders.”
“Everythin’ important, then.” Maisie finished the last pin and stepped back to examine her work. “There. Perfect. Now let’s get ye intae that gown before ye lose yer nerve entirely.”
Alba stood in front of the long mirror while Maisie made final adjustments to her hem.
The gown was beautiful, deep blue silk that brought out her eyes, with delicate embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. She’d never felt more like a lady and less like herself.
“Stop fidgetin’,” Maisie said, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. “Ye look stunnin’. He’s goin’ tae take one look at ye and forget how tae speak.”
“That’s nae helpful. What if we both forget how tae speak and just stand there starin’ at each other like fools?”
“That would actually be quite romantic,” Maisie said. “In a tragic, terrible sort of way.”
Alba laughed despite herself. “Ye’re supposed tae be encouragin’ me.”
“I am encouragin’ ye. I’m encouragin’ ye tae stop worryin’ so much and just go tae that ball and dance with the man.” Maisie straightened Alba’s necklace, a simple pendant that had belonged to her mother. “The worst that happens is he says nay. And if he says nay, then ye ken, and ye can move on. But what if he says aye?”
“What if he says aye?” Alba repeated quietly.
“Then everythin’ changes,” Maisie said, smiling. “So stop frettin’ and go find out.”
Alba took a deep breath and looked at herself one more time in the mirror. She did look ready. She looked like someone who could walk into a ballroom and talk to a man without panicking.
She could do this.
Probably.
“Right,” she said, picking up her skirts. “Let’s go before I change me mind.”
Maisie handed her the fan she’d forgotten on the dressing table. “And remember, if all else fails, just smile and let him dae the talkin’.”
“That’s terrible advice.”
“It’s brilliant advice,” Maisie said. “Trust me.”
Alba laughed and headed for the door and the waiting carriage.
Her heart already beating fast beneath the silk and stays, imagining the moment when she’d see him across the room and have to decide, once and for all, whether she was brave enough to close the distance between them.
She turned and Maisie smiled and began tidying the chaos of the room, humming softly to herself.
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Four months later
“Ye’re frettin’.”
Alba looked up from where she’d been staring out the carriage window, one hand resting unconsciously on her stomach.
They were an hour from Calum’s estate now, the familiar landscape of her childhood rolling past in autumn colors.
“I’m nae frettin’,” she said.
“Ye’ve been quiet for the past half hour and ye keep touchin’ yer stomach,” Lachlann said from across the carriage. “That’s frettin’.”
“Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But ye’re also frettin’.”
She sighed and turned from the window to look at him properly. “What if somethin’ goes wrong before we get there? What if I’m sick in front of everyone at dinner? What if Calum takes one look at me and kens immediately and I dinnae even get tae tell him properly?”
“Then he kens,” Lachlann said calmly. “And he’ll be pleased regardless of how he finds out.”
“But I want tae tell him the right way. I’ve been practicin’ what tae say.”
“What have ye been practicin’?”
She looked at him suspiciously. “Why? Are ye goin’ tae laugh?”
“Nay,” he said, though the corner of his mouth was doing that thing it did when he was holding back a smile. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“I was thinkin’ I’d wait until after the meal,” she said. “And then maybe when we’re all sittin’ taegether in the evenin’, I’d just, I’d just say it. Simple. ‘Calum, ye’re goin’ tae be an uncle.'” She paused. “Daes that sound all right?”
“It sounds perfect,” he said.
“Ye’re humorin’ me.”
“I’m nae humorin’ ye. I think however ye choose tae tell him will be exactly right.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “Stop worryin’ so much. This is good news. He’s goin’ tae be thrilled.”
She wanted to believe it. She did believe it, mostly. But the closer they got to Calum’s lands, the more real it all felt, and the more real it felt, the more terrified she became that something would go wrong.
Three months along now. The healer said everything looked well, but it was early still, and so much could happen.
“Breathe,” Lachlann said quietly, and she realized she’d been holding her breath again.
She exhaled deliberately and squeezed his hand. “Sorry.”
“Dinnae be sorry. Just breathe.”
They got to the courtyard and Calum was waiting there when they arrived, and the moment Alba stepped down from the carriage he pulled her into a hug that lifted her off her feet.
“There’s me sister,” he said, setting her down and stepping back to look at her properly. “Married life agrees with ye. Ye look—” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Different.”
Alba’s heart jumped into her throat. “Different how?”
“I dinnae ken. Just different. Good different.” He turned to Lachlann and clasped his arm. “Braither. Good tae see ye.”
“And ye,” Lachlann said. “Thank ye fer havin’ us.”
“Of course. Come, I’ve had rooms prepared and Cook’s been workin’ since dawn on yer favorite dishes, Alba. She was very insistent that I tell her exactly which ones ye liked best.”
They followed him inside, and Alba tried very hard not to touch her stomach or look at Lachlann or do anything else that might give away the secret she’d been carrying for the past month.
She made it through the tour of the new stables Calum was building. She made it through washing up and changing for dinner. She even made it through the first course without incident.
It was during the second course, when Cook brought out the roasted lamb, Alba’s favorite since childhood, that everything went sideways.
The smell hit her before the plate was even set down. Rich and fatty and entirely wrong. Her stomach lurched violently.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing abruptly. “I need tae go out. I’ll be right back.”
She made it to the corridor before the nausea overwhelmed her, and then she was leaning against the wall and breathing hard and trying very much not to be sick on Calum’s nice floor.
Footsteps behind her. “Alba?”
She looked up to find both Lachlann and Calum standing there, Lachlann with concern on his face and Calum with dawning realization.
“The lamb,” she managed. “The smell.”
“Ye love lamb,” Calum said slowly.
“I did,” she said. “I dae. Usually. Just nae right now.”
Calum looked at Lachlann. Lachlann looked at Alba. And Alba, realizing that her carefully planned announcement was slipping away from her, let out a breathless laugh.
“So much fer tellin’ ye the right way,” she said.
“Alba,” Calum said, his voice very careful. “Are ye ok? What?”
She straightened up from the wall and looked at her brother and decided that simple was probably best after all.
“I’m expectin’,” she said. “Three months along. Ye’re goin’ tae be an uncle.”
For a moment, Calum just stared at her. Then his face split into the widest grin she’d ever seen on him.
“An uncle,” he said. “I’m goin’ tae be an uncle.”
“Aye,” she said, and found herself grinning back despite the lingering nausea. “Ye are.”
He crossed to her in two strides and pulled her into another hug, gentler this time, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head the way he used to when they were children and she’d had a nightmare.
“Alba,” he said into her hair. “That’s, that’s wonderful. That’s the best news.”
“Ye’re nae upset I’m tellin’ ye in a corridor instead of properly?”
“Why would I be upset? Ye just told me I’m goin’ tae be an uncle. I dinnae care where it happens.” He pulled back to look at her. “Are ye well? Is the bairn well?”
“Aye. Both well. Just the smell of certain foods making me sick lately.”
“Then we’ll have Cook make ye somethin’ else,” Calum said immediately. “Whatever ye can stomach. Bread? Broth?”
“Bread would be good,” she admitted.
“Done.” He turned to Lachlann. “And ye? How are ye feelin’ about this?”
“Terrified,” Lachlann said. “And pleased. Very pleased.”
“Good.” Calum clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the correct response. Come, let’s get ye both back to the table. We need tae celebrate properly.”
They returned to the dining room, where Cook was summoned and informed and immediately burst into tears of joy before running off to prepare fresh bread and mild soup for Alba.
Calum ordered his best wine brought up and poured generous cups for himself and Lachlann while Alba sipped water and tried to ignore the cooling lamb on the sideboard.
“Tae the parents,” Calum said, raising his cup. “And tae the bairn. May he or she be healthy and strong and nae inherit their maither’s stubbornness.”
“I’m nae stubborn,” Alba protested.
Both men looked at her.
“I’m nae,” she insisted.
“Ye used tae spy on us all the time whenever we are playing as kids, and we told ye tae leave us alone,” Calum reminded her.
The went on to give her many other examples.
She opened her mouth to argue further, then closed it and smiled instead. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little stubborn.”
“A little,” Lachlann murmured, and she kicked him under the table.
The bread and soup arrived, and Alba ate gratefully while the men talked—about the estate, about the rebuilding at Lachlann’s keep, about the political situation at court now that the truth about her father’s schemes had come out, about the other convent brothers.
It was comfortable and familiar, and Alba found herself relaxing into it, the earlier nausea fading as her stomach settled.
“When’s the bairn due?” Calum asked.
“Late spring,” Alba said. “May, the healer thinks.”
“Good.” Calum nodded. “And ye’ll send word the moment the bairn arrives?”
“Of course.”
“I want tae meet me nephew or niece as soon as possible.”
“Ye’ll be one of the first,” Lachlann promised.
Calum looked between them, his expression softening. “I’m happy fer ye both. Truly. Ye’ve built somethin’ good together.”
“Aye,” Alba said, reaching for Lachlann’s hand under the table. “We have.”
***
That night, lying in the guest bed with Lachlann beside her and the sounds of Calum’s household settling around them, Alba stared at the ceiling and thought about how strange life was.
Months ago she’d been.
Four months ago she’d been fighting for her life, running from Torquil. And now she was lying in her brother’s house, married to a man she loved, carrying his child, with the future spread out before her like a gift she hadn’t expected but was learning to treasure.
“What are ye thinkin’?” Lachlann asked in the dark.
“That I’m lucky,” she said. “That we’re lucky.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “We are.”
She rolled toward him, tucking herself against his side. “Are ye really terrified? About the bairn?”
“Aye. Are ye nae?”
“Aye,” she admitted. “But excited too. Is that strange?”
“Nay. I think that’s exactly how we’re meant tae feel.”
She was quiet for a moment, her hand resting on her stomach, feeling nothing yet but knowing something was growing there anyway. “What if I’m nae good at it? At being a mother?”
“Ye’ll be excellent at it,” he said with absolute certainty. “Just like ye’re excellent at everythin’ else ye put yer mind tae
“I’m nae excellent at everythin’.”
“Ye’re stubborn enough tae make up fer any deficiencies,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
She poked him in the ribs. “Ye’re supposed tae be supportive.”
“I am bein’ supportive. I’m tellin’ ye the truth. Our child is goin’ tae have a maither who’s fierce and determined and nae afraid tae dae what’s necessary. That’s more than most bairns get.”
She felt tears prick at her eyes.
The pregnancy had been making her emotional about everything lately, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. “I love ye.”
“I love ye too.” His hand moved to cover hers on her stomach. “Both of ye.”
They lay like that for a long time, warm and comfortable and together, and Alba let herself feel it all.
The fear and the joy and the overwhelming sense that despite everything that had happened, despite all the chaos and danger and uncertainty, they had somehow arrived exactly where they were meant to be.
She fell asleep with Lachlann’s hand on her stomach and his heartbeat steady under her ear, and she dreamed of spring.
The End.
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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.
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Under the Laird’s Protection – Get Bonus Prologue
Curious to witness the bargain that bound Marsaili’s fate & the agreement that set a dangerous love in motion?
Under the Laird’s Protection – Bonus Prologue
One month earlier
Alasdair felt the land change beneath his horse’s hooves before he saw the first marker stones.
The road narrowed, the grass grew thicker at its edges, and the air itself seemed to settle, heavier somehow, as though the ground expected to be respected. MacBain land carried that weight.
Beside him, Gavin rode with careless ease, his seat loose, his posture slack in a way that would have earned him correction if it had been any other day, but Alasdair needed Gavin calm for this.
The flask at his brother’s hip knocked softly against the saddle with each step of the horse, a small, persistent sound that scraped at Alasdair’s nerves more than it should have.
“Christ,” Gavin said, casting a lazy glance at the rolling hills with exaggerated boredom. “All this green. All this quiet. Makes a man itch.”
Alasdair kept his gaze forward, jaw set. “It’s fertile land,” he said evenly. “Well-kept. That’s the point.”
Gavin huffed a laugh. “Aye, aye. Always the laird. Always seein’ the worth in dirt and stone.” He shifted in his saddle, stretching like a man settling in for sport. “And I suppose the woman’s the same, eh? Fit fer breedin’. Strong hips, quiet mouth. The MacBains are kent fer their stock.”
The words landed like filth on clean ground.
Something in Alasdair went cold, sharp and immediate, the way it did before violence when he had to decide whether to act or endure. He reined his horse in just enough to force Gavin to slow, the movement controlled.
“That’s enough,” he said, voice level to the point of steel. “Ye’ve nae even seen her.”
Gavin glanced at him, brows lifting in mock surprise. “Och, dinnae tell me ye’ve gone soft. It’s a marriage contract, nae a bloody courtship. I’m allowed tae have expectations.”
“Ye’re allowed tae keep them tae yerself,” Alasdair replied. “Especially when ye speak o’ a woman who’s done ye nay wrong.”
Gavin scoffed. “Listen tae ye. Soundin’ like her defender already. What is it—are ye worried she’ll be disappointed by the Grant name?”
Alasdair felt the familiar flare of anger rise, hot and unwelcome, and with it the old, useless frustration of knowing exactly how far he could push before everything shattered. Gavin had always known where that line lay and danced along it with a smirk.
“I’m worried ye’ll ruin this before it’s begun,” Alasdair said quietly. “If ye speak like that in front o’ her kin, they’ll shut the door in our faces. And I’ll nae stop them.”
Gavin’s mouth tightened. “Always threats wi’ ye.”
“Always consequences,” Alasdair answered.
For a moment, Gavin said nothing. Then he reached for the flask at his hip, fingers closing around it with pointed defiance.
Alasdair’s gaze flicked there. “Put it away.”
Gavin’s eyes flashed. “I’ve nae even opened it.”
“And ye willnae,” Alasdair said. “Nae today.”
The silence stretched, taut as wire. Gavin’s hand lingered, then dropped, his jaw clenched in visible irritation.
“Ye ken,” he muttered, spurring his horse forward again, “fer a man who insists he’s nae me keeper, ye dae an excellent job actin’ like one.” Then, Gavin’s eyes flared. “I’m nae a child.”
Alasdair followed, shoulders tight beneath his cloak, the weight of responsibility settling heavier with every step toward the MacBain keep.
He should nae have tae manage him like that, he thought, the resentment sharp and bitter. He was a grown man. He was meant to bear the consequences of his own behavior.
And yet, blood bound them. Duty chained them in ways Alasdair had never fully been able to cut loose from. Gavin was his brother, and that bond had been used against him for as long as he could remember. He had learned early that loving Gavin meant carrying the weight of his recklessness, standing in the space between his brother and the consequences he refused to imagine.
He was tired of it.
Tired of tempering his words, of watching Gavin squander whatever goodwill he was offered, of knowing that if this contract failed it would still somehow become Alasdair’s responsibility to mend.
No matter how that day unfolded, Alasdair knew with a weary, bone-deep certainty that he would be the one left standing between Gavin and the damage he left behind, smoothing it over, paying for it in quiet ways no one ever thanked him for.
“Nay,” Alasdair said quietly, finally answering Gavin’s earlier jab. “But ye behave like one.”
The words were restrained, almost mild, but they landed all the same.
The silence that followed was brittle, edged with offense. Gavin’s jaw tightened, his mouth pulling into a thin line as he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and surged ahead, riding hard as if distance itself were an insult he could throw back over his shoulder.
Alasdair let him go.
He watched his brother’s back for a moment longer than necessary, the familiar mix of anger and resignation settling into his chest. Anger came easily, hot and instinctive, but he shoved it down.
Control was the thing that kept him from becoming like Gavin, or worse, from striking him down and ending the problem in a way honor would never forgive.
He breathed it down, steady and practiced, and followed.
The keep rose before them not long after, stone clean and formidable against the pale sky. Its lines were purposeful, defensive without being ostentatious, built by people who expected trouble and intended to survive it. MacBain banners stirred in the wind, their colors sharp against the gray, a visible declaration of identity and strength.
As they approached, guards straightened, hands shifting subtly on spear shafts, eyes alert but measured. Alasdair noted it with approval before he meant to.
Fionnlagh MacBain met them at the gate.
He was taller than Alasdair remembered, broader through the shoulders, his stance easy but grounded, like a man who knew exactly how much space he occupied. His expression was open, but there was a sharp intelligence behind his eyes, the kind that missed very little and forgave even less.
The sort of man Alasdair respected instinctively.
“Laird Grant,” Fionnlagh said, offering his forearm. “Ye’re welcome.”
Alasdair dismounted and clasped it firmly, meeting his gaze squarely.
“Thank ye,” he replied. “I appreciate the welcome.”
Behind him, Gavin swung down from his horse with far less care, already glancing around as though the place was something to be assessed for entertainment rather than alliance.
Alasdair felt the familiar tightening in his chest return.
God help us all.
Gavin inclined his head with the barest courtesy. “A pleasure,” he said, though his gaze wandered, already searching.
Fionnlagh’s eyes flicked to him once, then away. “If ye’ll follow me. We’ve prepared the study.”
Inside, the keep was warm and orderly, the kind of place where responsibility lived in the walls. Alasdair felt himself straighten instinctively, his irritation settling into readiness. This was familiar ground: negotiation, restraint, honor measured against necessity.
They entered the study.
Marsaili MacBain stood near the table, parchment laid out before her. Tavish was beside her, arms crossed, posture alert. She turned at the sound of footsteps, and for one unguarded moment, Alasdair forgot to breathe.
She was not what he had expected.
Not loud beauty or ornament, but there was a stillness to her that drew the eye without demanding it. Her hair was neatly bound, her expression composed, her gaze steady and direct as it met his. She wore no unnecessary finery, only clean lines and quiet confidence.
Something in his chest shifted, sharp and immediate.
The realization landed with unsettling force. This woman was the life being bargained across the table.
Gavin spoke before Alasdair could stop him.
“Well,” he said lightly, eyes bright with interest. “I see me future’s lookin’ brighter already.”
Marsaili’s expression did not change.
Alasdair felt heat flare under his ribs. “Gavin,” he said, warning threaded tight into the word.
Gavin only smiled wider. “I meant nay offense. A man’s allowed tae admire his own betrothed.”
“Fergive me braither,” Alasdair replied coolly, stepping forward. “He tends tae be quite…emotional.”
Fionnlagh cleared his throat, subtle but firm. “Let’s sit,” he said.
They did. The discussion unfolded with practiced care. Fionnlagh outlined the advantages: alliance, shared protection, stability in uncertain times. Alasdair responded in kind, his attention divided between the words and the woman across the table.
Marsaili listened more than she spoke. When she did, it was precise. Thoughtful. She asked questions that cut to the heart of the matter without embellishment. Alasdair found himself watching the way her fingers rested against the table, the stillness of her posture, the intelligence in her eyes.
She was not passive. This mattered to her.
At last, Fionnlagh turned to her. “Marsaili,” he said gently. “Dae ye agree tae this match?”
She did not answer at once. Her gaze shifted to Gavin, whose interest sharpened at once, and then to Alasdair.
For a heartbeat, he felt seen.
The sensation unsettled him more than Gavin’s vulgarity ever could.
He wondered, suddenly, what she thought of them, of him and of the brother who would bind her life without knowing its worth.
She gave nothing away. Then she nodded, once, and stepped forward to sign.
Alasdair exhaled slowly.
Gavin followed, pen scratching carelessly as he added his name. “A pleasure,” he murmured toward her as he stepped back.
She did not look at him.
Tavish MacBain moved then, placing himself subtly at her side. “I’ll see tae me sister,” he said, voice even but unmistakably firm. “Until the arrangements are complete.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “That’s agreeable.”
As they prepared to leave, Alasdair allowed himself one last look at Marsaili MacBain.
She stood composed, untouched by Gavin’s glances.
She deserves better.
The thought came unbidden, heavy and absolute.
And as he followed his brother from the room, Alasdair could not shake the sense that something precious had just been set on a path that would demand a reckoning—one that honor alone might not be enough to survive.
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Under the Laird’s Protection – Extended Epilogue
Two Years Later
Alasdair came up the stairs two at a time and pushed into the solar, the door closing behind him with a dull thud that echoed faintly off the stone.
Heat from the hearth met him at once, sinking into muscle and bone, easing the bite left by the cold air. His shoulders still ached from training, sweat cooling at his temples, his body caught in that familiar space between readiness and release.
Then he saw her.
Marsaili stood by the hearth, firelight spilling over her hair and the soft fall of her skirts, loosened now. Their son rested against her hip, red cheeked and lively, his small hands fisted in her sleeve while she spoke to him in a low, intimate murmur. The tone was one she never used elsewhere, gentle and playful and utterly unguarded.
The child answered her with a gurgle of pure delight, legs kicking, face bright with the simple certainty of being safe.
Alasdair stopped where he was.
The sight struck him without warning, a clean, almost painful pull in his chest. This was not something he had fought for with blade or command. This was the thing that had come after, quiet and miraculous, and it undid him more completely than any battle ever had.
For a moment, he could only stand there and breathe.
It still surprised him, how quickly that warmth came now, how instinctively his attention narrowed to them. Once, his mind would have catalogued exits, listened for raised voices in the keep, measured the weight of responsibility pressing at his back. Now, for a moment at least, there was only that: Marsaili, steady and bright, and the small life they had made together, whole and safe in her arms.
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Marsaili looked up at once. Her eyes met his across the room, and the smile that spread over her face was immediate and unguarded.
“There ye are,” she said, adjusting their son higher on her hip as he wriggled. “Did training run long?”
“A bit,” Alasdair said, his voice still rough from exertion as he crossed the room. He unbuckled his belt and set it aside without looking, his attention already fixed on her. “Are ye well?”
The question came out low, unadorned, shaped by habit but sharpened by care. He asked it the way he now asked everything that mattered. Marsaili knew it for what it was and did not soften it with humor.
“I am,” she said quietly. “Just tired.”
He let his gaze travel over her without hurry, the old instinct still there but softened now, no longer sharp with fear. She stood easily enough, one hand braced at her lower back, the other firm around their son. There was color in her cheeks, warmth rather than strain, and the faint curve of her belly was unmistakable now beneath the soft folds of her gown, a quiet declaration of what was already growing between them again.
The sight settled into his chest with a weight that felt almost reverent.
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the child.
Marsaili’s mouth curved, knowing and fond. “I was wonderin’ how long ye’d last before askin’.”
She shifted their son toward him, and Alasdair stepped in at once, hands lifting with practiced care, adjusting his grip instinctively as he took Callum into his arms. The boy settled against his chest without fuss, small and solid, one hand curling into the wool of Alasdair’s training tunic as though it were the most natural place in the world.
The contact landed deep.
Callum’s head tucked beneath his chin, warm and impossibly soft, his breath puffing faintly against Alasdair’s throat. He smelled of smoke and milk and something sweet from the kitchen, familiar scents braided together into something that felt like home. Alasdair drew a slow breath and felt it catch, just slightly, as the weight of his son anchored him there.
He had held him from the first day, had learned the careful awkwardness of it, the fear of doing something wrong, of breaking something precious through ignorance alone. Now the weight felt right in his arms, familiar in a way nothing else ever had.
Callum made a pleased sound, a soft gurgle that vibrated against Alasdair’s chest, and then lifted a clumsy hand to pat at his collarbone with earnest determination.
Alasdair huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
“Easy there,” he murmured, his voice dropping without thought, shaped for this small, close distance. “I ken ye think yerself a warrior already, but ye neednae test yer strength on me.”
Callum answered with another delighted noise, fingers tightening in the fabric of Alasdair’s tunic as though he took the warning as encouragement.
“Aye, that’s it,” Alasdair went on softly, his thumb brushing over the small, warm curve of his son’s shoulder. “Grip tight. The world’s slippery, an’ it daesnae always give ye much tae hold on tae.”
The words surprised him even as he spoke them. He did not pull them back.
Callum’s head shifted, settling more firmly beneath his chin, and Alasdair closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steady weight of his son press into him, letting the sound of Marsaili’s quiet presence nearby fill the space the rest of the world no longer reached.
His chest ached with it.
When he opened them again, his gaze lifted to her, to the soft strength in her posture, the life she carried so calmly, so fiercely.
Marsaili laughed quietly, leaning back against the hearthstone as she watched them. There was affection in her gaze, but also something else, something thoughtful and assessing, the way she always looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.
He moved closer to her without thinking, drawn by habit and by want in equal measure. With the child secure in one arm, he reached out with his free hand, resting it gently against Marsaili’s belly.
The contact sent a quiet jolt through him.
There was life there again. Another heartbeat they had created, growing beneath his palm, unseen but already altering the shape of his world. He swallowed, his throat tightening unexpectedly.
For a moment he said nothing. Words had never come easily to him in moments that mattered most. He had been taught to act, to decide, to carry responsibility without complaint. Feeling, however, had always been something he managed privately, contained and disciplined.
But this felt too important to leave unspoken.
“I want ye tae ken something,” he said at last, his voice low, steady, meant for her and for the small body pressed against his chest. “Both o’ ye.”
Marsaili stilled, her attention sharpening at once..
He looked down at their son first, at the wide, curious eyes staring up at him without fear. Then his gaze lifted to Marsaili, to the woman who had changed the shape of his life.
“I’ll nae have favorites,” he said simply. “Nay matter how many come after. Each o’ ye will have the same from me. Me time. Me patience. Me protection.”
His hand pressed more firmly at her belly, as though the promise itself needed anchoring.
“I was raised tae believe duty comes before comfort,” he went on, the words coming more easily now that he had begun. “And I ken I’ll fail at times. I’ll be too stern, too quiet. I’ll expect too much o’ meself and, mayhap, ye.”
Marsaili’s expression softened, but she did not look away.
“But I swear this,” Alasdair said, his voice roughening despite his control. “Ye’ll always ken ye’re loved. They’ll ken what’s right and wrong, and they’ll ken I’d stand between them and the world without hesitation.”
The child shifted against him, his small hand curling tighter, and Alasdair felt the truth of the vow settle into his bones.
Marsaili reached out then, her hand covering his where it rested against her stomach, her fingers warm and steady.
“Ye already dae all that,” she said quietly. “Every day.”
He looked at her, really looked, and the certainty in her gaze undid him more than praise ever could have.
“I try,” he said, honest to the core.
She smiled at that, the kind of smile she reserved for moments when truth mattered more than reassurance. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her even with the child between them.
“I ken,” she said. “And that’s why ye’re already a good faither.”
The words settled into him slowly, finding purchase in places long accustomed to doubt. He bent his head, resting his brow briefly against hers, careful not to jostle the child.
The baby made a soft, indignant noise at being momentarily ignored, and Marsaili laughed again, reaching up to smooth a hand over the boy’s hair.
“See?” she said. “He agrees.”
Alasdair huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, tightening his hold just slightly. He shifted the child more securely and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Marsaili’s mouth. It carried the weight of a year of peace, of nights woken by cries rather than alarms, of mornings begun with warmth rather than dread.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers once more, his hand still at her belly, his son solid and real against his chest.
For the first time he could remember, Alasdair did not think ahead to what might threaten that moment. He did not measure the future for risk. He let himself stand there, in the hearth-warm solar of his keep, holding his family, and allowed the truth of it to settle fully at last.
That, he thought, was victory.
The End.
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Chapter One
Freuchie Castle, 1450
Marsaili MacBain had ten days left of freedom, and she was spending them in hell.
The great hall of Freuchie Castle roared with voices raised in jest and argument, the clatter of cups on wooden tables, the scrape of benches across rushes that smelled of herbs and old ale.
Torches blazed in their sconces along the stone walls, casting flickering shadows that made the tapestries seem to move with lives of their own. Grant warriors in their plaids crowded the long tables, fists wrapped around horns of ale, faces flushed with drink and the heat of too many bodies packed too close. Serving girls wove between them with practiced grace, dodging wandering hands and carrying platters of roasted venison that made the air thick with grease and smoke.
Her brother Tavish had excused himself early, claiming exhaustion from the day’s travel. She envied him his escape.
Across the table, Gavin Grant leaned back in his chair, his face flushed red beneath golden hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, his head tipped close to the ear of a warrior whose name she did not know. His laughter cracked through the hall, loud and coarse, ending in a bark that made several men turn. He lifted his hand in answer to them, knocking over his cup, ale slopping over his knuckles.
His gaze slid toward her.
“Best view in the hall,” he called, voice thick with drink, eyes sweeping over her in a way that lingered far too long for her comfort. “Worth the wait, I’d say.”
A few men laughed. One elbowed another. The serving girl nearest the table ducked her head and moved on.
Marsaili did not react.
She kept her eyes forward, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though the words had passed somewhere behind her, unworthy of notice. She let the remark fall to the rushes like his spilled ale, already forgotten.
Ten days, she thought, with a steadiness that surprised even her. She had endured ten days of watching Gavin Grant drink himself into foolishness each night while she smiled and nodded and pretended this was bearable.
She kept her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene. It was a mask she had worn since arriving at Freuchie Castle. Since the morning her oldest brother Fionnlagh had clasped her shoulders and told her this marriage would save their people.
Years o’ raids and bloodshed, he had said, his dark eyes heavy with the weight of leadership only recently inherited.
I wouldnae ask if there was another way. This marriage can end the border feud, Marsaili. Ye can end it.
She understood, but it offered little comfort when she sat beside Gavin Grant and caught the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he leaned too near, his gaze lingering with an ease that made her skin tighten beneath her gown.
“More wine, me lady?”
Marsaili looked up to find a young serving girl hovering at her elbow, pitcher in hand. The girl could not have been more than fifteen, her eyes downcast, her movements careful. Marsaili recognized the wariness in her posture, the same wariness she herself felt.
“Nay, thank ye,” Marsaili said quietly, offering a small smile she hoped was reassuring.
The girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew at once, her relief evident in the quickness of her retreat, and Marsaili reached for her cup, taking a measured sip of the watered wine, just enough to ease the dryness in her throat without dulling her awareness. Her gaze drifted then, skimming the press of bodies and torchlight with practiced detachment, passing over faces and movement, until it slowed and stilled of its own accord.
Laird Alasdair Grant stood near the far wall in quiet conversation with several of his men, his height setting him apart even in a crowded hall, his presence defined by the space that seemed to settle naturally around him. His broad shoulders carried the shape of years of battle, and his dark hair was cut short and plainly. When he turned his head, the firelight caught a faint scar tracing from just below his ear toward the corner of his mouth, a mark that lent his face a magnetic severity.
There was no effort in the way he held himself, no seeking of notice, yet her attention fixed all the same, drawn and held with a quiet insistence she had not invited. Where Gavin’s voice and gaze pressed at her without permission, demanding acknowledgment she refused to grant, Alasdair required none at all, commanding her awareness through stillness alone.
Marsaili became aware that she was watching longer than courtesy allowed. She lowered her gaze only after the realization took shape, lifting her cup again with steady hands.
Even then, her attention lingered.
The brothers shared blood and little else, moving through the same hall as their paths curved away from one another like opposing forces, and she found herself wondering when she ought to stop noticing the space Alasdair occupied, and why the thought of doing so came with a resistance she could not quite understand.
As though he felt the weight of her attention, Alasdair’s gaze lifted unhurried toward the high table, and for a brief, unguarded moment his eyes met hers.
They were the color of winter skies, cold and clear, and the contact struck deeper than she expected, something tightening low in her chest as if her breath had been checked without warning. His look held a sharp, measuring focus that made her acutely aware of herself, of the seat she occupied, of the bargain she represented in that hall.
She could not tell what passed through his expression then, whether the hardness she sensed was meant for her, but the weight of it lingered all the same, heavy enough that when he turned away and returned his attention to his men, the space he left behind felt abruptly altered.
Marsaili lowered her gaze an instant later than she should have, her heart beating fast, unsettled by the certainty that something had shifted, however briefly, and could not be undone.
She lowered her eyes before the sight could settle, smoothing her expression into something neutral as she reached again for her cup.
She felt the heavy rhythm of approaching steps cutting through the din and looked up in time to see Gavin bearing down on her at last, his stride uneven, his balance careless, the space at her side still conspicuously empty until he reached it.
That seat had been meant for him, but he had chosen ale and disrespect instead.
The chair scraped harshly as Gavin flung himself into it, landing with a graceless thud that sent a jolt through the table, and before she could draw a full breath he leaned toward her, crowding her space, the sharp bite of whisky rushing over her as his mouth curved in a smile meant to please himself.
Then, his hand fell on her thigh beneath the table.
Marsaili went rigid. The touch was intentional. His palm was hot through the fabric of her gown, fingers squeezing possessively, claiming what he believed was already his. Her heart kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at her to jerk away, to slap his hand aside, to make a scene that would echo through the hall.
But she had a terrifying suspicion that resistance would only make him worse.
She shifted in her seat by a fraction, careful and controlled, angling her body just enough to ease the pressure of his hand without drawing notice, her gaze steady ahead as though nothing had changed, as though her skin had not tightened beneath his grasp. Her face remained serene, as though his proximity meant nothing at all.
“Why dae ye pull away from me, lass?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “We are tae be wed soon. Ye’ll need tae grow used tae closeness.”
Heat flooded Marsaili’s face—rage, white-hot and consuming. She swallowed it down like poison, forced her expression to remain calm. To anyone watching, they would appear as nothing more than a betrothed couple sharing quiet words, but Marsaili’s instincts knew there was nothing innocent about his words.
“Ye are shy,” Gavin continued softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But ye neednae be. A fortnight passes quickly, and then we shall grow more accustomed tae one another.”
Marsaili’s jaw tightened, but she kept her gaze forward.
She reached for her cup and took another sip of wine because it gave her hands something to do that was not wrapping around Gavin Grant’s throat.
A serving girl approached with a pitcher, moving to refill the cups at the high table. Gavin’s attention shifted immediately, his hand leaving Marsaili as he reached out to catch the girl’s wrist. The girl froze, eyes wide, the pitcher trembling in her grip.
“And what is yer name, lass?” Gavin asked, his voice dropping to what he likely believed was seductive. “Such bonnie eyes ye have.”
The girl’s smile was strained, practiced. “Thank ye, me laird. But I must finish me duties-”
Gavin pulled her closer. “Tell me yer name.”
Marsaili looked away. She could not watch this.
Her gaze searched for Alasdair Grant once more, but Gavin’s laugh rang out again, pulling her attention back. He had released the serving girl, who fled with relief written across her face. Now he was deep in conversation with the men around him, gesturing broadly with his cup.
“And I say marriage is a fine thing fer a man,” Gavin declared, his voice carrying just enough for nearby tables to hear. “A wife tae warm the hearth, tae manage the household…” He paused, taking a long drink, his eyes sliding to Marsaili with a look that made her skin crawl. “Tae provide all manner o’ comforts a man requires.”
The words were acceptable enough on the surface, but the way Gavin said them made Marsaili’s stomach turn.
Marsaili stood. The movement was smooth, graceful, giving no indication of the fury boiling beneath her skin.
“Me laird,” she said, her voice perfectly controlled. “I must retire. The hour grows late.”
Gavin turned to her, his expression shifting from surprise to petulance. “Already? But the night is young! Sit, lass. Enjoy the feast.”
“Fergive me,” Marsaili said. “I find meself weary.”
It was a polite lie but it gave her an escape, and she seized it before Gavin could think of a reason to keep her at his side.
“As ye wish,” Gavin said, his hand reaching for hers. Marsaili stepped back before he could touch her, the movement quick enough to look like an accident. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he was too drunk to press the matter. “Rest well, wife-tae-be. I shall see ye soon.”
Chapter Two
Marsaili walked quickly through the cold corridors, her slippers whispering against the stone as she passed beneath tapestries depicting Grant victories in battles long past, their stitched figures looming in the torchlight. The guest wing lay far enough from the great hall that the noise thinned with every step, laughter and music fading to a dull, distant echo, and she welcomed the silence with a force that surprised her, her breath only beginning to steady once the shadows deepened and no voices followed.
She had been grateful for the distance on every night of her stay, but never more so than now, moving through the darkened passages with the weight of the evening still clinging to her skin, her pulse slow to settle despite the quiet closing in around her.
Her chambers were at the end of the corridor. A single door, heavy oak bound with iron. She pushed it open and stepped inside, letting the door close behind her with a solid thud that felt like a sanctuary.
“Me lady.”
Una, Marsaili’s maid since they were both girls, rose from the chair by the fire, setting aside her mending. She was a few years older than Marsaili, practical and steady, with brown hair tucked beneath a simple kerchief. Her presence here was one of the few comforts Marsaili had.
The room was warm at least, the fire in the hearth driving back the autumn chill that seeped through the stone walls. Candles flickered on the small table by the window. Marsaili’s nightgown lay across the bed, already warmed by proximity to the flames.
“The feast ended early fer ye, I see,” Una said, moving to help Marsaili with the lacings of her gown. Her fingers were quick and practiced, loosening the tight bindings that had had held Marsaili imprisoned in formal clothing since dawn.
“I could bear nay more o’ it,” Marsaili admitted quietly. There, with only Una to hear, she could allow some of the careful control to slip. “He grows worse each night.”
Una’s mouth tightened but she said nothing. What was there to say? They both knew what awaited Marsaili. Both knew there was no escape.
The gown fell away, leaving Marsaili in her linen shift. Una helped her into the nightgown, the fabric soft and worn from many washings. It was one of Marsaili’s own, brought from home. She held onto that small thing, that tiny piece of MacBain lands wrapped around her body.
“Will there be anything else, me lady?” Una asked.
“Nay, thank ye. Rest well.”
Una curtsied and gathered up the discarded gown. She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. Her eyes were worried in the firelight.
“It will nae always be so difficult,” she said quietly. “Marriage is hard at first fer many women. But ye will adjust. Ye are strong, me lady. Stronger than ye ken.”
Marsaili nodded because Una needed to believe it, even though she herself did not.
Una left, closing the door softly behind her. The latch fell into place with a quiet click. Marsaili stood alone in the center of the room and felt the walls pressing in.
She moved to the table and began unpinning her hair. The dark chestnut curls fell around her shoulders in waves, released from the careful arrangement Una had created that morning. Marsaili’s fingers worked through the pins methodically, setting each one on the table with small sounds like dropped coins. When the last pin was removed, she shook her head slightly, letting her hair settle past her shoulders to the small of her back.
She caught sight of herself in the polished metal mirror propped on the table. Her reflection was distorted, wavering, but she could see enough. The shadows beneath her hazel eyes. The tightness around her mouth. The weariness that had settled into her bones.
Behind her, the door opened.
Marsaili did not turn immediately. She assumed it was Una returning with the nightly herbs she sometimes brought, the mixture of chamomile and valerian that helped Marsaili sleep. She reached for another hairpin, though all had already been removed.
“Ye may leave them on the table, Una,” she said. “Thank ye.”
But the footsteps that entered were wrong, too heavy and unsteady. The sound of boots rather than soft slippers.
Marsaili turned. Her breath caught in her throat.
Gavin Grant stood in her doorway. His blond hair was disheveled, his doublet unlaced, showing the linen shirt beneath. His eyes were glassy with drink, unfocused and bright. He swayed slightly as he pushed the door closed behind him. Marsaili heard the latch fall into place with a sound like doom.
“Did ye think tae escape me so easily, lass?” Gavin said, his words slightly slurred. He took a step toward her.
Marsaili moved back, putting the bed between them. “Ye should nae be here. Leave at once.”
“But I am here, am I nae?” He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. Another step. “And ye are tae be me wife.”
“In a fortnight,” she said sharply. “Nae tonight.”
His smile widened, showing too many teeth. “What difference daes it make? A fortnight, a sennight, a day?”
She turned away from him in disgust, unable to bear the sight of his leering face.
“We are tae be wed,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he moved closer. “I see nay harm in claiming what is already mine.”
Fear flooded Marsaili’s veins like ice water. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She backed away without thinking, her body moving before her mind could catch up. Her hip struck the table behind her. The metal mirror clattered, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.
She opened her mouth to command him out of her chambers. To scream for help. But her voice had fled. Terror had stolen it, left her mute and frozen.
This cannae be happening.
Gavin took a step toward her. Then another.
Marsaili’s voice returned in a rush as she stared at Gavin. “Get out.”
The words came out stronger than she expected, cutting through the silence like a blade. Gavin paused, surprise flickering across his face.
“Get out o’ me chambers,” Marsaili said again, forcing steel into her voice. “Ye are drunk. Leave now, before ye dae something ye will regret.”
Gavin laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. “Regret? What is there tae regret?” He took another step forward. “We are betrothed, lass. What happens between us is nay one’s concern but our own.”
Marsaili’s mind raced. The door was behind him, blocked. The window was too small and too high to provide escape. The only furniture between them was the small table and the bed. She grabbed the metal mirror from the table, holding it like a weapon.
“Stay away from me,” she said.
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Put that down.”
“Nay.” Marsaili backed around the table, keeping it between them. “Leave me chambers. Now.”
“Or what?” Gavin moved to follow her, circling the table slowly. “Ye will strike me with that toy? Go ahead, lass.”
Marsaili’s grip tightened on the mirror. Her whole body was shaking but she forced herself to stay calm, to think. She had to get past him to the door.
Gavin lunged.
Marsaili swung the mirror at his face. The edge caught his cheek, drawing blood. Gavin roared and stumbled back, one hand flying to his face. Marsaili darted toward the door, her bare feet silent on the stone floor.
Her hand touched the door latch.
She almost made it. Then Gavin’s hand closed around her arm and yanked her back. Marsaili cried out and twisted in his grip, trying to wrench free. But he was stronger, bigger, and the whisky had burned away whatever restraint he might have possessed.
“Ye little bitch,” Gavin snarled, his other hand reaching for her.
Marsaili brought her knee up hard between his legs. Gavin’s eyes went wide and his grip loosened just enough for Marsaili to tear free and run.
She fled through the door and into the corridor, her torn nightgown streaming behind her like a tattered banner. Her breath came in ragged gasps that burned her throat. Behind her, she could hear Gavin’s heavy footsteps, his cursing, the sound of him recovering and giving chase.
That part of the castle was empty at that hour. The feast still raged in the great hall on the opposite side, which meant the corridors near the guest wing were deserted. There was no one to hear her if she screamed.
She kept running, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man chasing her.
Marsaili’s mind raced. Where could she go? The great hall was too far. So were her brother’s chambers. There was nowhere close that could be safe.
Gavin’s hand caught the back of her nightgown.
Marsaili felt the fabric pull tight, choking her. She twisted violently, heard the sound again of tearing cloth, and wrenched free. But the movement cost her balance. She stumbled, her hand catching the wall to steady herself.
His hands grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back against it. The impact of the stone wall drove the air from Marsaili’s lungs. Stars exploded across her vision. She opened her mouth to scream but Gavin’s hand clamped over it, cutting off the sound.
“Ye think ye can run from me?” he snarled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot and sour with whisky. Blood still dripped from the scratches on his cheek where she had struck him with the mirror. “Ye are mine tae dae wi’ as I please.”
“Nay!” The word tore from her throat as she tried to crawl forward. “Get off me!”
Gavin dragged her back, his weight pressing down on her. Marsaili kicked and thrashed, her nails clawing at the stone, seeking purchase.
She screamed. It ripped through her chest and throat, raw and unshaped, the sound carrying her fear into the cold stone around her.
“Shut up!” Gavin’s hand found her mouth again, but Marsaili twisted her head and screamed again before he could silence her. The sound was raw, primal, everything she had been holding back for ten days finally breaking free.
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