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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