Under the Laird’s Protection - Bonus Prologue

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.