Page 54 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

He felt her hands, still gripping his shirt, slowly release their hold. Then her fingers spread flat against his chest, her palms resting over his heart. She breathed, he held her, and neither of them moved.

He had wanted her. He still wanted her. But there was something worth infinitely more than what he wanted standing inside his arms in a stable in a storm, and he was not going to mistake which one mattered more.

Not with her. Not with this.

“I have got ye,” he said, the words murmured very quietly into her hair.

That was all. The rain continued its heavy assault. She did not pull away.

Chapter Seventeen

“Margaret!”

Margaret had arrived just before dusk, riding through the Gate with two outriders and a baggage cart, her hood thrown back despite the cold.

Alba spotted her from the top of the stairs and was halfway across the courtyard before she’d decided to move at all, her cloak slipping off one shoulder and dragging through the mud behind her.

Margaret swung down from the cart before anyone could help her, laughing, both arms already open. Alba crashed into her, hard enough to rock them both back a step, and held on. The heavy, suffocating silence that had hung over the Castle all morning vanished against the familiar scent of woodsmoke and heather clinging to Margaret’s woolens.

“Careful!” Margaret said into her hair, still laughing. “I am carryin’ a MacKenzie menace.”

Alba pulled back so fast she nearly stumbled. “Ye’re pregnant.”

She stared at Margaret’s middle, then at her face, then back down again, as though the second look might reveal she’d misheard. “And ye made this trip?”

“It’s the shortest road in the Highlands, Alba.”

“With the Dragon’s Tail along it.” Alba’s hand found Margaret’s arm, her fingers tightening instinctively. “It’s nae safe even on a good day.”

“It was a good day.”

“It’s never a good day on that road, and ye ken it.” Alba looked her over again, sharper now, checking for things that weren’t there to find. A limp, a wince, a hand pressed too carefully to her side. Margaret stood there and let her look, entirely unbothered, the way she’d let Alba fuss over her since they were girls.

Whatever temper Alba had been building melted out of her at once.

“Ye look happy,” she said instead, quieter, her hand going still against Margaret’s sleeve.

“I am.” Margaret’s whole face softened, something private moving behind her eyes. “Tired constantly. Fergus hovers like I am made of glass. But happy.”

“Good.” Alba meant it more plainly than she’d meant anything those past few days. “Ye deserve it.”

A small weight pressed against Alba’s side before either of them could say more. Brian arrived from nowhere, peering around her skirts at the stranger with deep suspicion. He had a smudge of flour on his cheek from the kitchens, and his fingers were tucked firmly into the wool of her dress.

Margaret blinked, then her mouth curved into a warm, genuine smile. “And who’s this?”

Brian drew himself up to his full height, chin lifted, chest out, every inch the warrior he was convinced he already was. He let go of Alba’s skirt to rest his small hand on the pommel of his wooden practice sword.

“Brian MacGregor.” A pause, for weight. “Future Laird.”

Margaret’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so?”

“Aye.”

Both women laughed, the sound light and clear against the graying sky, and Alba rested a hand against the boy’s shoulder, more out of habit now than thought.

I see you, stand easy.

Brian did not lean away from the touch; instead, he seemed to ground himself against her palm, his dark eyes never leaving Margaret.