Page 55 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

Just then, she heard Sebastian cross the courtyard without any wasted motion, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically against the gravel. He came to stand half a step in front of them both, his towering frame immediately blocking the biting northern wind. He greeted Margaret with the easy, formal warmth he reserved for anyone who was not Alba.

“Lady MacKenzie. Welcome to MacGregor land.”

“Laird MacGregor.” Margaret’s voice stayed perfectly polite. Her eyes did not. They darted from Sebastian’s broad shoulders down to the way Alba’s hand still lingered protectively on the young MacGregor heir.

He turned to give some order to one of the outriders, just out of earshot, pointing toward the stables with a brief, efficient gesture. The second his back was turned fully to them, Margaret leaned in close to Alba’s ear.

“Saints,” she breathed, her voice a tiny, delighted puff of white air. “Is that the Beast of Blackthorn?”

Alba said nothing. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her jaw locked.

“Alba.” Margaret’s grip found her wrist, delighted, scandalized. “Are ye certain ye want to run away from him?” She paused, entirely too pleased with herself. “Maybe ye should run toward him.”

Alba turned and looked at her cousin, her eyes narrowing into what she hoped was a terrifying expression of administrative disapproval.

Margaret only laughed.

Across the courtyard, Sebastian turned back around, and Alba’s face had already gone carefully, perfectly blank—though her ears had gone a shade too warm for the cold evening air to explain.

“The Hall is warm,” Alba said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of the frantic, screaming panic currently hammering inside her ribs. “And the soup is ready. Come inside before the frost settles into yer bones, Margaret.”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked down to Alba’s face, his dark eyes lingering on the slight flush at her cheekbones before moving to Margaret. “Yer men have been directed to the lower barracks, Lady MacKenzie. They will be fed and looked after. Me commander will see to yer baggage.”

“Ye are most gracious, Laird MacGregor,” Margaret said, her tone smooth, though she gave Alba’s wrist a sharp, parting squeeze that spoke volumes.

They moved out of the damp cold, and into the Great Hall, where the massive stone hearth was throwing a roaring, golden heat across the floorboards.

The smell of roasted venison and baked bread filled the air, a sharp contrast to the stark, quiet tension that usually occupied the room. Alba guided Margaret toward the smaller trestle table near the fire, deliberately choosing a seat that kept her back toward the high table where Sebastian usually sat.

Brian trailed behind them like a small, silent shadow, his boots tapping softly on the stone. When Alba sat, he immediately pulled a heavy oak stool right beside her, wedging himself into the small space between her chair and the stone hearth.

“Ye’ve a shadow, I see,” Margaret noted softly, settling into her seat with a small sigh of relief as she unclasped her heavy traveling cloak.

Alba reached out, her fingers catching the edge of Brian’s collar to pull the fabric straight. “He thinks he is guardin’ me,” she murmured, a rare, soft smile playing at the corner of her lips. “He takes his duties very seriously.”

“And his uncle?” Margaret leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes sparkling with unmitigated curiosity. “Does he take his duties seriously as well?”

Alba paused, her hands going still on Brian’s shoulder. She could feel Sebastian’s presence even without looking; he had entered the Hall and was currently speaking to his captain near theheavy oak doors, his deep, gravelly voice a low murmur against the crackle of the fire.

“He is efficient,” Alba said, choosing her words with extreme caution. She poured a cup of warm, spiced ale and slid it across the table to her cousin. “He has spent the last five days fixin’ the outer defenses and ensurin’ the winter stores are accounted for. He does nae waste words, nor does he waste time.”

“That is nae what I asked, Alba, and ye ken it.” Margaret took a slow sip, her gaze tracking over the rim of the cup. “I asked about the man. Nae the Laird.”

Alba’s thumb traced the grain of the oak table, her mind slipping back to the dark corridor from three nights ago. The heat of his hand gripping her wrist, the collapse of his self-control, and the breathless, bruising intensity of his mouth against hers. Her chest tightened at the memory, a sudden, sharp ache of vulnerability that terrified her.

“There is nay man separate from the Laird,” Alba said quietly, her voice dropping so low the crackle of the logs nearly swallowed it. “He is here for his people. He wants stability for the boy. Everythin’ else is just... logistics.”

“Logistics do nae make a woman’s ears turn red in the middle of a freezin’ courtyard,” Margaret observed dryly.

Before Alba could shoot back a sharp retort, Philomena approached the table, carrying a large wooden trencher piled high with thick slices of bread and stew. The older woman’ssharp eyes darted between the two cousins, a subtle, knowing smirk settling on her weathered face.

“Lady MacKenzie,” Philomena said, setting the food down with a solid thud. “It’s good to see some life in this Hall again. Heaven kens these two have been mopin’ about like two roosters sharin’ the same fence.”

Alba let out a small, indignant gasp. “Philomena. I do nae mope.”

“Aye, ye daenae mope, me Lady,” Philomena retorted, untying her apron with a sharp snap. “Ye just pace the floor until the rugs are worn through and stare at the ledgers until yer eyes bleed. It’s a miracle the Laird hasnae thrown those books into the fire just to get ye to look at him.”

Margaret broke into a delighted laugh, while Alba looked down at her lap, her face burning anew.