Page 56 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

Brian looked up from his stool, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he looked at Philomena. “The Laird doesnae burn books. He fixed the library window so the wind wouldnae blow the pages.”

Alba’s chest squeezed. She looked down at the boy, her hand reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. “Did he?”

“Aye,” Brian nodded, tearing off a piece of bread with his teeth. “He said the books belong to the Castle. And to ye.”

Alba went quiet, the simple statement striking a chord deep within her. She looked across the hall, past the rows of eating men, to where Sebastian stood. He had shed his heavy leather doublet, wearing only a dark wool shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was listening to an old MacLaren tenant, his head tilted slightly, his expression serious and attentive. There was no arrogance in his posture, no threat.

As if feeling her weight upon him, Sebastian turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers across the crowded room. She did not look away this time. She could not. For a long, silent moment, the noise of the Hall faded into nothing but a distant hum between them.

“Alba,” Margaret whispered gently, her hand coming to rest over Alba’s cold fingers on the table. “Ye’re allowed to lean on someone, ye ken. Three years is a long time to hold up a ceilin’ by yerself.”

Alba swallowed hard, forcing her gaze back to her plate, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. “The ceilin’ stays up because I daenae let go, Margaret.”

“Perhaps,” Margaret said softly, her eyes full of a strange, tender pity that Alba had not expected. “But look at what happens when ye do.”

* * *

The rain had begun just after the second cask of ale was tapped, drifting in soft, gray sheets across the high stone walls and turning the dirt paths of the Castle gardens into dark ribboned tracks of mud.

Through the narrow slit windows of the Great Hall, the faint, tinny scraping of a fiddle and the rhythmic thrum of boots against wood echoed into the night, sounding muffled and thin against the steady hiss of the water.

Alba walked slowly, her heavy wool cloak pulled tight around her shoulders to keep out the damp chill that always seemed to rise from the earth before a heavy frost. Beside her, Margaret kept a measured, easy pace, one hand resting absently against the gentle curve of her stomach beneath her mantle, her fingers moving in small, rhythmic circles.

The garden was empty save for the iron cressets fixed along the stone walls, their torches sputtering and spitting white smoke as the rain clipped the edges of the flames.

“Ye are nae well,” Margaret said, her voice dropping into the quiet space between the drops of rain.

Alba groaned immediately. “Christ, of course I am nae. I am leavin’ me home.”

Margaret laughed softly, entirely unbothered by Alba’s sharp edges. “Alba. Ye were sufferin’ in this home of yers. Ye just managed to make them listen to ye, to keep them alive and thrivin’.” She paused, her boots squelching slightly in the soft turf as she turned a corner toward the ancient, leafless rowan tree at the center of the garden. “Is this about the Laird?”

“He’s infuriatin’,” Alba snapped, her hand reaching out to steady Margaret as they navigated a slick patch of stone.

“Aye.”

“Arrogant.”

“Definitely.”

Alba felt the words gathering at the back of her throat. She wanted to tell her everything. She wanted to tell her about the ledgers she had spent three years bleeding over, only for him to point out the rot in the timbers with a single glance. She wanted to tell her about the way he stood in her Study, smelling of iron and cold wind, taking up so much space that the walls felt as though they were leaning inward. But she did not.

“He took me home by force,” Alba said instead, the statement landing between them like a cold iron weight.

Margaret stopped walking, her hazel eyes catching the orange flicker of a nearby torch. She looked sideways toward her cousin, her expression turning into that old, protective mask she hadworn since they were girls sharing a single narrow bed in the winter.

“I ken how ye feel,” Margaret said softly, her hand sliding from her stomach to take Alba’s fingers. “Ye are a woman, and ye havenae choices in how the world moves its pieces. But ye have me. We’ll find a solution together.” She squeezed Alba’s hand, her gaze drilling into Alba with sudden, sharp intensity. “So, what really is the matter?”

Alba looked away, her eyes tracing the dark, blurred outline of the Southern Battlements against the night sky. The silence stretched until the fiddle music from the Hall felt miles away.

“He kissed me”, she said.

The words were out before she could stop them, small and fragile in the damp air. The garden went entirely quiet after that, save for the rain.

Alba sighed heavily, the breath leaving her in a long, white plume. “I daenae understand what happened.”

Margaret’s expression softened immediately, the fierce MacKenzie protector vanishing to reveal the cousin who knew every secret Alba had ever tried to bury. “What do ye mean?”

Alba looked ahead toward the dark, tangled thicket of the winter rosebushes instead of at her cousin. She could not look at her. Ifshe looked at Margaret, she would see the truth reflected there, and she was not ready to face it yet.