Page 63 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

He looked at her small, fragile wrist, remembering the way her pulse had hammered against his thumb when he held her back. She was fierce, she was unyielding, and she had kept this Castle alive through sheer force of administrative will. But against Malcolm Kerr’s fire, parchment and pride would burn just the same.

“If she rides out tomorrow,” Sebastian whispered, his eyes locked on the subtle flush of her cheekbones in the firelight, “she might be ridin’ straight into a slaughter.”

“Then change the terms, Sebastian,” Hamish urged quietly beside him, his hand coming to rest on the pommel of his own sword. “Daenae let her go.”

“I gave her me word,” Sebastian said. “Seven days to choose. She chose the road.”

He watched as Brian laughed, leaning his head against Alba’s shoulder. Alba did not flinch away; she simply closed her eyes and rested her chin against the boy’s hair, her fingers tightening around the poorly carved wooden horse.

Sebastian took a long, slow breath through his nose, trying to clear the smoke from his lungs, but the suffocating weight remained. He had to find a way to keep her safe, even if it meant making her hate him more than she already did.

Chapter Twenty

The noise of the Great Hall died the moment Sebastian cleared the upper turn of the stone stairwell. The frantic scraping of the fiddles and the steady thrum of the drum became nothing more than a dull vibration under the soles of his boots.

He had told Hamish he was heading to the Eastern Tower to ensure Lady MacKenzie had been provided with enough dry wood for her hearth. It was a proper Laird’s duty.

He turned down the dark gallery instead, his strides long and unhurried, tracking the scent of cold rain drifting through the arrow slits.

He found her in the small Solar.

The room felt entirely desolate. The heavy oak tables where she usually sat—surrounded by the inkwells, wax seals, and endless stacks of MacLaren ledgers—had been wiped completely bare.Her trunks were already lined up by the Lower Gates, waiting for the dawn. The only light left in the room was the deep, pulsing red of a dying bed of peat embers and the sharp, silver moonlight cutting through the open window.

Alba stood by the stone sill, her profile framed against the dark expanse of the winter sky.

Sebastian stepped inside, the heavy timber door clicking shut behind him. She did not startle at the sound. She remained still, her shoulders squaring beneath the dark green wool of her gown.

“Lady MacKenzie’s quarters have been supplied,” Sebastian said, his gravelly voice sounding rough in the quiet space.

He stopped several paces away, the formal lie tasting thin and useless between them. He did not want to talk about her cousin. He did not want to talk about the MacKenzies at all. He looked at the pale line of her throat, then straight into the silent finality of her posture.

“So ye’ve made yer decision,” he said abruptly. “Ye’re leavin’.”

Alba turned her head slowly, breaking her gaze away from the moon to look at him. The silver light caught the sharp, defensive edge of her jaw, leaving the rest of her face in deep shadow.

“Aye.”

The single word was flat, devoid of the heat she usually threw at him during their daytime arguments. Sebastian felt his jaw tighten. He took two slow steps forward, his boots heavy against the floorboards, closing the distance until the draft from the open window clipped his own shoulders.

“That’s yer answer then?”

Alba folded her arms tightly against her chest. It was a silent retreat behind her own walls, a physical bracing against the cold room and the sudden weight of his presence. “What answer did ye expect?”

“The truthful one.”

Her eyes flashed instantly, a dangerous, golden spark igniting in the darkness of her pupils. She despised the implication, her pride flaring like dry tinder. “Careful,” she warned, her voice dropping to a low, commanding tone.

“Nay.”

Sebastian did not back down. He took the final step, crossing into the square of moonlight until he stopped directly before her. His towering frame blocked out the faint, red glow of the hearth, trapping her between the stone sill and his chest.

Up close, her scent was intoxicating. It was not the sweet lavender of her cousin or the heavy grease of the Hall; it was theclean, sharp tang of iron ink, rain-soaked wool, and a scent that could only be described as her own that made his lungs ache.

The silver light poured over her features, illuminating the slight, stubborn curve of her lips and the faint indents of her dimples as she gritted her teeth against him.

It was insufferable. She looked entirely ready to fight him, even as she prepared to ride away.

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