Page 66 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“But he doesnae ken their names!” Brian cried, his small boots dragging in the mud. “He doesnae give them the sweet biscuits!”

Sebastian walked down the stone steps, his long strides breaking through the gathering crowd. The tenants moved aside, clearing a path until he reached the side of the lead carriage.

Before Alba could reach the door, Callum, the old MacLaren guard, stepped forward with three of the village elders. They bared their heads to the freezing rain.

“We came to give ye godspeed, me Lady,” Callum said, bowing his white head low. “The valley willnae forget what ye did for us.”

Alba stopped, her hand lingering on Brian’s shoulder. “Thank ye, Callum. See to it that the grain registers are kept weekly.”

“We will, me Lady,” Callum replied, his voice thick. “Ye kept the hearths hot and the bellies full while the Castle was without a leader. We’ll do our duty now that Laird MacGregor is here.”

Sebastian’s jaw locked so hard his teeth clicked.

Without a leader.

He looked at Alba’s rigid spine, waiting for her to snap, waiting for the fierce, commanding woman from the ledger room to put the old man in his place. But she just stood there, taking the insult like a blow she had been expecting.

“Shewasthe leader,” Sebastian growled under his breath, the words meant only for Hamish.

“Then tell her,” Hamish whispered back sharply. “Before she gets in the bloody box.”

Sebastian could not move. His throat felt as though it were filled with dry peat smoke. He looked at her pale skin, remembering the heat of it against his palms hours ago. He remembered the intoxicating taste of her mouth, the desperate way she had trembled at his touch, her silly jests in the kitchen, and the fierce authority she carried when she ordered his own hardened warriors around the Hall.

He wanted to reach out, wrap his hand around her arm, and pull her flat against his chest. He wanted to tell her she was not going anywhere, that the Castle was a tomb without her.

Instead, the iron in his chest held him fast.

Margaret MacKenzie paused at the carriage step, turning her sharp hazel eyes onto Sebastian. “Ye look like a man watchin’ his own execution, Laird MacGregor.”

“The roads are slick, Lady Margaret,” Sebastian said, forcing his voice into a flat, professional clip. “Watch the ridges near the Tail.”

“We ken how to guard our own borders,” Margaret said, her voice dropping into a dangerous purr. “It’s a pity ye daenae ken how to keep what’s already inside yers.”

“Margaret, please,” Alba said softly, her hand finally loosening Brian’s frantic grip from her dress.

“Alba, nay!” Brian sobbed, reaching for her again. “Daenae leave me with him! He’s too big, and he doesnae ken the stories!”

Alba knelt straight into the black mud, entirely unbothered by the ruin of her hem. She pulled the boy into her arms, burying her face in his neck. “Yer uncle kens all the stories, wee man. He kens the ones about the Northern Fires and the ancient kings. Ye must listen to him.”

“Will ye come back when the snow melts?” Brian asked, his small shoulders shaking against her cloak.

Alba’s throat worked once. Her gaze lifted past his head, finding Sebastian across the yard and holding his gaze for a brief moment before it dropped back to Brian’s tear-streaked face.

“When the snow melts,” she said, her voice cracking just enough for Sebastian to hear the wound inside. “Ye will be a great Laird here, Brian. I ken it.”

She stood up, her face instantly turning back into stone as she turned toward the carriage door. She did not look at Sebastian. She did not look at any of them.

Sebastian stepped forward, his boots heavy in the mire, stopping just two feet from her. The scent of her hit him again, suffocating him.

“Safe travels, Lady Alba. Lady Margaret,” Sebastian said, the formal titles sounding hollow and dead in the quiet yard.

Alba paused, her hand gripping the iron handle of the carriage. “Thank ye, Laird MacGregor. The keys to the Lower Cellar are with Hamish.”

“Please daenae forget to give me message to Laird MacKenzie,” Sebastian added quickly, his voice rising, desperate to keep her from stepping inside. “It is crucially important.”

Alba turned her head slowly, her dark eyes locking onto his face for one long, agonizing second. “The message regardin’ Malcolm Kerr?”

“Aye,” Sebastian said, his knuckles whitening against his belt. “Tell Fergus to double the scouts on the Southern Pass. Kerr willnae stop for the weather.”