Page 69 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

His hands…

The memory of those thick, scarred fingers gripping her wrist, pressing into her jaw, and sliding into her hair flashed behind her eyelids with agonizing clarity.

“River silt?” Fergus barked a short, rough laugh, throwing his hands up in mock offense toward his wife. “Margaret, listen to yer cousin. She spends less than a week with the Blackthorn Beast, and suddenly she’s a connoisseur of pitch and iron. I suppose Laird MacGregor filters his brew through the skulls of his enemies?”

“I am merely statin’ an administrative fact, Fergus,” Alba said, laughing softly at his frustration, though her chest ached with every breath.

His eyes.

Dark, heavy, near-black in the moonlight. Staring down at her with that silent, suffocating intensity just before he shattered her world with a line about winter stores.

Stop it.

She squeezed the silver rim of her cup until her knuckles turned white.

Just stop it.

“If the MacGregor brew is so grand,” Fergus continued, leaning forward with a teasing glint in his eye, “why did their outriders empty three of me casks before the horses were even unhitched?”

“Because they have spent three years drinkin’ melted snow in the Northern Wastes, Fergus,” Margaret interjected without looking up from her sewing, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “They would drink ditch water if it had a bubble to it. Do nae let her bait ye.”

“She isnae baitin’ me, she’s insultin’ me cellars,” Fergus grumbled, though his expression softened as he looked at hiswife. “Though I suppose if she prefers the taste of iron, we cannae force a MacKenzie vintage on her.”

Then, the castle horn sounded once.

A single, long, piercing blast ripped through the quiet of the Hall, tearing the peaceful atmosphere to absolute ribbons.

Fergus was already on his feet before the second blast could echo through the rafters, his hand instinctively dropping to the space at his hip where his broadsword usually hung. Lilly bolted upright beneath her blankets, her wide eyes darting toward the high timber doors. Margaret’s needle stopped dead in the fabric.

The heavy oak doors burst open with a loud slam against the stone. A guard rushed inside, his face pale under the torchlight, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

“Troops!” the guard shouted, his voice cracking with panic as he pointed toward the gallery. “On the North Ridge!”

Every ounce of warmth vanished from the Hall instantly. The cozy heat of the peat fire felt suddenly distant, replaced by a cold, sharp dread that spiked straight through Alba’s ribs. She rose from her stool so fast the wood scraped violently against the floorboards.

Fergus lunged toward the wall, grabbing his heavy broadsword from the iron brackets beside the hearth. “Whose men? Speak clearly, man! Are they MacRaes?”

“Nay, me Laird,” the guard panted, wiping rain and sweat from his brow. “Kerr banners. Dozens of ‘em. Movin’ fast along the High Trail, bypassin’ the Lower Valley entirely.”

Silence crashed through the Hall like a falling timber.

Alba looked toward the dark, rain-streaked windows, the blood roaring so loudly in her ears she could barely hear the wind outside.

Kerr banners. On the North Ridge.

Sebastian.

Dear God.

Kerr was not launching a siege on the MacKenzie Gates. He was not risking a battle with Fergus’s spears. He was circumventing them completely. He was going straight back to MacLaren Castle. Straight for the stronghold Sebastian had just emptied to ride south, half his garrison gone and no Laird behind its walls to answer for it.

“Get the gates shut!” Fergus ordered immediately, his voice booming over the sudden chaos as more guards began rushing into the hall. “Muster the spears in the lower courtyard! I want the battlements manned before the rain stops! Move!”

“Aye, me Laird!”

Alba did not think. Every piece of logic she had prized for three years evaporated under a sheer, blinding wave of panic. She moved at once toward the heavy doors, in a frantic sprint.

Margaret caught her arm instantly, her grip surprisingly fierce, her fingers locking onto Alba’s forearm like iron. “Where are ye goin’?”