Page 22 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

There was work to do. Always work. Reports to read, decisions to make, a clan to run. But for just a moment, Lachlann let himself sit in the quiet of his office and think about Alba—hoping she was all right, hoping Orla was taking good care of her, hoping he hadn't made a terrible mistake bringing her there.

The hours passed in a blur of routine tasks, during which he'd already fielded a dozen questions about their unexpected guest from various members of his household.

He'd kept his answers brief and factual. Lady MacKinnon was under his protection due to circumstances beyond anyone's control. She would remain at Barra until it was safe for her to return home.

That was all anyone needed to know.

Alba had never been so grateful for a bath in her entire life.

The tub Orla had prepared was large and deep, filled with steaming water that smelled faintly of lavender. Alba had sunk into it with a sigh of pure relief, feeling days' worth of fear and exhaustion begin to wash away.

Orla had laid out fresh clothes, a simple but well-made dress in deep green that looked like it might actually fit. There were clean undergarments, stockings, even a pair of soft leather slippers.

"Where did these come from?" Alba had asked, running her fingers over the soft fabric of the dress.

"The laird keeps a supply of garments fer guests," Orla had explained, though something in her expression suggested this wasn't entirely true. "He instructed me tae find ye something suitable."

Alba suspected Lachlann had done more than just instruct, he'd probably sent someone scrambling to find clothes in her size. The thought made something warm bloom in her chest.

She'd scrubbed herself clean, washing away the dirt and blood of the past two days.

Orla had helped her wash her hair, gentle fingers working through the tangles, and by the time Alba emerged from the bath, she felt almost human again.

The dress fit almost perfectly, and Orla had braided her hair into a simple plait that hung down her back.

Alba looked in the small mirror. The bruise on her cheek was darker now, and the cut on her throat stood out starkly, but otherwise she looked... normal. Like a lady visiting another clan's castle, not someone who'd been attacked and dragged halfway across the Highlands.

"Shall I show ye around the castle, me lady?" Orla asked, her brown eyes warm and friendly. "Or would ye rather rest? Ye must be exhausted."

Alba knew she should rest. Her body was crying out for sleep. But the thought of staying in that room, lovely as it was, made her feel trapped.

"I'd like tae see the castle," she said. "If that's all right."

"Of course!" Orla brightened immediately. "Follow me. I'll show ye where everything is."

They started in the corridors outside Alba's chamber. Orla pointed out various rooms—guest chambers, storage areas, the stairs that led up to the family quarters and down to the great hall. She explained how the household functioned, who reported to whom, when meals were served.

Alba listened politely, trying to absorb the information, but her attention kept wandering to the windows they passed. Through them, she could see glimpses of grounds, of green spaces and stone paths.

"Is there a garden?" she asked, interrupting Orla's explanation of the castle's water system.

"Aye, me lady. A lovely one. Would ye like tae see it?"

"Please. I’ll like us tae go outside"

Orla led her through a series of corridors and down a flight of stairs, eventually emerging into bright sunlight. Alba blinked, her eyes adjusting after the dimmer interior of the castle.

And then she saw it.

The garden spread out before her in a riot of carefully tended beauty. Raised beds were filled with herbs and vegetables. Flowering plants that climbed up stone walls. Fruit trees espaliered against the south-facing wall, their branches heavy with developing fruit.

Alba felt something in her chest loosen, some knot of tension she hadn't even realized was there.

"Oh," she breathed, stepping forward onto the gravel path. "It's beautiful."

"The laird's maither started it," Orla explained, following behind her. "She loved her gardens. The laird kept it up. He makes sure it's tended daily."

Alba walked slowly along the beds, her fingers trailing over leaves and petals. Lavender, rosemary, thyme—herbs she recognized from home. But also plants she'd never seen before, their flowers strange and lovely in the morning light.