Page 29 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Alba opened her mouth to tell him. To admit that she'd had the most ridiculous, impossible crush on him when she was younger. That she'd spent hours watching him train, memorizing the way he moved, the way he smiled, the sound of his laugh.

But some small, sober part of her brain screamed a warning.

"I... naethin’," she said quickly, sitting back. "Never mind. I'm talkin’ nonsense."

"Alba."

"I should go." She stood up too quickly and had to grab the table again as the room spun. "I've said too much already. The wine, I'm nae used tae it."

"Let me walk ye back."

"Nay." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "I can find me own way. Thank ye fer the wine."

She fled before he could respond, leaving him sitting alone in the kitchen with two half-empty cups and a confused expression on his face.

Back in her chamber, Alba pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door and cursed herself thoroughly.

What had she been thinking? She'd almost told him. Almost admitted to feelings she was supposed to have buried years ago.

The wine had made her reckless. Stupid.

She had to be more careful. Had to remember that Lachlann was her brother's best friend, that anything between them was impossible, that she was only there temporarily until it was safe to go home.

She couldn't afford to let herself hope for anything else.

The next morning, Alba woke with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like something had died in it. She groaned and pulled the pillow over her face, trying to block out the too-bright sunlight streaming through her window.

Why had she drunk so much wine? Why had she stayed in that kitchen talking to Lachlann? Why had she almost⁠—

She forced herself not to finish that thought.

A knock on the door made her wince. "Come in," she called, her voice rough.

Orla entered with a tray. "Good mornin’, me lady. I brought ye some bread and tea, and—" She stopped, taking in Alba's disheveled state. "Are ye feelin’ all right me Lady?"

"Just tired," Alba lied, sitting up slowly. "Thank ye, Orla."

The tea helped. So did the bread, though her stomach protested at first. By the time she'd bathed and dressed, she felt almost human again, though the memory of the previous night's conversation still made her cringe.

"Will ye be joinin’ the laird fer breakfast in the hall?" Orla asked as she helped Alba braid her hair.

Alba's first instinct was to say no. To hide in her chamber and avoid seeing Lachlann after her near-confession. But that would only make things more awkward, more obvious.

"Aye," she said with more confidence than she felt. "I will."

The great hall was already busy when she arrived, clan members filing in for the morning meal. Alba paused in the doorway, scanning the room for an inconspicuous seat—somewhere she could eat quietly without drawing attention.

But before she could move, a servant appeared at her elbow. "This way, me lady."

Alba followed, assuming she'd be seated somewhere along one of the lower tables. Instead, the servant led her directly to the high table, where Lachlann sat with his senior household members.

And without asking, without even pausing, the servant pulled out the chair directly beside Lachlann and gestured for Alba to sit.

Alba stiffened, very aware of the sudden quiet that fell over the nearby tables. Of the eyes turning to watch. Of the whispers that would start the moment she sat down.

But what choice did she have? Refusing would cause an even bigger scene.

She sat, keeping her back straight and her expression neutral.