Page 60 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Candles were lit as darkness crept across the room.

Lachlann barely noticed.

His world had narrowed to preparations, to the cold mathematics of combat, to ensuring every possible advantage before leading his men into danger.

A soldier brought reports from the scouts. No movement yet from Torquil's camp.

Another arrived with word that the armory was ready.

Malcolm appeared with a message that the men were assembled and awaiting orders.

Lachlann sent him away with instructions to rest. They'd leave at dawn.

The candles burned lower.

Outside, the castle settled into evening rhythms. Voices drifted up from the courtyard. Somewhere, a dog barked. Life continued, ordinary and safe, while Lachlann prepared for violence.

He was marking a final position on the map when the door opened without warning.

Alba pushed the office door open with her hip, balancing the heavy tray carefully as she stepped inside.

The room smelled of candle wax and old leather, maps spread across every available surface. And there, bent over his desk with complete focus, was Lachlann.

He glanced up briefly, his expression distant and preoccupied. "Alba."

"Ye havenae eaten." She moved to the desk, setting the tray down beside a pile of correspondence. "When was the last time ye had anythin'?"

His brow furrowed slightly, as though trying to remember. "I... this mornin', I think."

"Ye think." Alba lifted a plate, placing it in front of him with more force than necessary. "Eat."

"I have work tae dae."

"Eat, Lachlann." She pulled a chair around to his side of the desk, sitting down and fixing him with a look that brooked no argument. "Whatever ye're plannin' can wait ten minutes while ye take care of yerself."

For a moment, she thought he might refuse. His jaw set in that stubborn line she was beginning to recognize. But then his shoulders dropped slightly and he reached for the bread.

"Satisfied?"

"When ye've actually eaten somethin', aye." Alba picked up her own plate, taking a small bite of cheese.

Alba threaded her fingers through his, holding tight. "Be careful. Please. I heard what happened this mornin’. I ken about Torquil."

"Always am, lass."

"Nay, ye're nae." She squeezed his hand. "Ye're brave and honorable and ye'd throw yerself in front of danger without a second thought if ye thought it would protect someone ye cared about."

His thumb stroked across her knuckles. "Is that what ye think of me?"

"It's what I ken of ye." She brought their joined hands up, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "So, promise me ye'll be careful. Actually careful, nae just sayin' it tae make me feel better."

"Alba…"

"Promise me, Lachlann."

He leaned forward, his free hand coming up to cup her face. "I promise ye, lass. I'll come back. Safe and whole."

The certainty in his voice should have comforted her. Instead, it just made her chest ache.