Page 15 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

The snow had stopped. The sky above the mountains was a deep, clear black, scattered with cold stars that only appeared after a storm had scrubbed the clouds away and moved on without apology.

Her breath came out in slow white clouds. Her feet remembered the path without her needing to think about it, which was helpful because her mind was elsewhere entirely.

Four days.

She had four days left on Sebastian MacGregor’s deadline and no plan worth the name, which was information she was keeping strictly between herself and the cold night air.

The castle was dark when she entered through the Gate, the courtyard empty except for the watch fires flickering at the corners. Inside, the Great Hall had been cleared after the evening meal. The last candles burned down to stubs in their sconces, casting wavering shadows across the stone floor.

Alba dragged her feet up the spiral stone stairs, her knees aching with each step. She finally let her shoulders drop, rubbing the stiff, knotted muscles at the base of her neck where a dull throb had been growing since her argument with Tavish. She unfastened the heavy silver clasp of her cloak, her fingers trembling slightly from the sheer strain of keeping her voice steady, her face blank, and her back perfectly straight for three hours of bitter village squabbles.

Three nights folded into the narrow bed of the second-best chamber had done nothing for her temper, and pride had finally worn thin enough to let practicality through.

Her own chamber sat untouched, as far as she knew, her books, her writing desk, the window that caught the morning light. If Sebastian MacGregor wanted to occupy her castle, he could do it from whatever room his men had prepared for him. She was done with him ceding her own bed to spite herself.

Philomena had left a single candle burning on the table outside her chamber door. One small, faithful flame. Alba took it,slipped inside, and nudged the door shut behind her with her shoulder.

She set the candle down and unfastened the silver pins of her collar one by one, placing them in a perfect, straight row along the edge of the washstand. She slipped out of her heavy wool kirtle and smoothed the fabric flat against the tabletop, aligning the shoulder seams exactly before folding it into a crisp, neat square.

Every movement was quiet, intentional, and practiced. The left sleeve was tucked under first, followed by the right, practiced so precisely that the linen shifted from a pile of cloth into a tight, neat stack with edges as sharp as the stone walls surrounding her.

She poured cold water from the ewer into the basin and washed quickly, the cold sensation sharp against her face and the back of her neck. She unpinned her hair, let it fall, and shook it loose across her shoulders. She set the candle on the bedside table, pulled back the blankets, and climbed into bed.

Warmth enveloped her instantly. Firm warmth. The kind that had weight—dimensions—the unmistakable quality of something that was not a blanket.

Alba went absolutely still.

“Seducin’ me,” said a deep voice from directly behind her, rough with what sounded like recently interrupted sleep, “willnae change me proposal. It’s still marriage or the door, lass.”

The sound that escaped her was not a scream. It was far more undignified than that. She jerked herself sideways across the bed with such force that the blankets tangled around her legs, and she scrambled backward until her spine pressed against something broad, warm, and definitely without a shirt.

“What are ye doin’ in me bed?”

Sebastian did not flinch. He did not blink at the sudden motion, nor did his breathing quicken. He simply pushed himself up onto one elbow, his movements slow and fluid, his heavy eyelids lowering halfway as he watched her panic.

The candle on the table threw unsteady light across the room. It was enough light to see by. What it illuminated was not helping her.

He was shirtless, broad across the chest and shoulders. His shoulders were heavy and thick, corded with dense muscle that only comes from hoisting timber and throwing a shield year after year. When he shifted his weight, the muscles across his ribs pulled tight, hard, and distinct under weather-beaten skin that had taken its color from rain and sun rather than the safety of a hall. Dark hair was loose around his face. Eyes half-narrowed from sleep, moving across her with a calm that was somehow more offensive than anger.

Entirely too much of him in one room.

Alba turned away sharply and pressed one hand over her eyes. This shifted her grip on the blanket. She snatched it back immediately with both hands and held it to her chest like armor.

"Ye've had three days to find a bed," she said. "Where in God's name were ye sleepin' before tonight?"

"The Hall, with me men." He said it without particular complaint. "Hamish snores like somethin' dyin' slowly. I decided I'd rather take me chances with ye."

"Yer chances are nae accepted."

“This,” Sebastian said from behind her, with a serenity that bordered on a crime, “is theLaird’schamber.”

She turned back. Kept the blanket exactly where it was. Kept her voice exactly where she needed it.

“This ismechamber. Mine. The one I have slept in for three years. The one with me books, me furniture, and me window that faces east for the mornin’ light.” She stopped. Started again. “Why are ye in me bed?”

He looked at her steadily. “I had to sleep somewhere.”

“Ye have an entire castle.”