Page 33 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

Philomena appeared at her elbow almost immediately, a platter of bread held overhead, her cheeks bright with heat and effort.

“The ale barrel at the south end is running low,” she announced. “And one of the MacGregor lads asked me to dance twice.” She paused for the full effect. “I told him I had matters of great importance to attend to.”

“Ye told him ye’d be back in a quarter hour,” Alba said, already moving past her toward John O’Connor.

“Twenty minutes,” Philomena called after her, entirely unashamed.

John was near the screens passage, his arms folded. Alba pressed a hand briefly to his forearm as she passed.

“The ale barrel at the south end,” she said.

“Already on it, me Lady.” He unfolded his arms. “The MacGregor quartermaster and I had words about the grain count earlier.”

“Good words or bad words?”

He considered. “Words that ended in agreement. Eventually.”

“That’ll do,” she said, and left him to it.

A hand caught her sleeve near the hearth.

Alba turned.

The woman was perhaps forty, dark-haired, with a tight, quiet composure. She was wearing Alba’s green wool, the everyday one, not the silk, pulled roughly at the waist with a piece of common cord. The practical, desperate adjustment made something ache deep in Alba’s chest.

“Me Lady.” Her voice aimed at the space between them rather than Alba’s face. “I wanted to thank ye for the dress.” Her rough palms pressed briefly against the front of the green wool. “It’s warm. I only wanted ye to ken that.”

“It suits ye,” Alba said simply, genuinely. “Wear it well.”

The woman looked up then, just a fraction of a second, her eyes finding Alba’s before dropping back down. She nodded once and slipped back into the crowd.

Alba stood frozen for a single breath.

Near the hearth, three older women had arranged themselves in a companionable cluster beside the fire.

One of them, a broad-shouldered MacGregor woman with silver-streaked hair, was holding Alba’s dark blue winter cloak—the heavy one, lined with thick rabbit fur—pressed against her chest with both arms. She was not wearing it. She was simply holding it.

Alba crossed toward her.

“Ye’ll be warmer if ye put it on,” she said.

The woman looked up. “I will put it on when I am ready.”

“Aye,” Alba said. “Fair enough.”

The woman beside her, young, laughing, wearing Alba’s ivory wool with a child plastered to her hip, looked up with bright eyes. The child was reaching for the nearest candle flame.

“He gets like this,” the young woman said, catching the small wrist without looking, redirecting the sticky fingers toward her braid. “At home I’d put him near the window, but…” She stopped. Her laugh softened slightly. “Well.”

“There’s a window bench at the east end,” Alba said. “I will have one of the girls put a stool beneath it so he can see the whole room.”

The young woman looked at her for a moment as if that simple kindness was something she had not been expecting. “Thank ye,” she said quietly.

The child grabbed the dark braid in his fist and yanked with tremendous satisfaction.

“Braw lad,” Alba told him.

He beamed at her.