Page 59 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“Keep yer mouth shut, Hamish, if ye want to keep the teeth inside it,” Sebastian growled, not looking at him.

“I am just sayin’,” Hamish muttered, entirely unbothered by the threat, “the Lady has teeth of her own. If ye upset her, ye’d best find a way to smooth it over before Sunday. The MacKenzies are here now. If she decides to climb into that baggage cart tomorrow mornin’, Fergus MacKenzie has enough iron to make our stay here very short and very bloody.”

“She willnae leave,” Sebastian said. The words came out sharper than he intended, carrying a sudden, violent certainty that surprised even him.

He knew the terms of their psychological war. He understood how fiercely she protected her people. She would not abandon the MacLarens to a winter under MacGregor rule without being sure they were safe, and she would not leave Brian. He had seen how her hand rested on the boy’s shoulder in the courtyard, an instinctive, protective gesture that had nothing to do with political deals or forced alliances.

But knowing she would not leave did not fix the cold, empty space beside him. It did not change the fact that when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the small, furious heat of her body pressed against his chest, the taste of her mouth like rain and honey, and the sharp, agonizing pull of his own restraint when he had forced himself to let her go.

He had done it to protect his pride, to keep the upper hand in a game of power/ a dance of power. But sitting here in the roaring, crowded Hall, watching his nephew eat in silence and listening to the rain hiss against the high windows, Sebastian had never felt more thoroughly defeated.

He pushed his trencher away, his appetite completely gone.

“Watch the boy,” Sebastian commanded briefly, sliding his legs over the bench and standing to his full height.

Hamish looked up, his smirk vanishing into a serious nod. “Where are ye goin’?”

Sebastian did not answer. He adjusted the belt of his sword out of habit, though he was not wearing his armor, and turned awayfrom the high table. He walked down the center of the Hall, his heavy boots cutting through the noise of his men, his eyes fixed on the heavy timber doors that led out into the courtyard and the dark, wet gardens beyond.

The rain was thinning into a silver mist by the time he stepped out, the cold air hitting his face like a slap. He stood under the stone archway of the threshold, his eyes scanning the flickering torchlight along the paths until he caught the shape of two wool-cloaked figures standing near the ancient rowan tree.

One of them was laughing, a low, light sound that drifted back toward the Hall on the wind.

Sebastian stayed in the shadows, his breath rising in small white plumes, watching her.

* * *

The dampness of the morning clung to the small stone cottages of the lower village, thick and smelling of low-tide river silt and green woodsmoke.

Alba spent the early hours kneeling on the packed-earth floor of the communal bakery, her sleeves rolled tightly past her elbows, and her woolen skirts pinned back out of the dirt, helping prepare the final winter bakes for the incoming families before she had to go.

Yet, no matter how hard she pressed her palms into the heavy, resistant dough, a sharp, unyielding restlessness followed herthrough every task. She caught herself looking toward the castle repeatedly without meaning to, her gaze drifting involuntarily up the steep, muddy incline toward the dark, jagged silhouette of the battlements.

Looking for him.

The realization annoyed her greatly. She brought her fists down into the dough with too much force, sending a small, white puff of flour up into the damp air.

“The new Laird seems just, doesnae he? And good for the eye?”

The teasing murmur came from Elspeth, an older MacLaren woman who was kneading bread beside her with a frightening amount of energy.

Alba nearly dropped the heavy earthenware flour bowl right into the embers. She kept her face down, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain to hide the sudden, treacherous heat rising along her neck. “I have nae noticed,” she said, her voice dropping into her finest, most indifferent administrative clip. “Is he?”

The older woman only hummed knowingly, a low, rumbling sound of pure amusement that vibrated through the wooden trestle table.

Traitorous old crone.

She had been the first to complain about the MacGregor grain rations three days ago, and now she was looking at the invading warlord as if he were a prize bull at a spring fair.

By midday, the final wagons had been packed, the ledgers verified twice over, and the clansmen and supplies were all ready. Standing at the edge of the village square with her hands tucked into her sleeves, Alba felt a quiet, solid sense of achievement settle behind her ribs. Her people were prepared not only for the months to come, but for the year to come; she had made sure of it. Every cellar was inventoried, every roof thatch repaired, and every trade agreement with the MacKenzies signed and sealed in ink.

But the completion of her work only brought the looming reality closer. The seven days had come and gone somewhere between Margaret's arrival and a kiss neither of them had spoken of since. No one, not her, not Sebastian, had said a single word about what that meant.

To keep the silence from settling into her bones, Alba forced herself into motion immediately upon returning to the castle, helping organize rooms, directing the confused servants, and talking with everyone she passed.

She found herself lingering by the weaver’s loom, checking the weight of the wool blankets, and staying a moment longer to ask after the blacksmith’s youngest daughter.

Walking through the Lower Corridors, she felt a strange, aching confusion knotting in her throat. How did this cold castle, andthese very people who had looked at her with such bitter, resentful hatred when she first took her husband’s seat three years ago, becomeherpeople? Now, as the hour of her departure drew near, she could not seem to let them go. Busy hands left less room for dangerous thoughts, but the castle was only so large.