Page 67 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“I will deliver it,” Alba said.

She looked at him for one heartbeat more, searching his eyes for the words he was too proud to say. Finding nothing but the warlord’s mask, her mouth thinned into a pale line.

She stepped into the carriage, and the heavy door slammed shut between them.

* * *

He felt wrong without her.

Sebastian realized it by the second day. The Castle was eerily quiet, the air heavy with a flat, stagnant weight that nothing seemed to penetrate. Without her quick, sharp voice breaking through the drafts, the Great Hall felt less like a stronghold and more like a tomb.

Brian sat on his tall stool, his wooden spoon left in the dirt by his boots. He was wandering the Halls sulking openly, refusing his supper entirely.

“Eat the beef, Brian,” Sebastian said, his own voice sounding heavy and gravelly in the quiet room. “It’s what’s on the trencher.”

“It’s dry,” Brian muttered miserably, pushing a cold piece of turnip around his plate with his thumb. “Alba would have made honey cakes tonight. With the sweet cream.”

“She isnae here.”

“Becauseyechased her away!” Brian said, his small face twisting into a scowl as he looked up. "I heard the Solar door slam last night, hard enough to shake the sconces. And Alba dinnae smile once at breakfast. Nae once. Ye did something."

Sebastian stared down into his whisky instead of answering. The golden liquid reflected the dim torchlight, completely still. He did not deny it. He could not.

Across the high table, Hamish shifted his weight, the timber bench groaning under his bulk. He looked from the boy to Sebastian, a deep, knowing frown settling into his beard.

Even the servants seemed duller somehow. The maid who brought the bread had not smiled once, and nobody laughed near the kitchens anymore. The entire Keep had gone completely still, reverting to the cold, bloodless military outpost it had been before Alba ever dragged her ledgers into the light.

“Go to bed, Brian,” Hamish said gently, breaking the silence. “The Cook will find somethin’ better for breakfast.”

“I daenae want breakfast,” Brian snapped, sliding down from the stool with a sharp thud. “I want Alba!”

He did not wait for permission. The boy turned and marched out of the Hall, his small leather boots slapping loudly against the stone until he got to the corridor.

Sebastian took a slow, deep swallow of the whisky, the burn doing nothing to clear the thick, suffocating knot in his throat.

“This is foolish,” Hamish muttered eventually, slamming his tankard down on the table.

Sebastian rubbed one hand roughly down his face, the stubble scraping against his palm. “Aye.”

“The Castle looks like it’s mournin’ a corpse, and the boy is starvin’ himself,” Hamish said, leaning forward until his chest pressed against the edge of the timber. “We survived three years in the North without a woman’s touch, Sebastian. Why does it feel like the roof is fallin’ in after two days?”

“Because she held it up,” Sebastian said, the admission raw and bitter on his tongue. He set his cup down, his fingers tightening around the clay. “The people daenae look at me, Hamish. They look past me. Lookin’ for the ledger.”

“They’re lookin’ for her,” Hamish corrected bluntly. He paused, his sharp eyes scanning the nearly empty Hall before he leaned in closer. “But that’s nae the only thing rottin’ yer gut tonight. Ye havenae looked at a single border report since yesterday.”

“I am thinkin’ about Kerr,” Sebastian rumbled, his gaze fixing on the salt cellar between them.

“Aye?” Hamish pulled a small, grease-stained map from his belt and threw it onto the table. “I still think Kerr will strike north first. I have been lookin’ at the pass alignments.”

Sebastian’s attention sharpened instantly. He dropped his hand from his face, his dark eyes locking onto his commander. “Explain.”

“Look at the terrain,” Hamish said, his thick finger tracing a jagged line across the parchment. “Kerr is ruthless, but he hasnae got the numbers to take this Stronghold by a straight siege. Nae with our men on the walls.”

“He kens that,” Sebastian murmured, his mind working through the tactical lines. “He wouldnae risk a direct assault on the Gates.”

“Exactly,” Hamish nodded, his voice dropping into a hard, professional whisper. “If Kerr believes MacKenzie Land shelters ye, if he thinks ye’ve sent yer alliance and yer future lineage south to hide behind Fergus, he’ll strike there first to cut yer legs out from under ye.”

Sebastian shook his head, his jaw locking. “Fergus MacKenzie has more than three hundred spears at his back, Hamish. Alasdair MacRae is holdin’ the Western Ridge. Kerr wouldnae dare risk the retaliation. It’s suicide.”