Page 68 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“Wouldnae he?” Hamish looked up, his expression turning grim under the torchlight. “Think like the monster, Sebastian. If hestrikes the MacKenzie borders, he doesnae have to win a war. He merely has to shed enough blood to bring ye out.”

Sebastian saw it then.

The realization hit him in the sternum, the pieces of the puzzle falling into a terrifying, seamless alignment. The air left his lungs in a sharp, cold rush.

“He wouldnae come here anyhow,” Sebastian whispered, his eyes wide as he stared at the map. “He wouldnae risk the passage through the Valley.”

“Nay,” Hamish said, his finger stopping at the narrowest point of the mountain trail. “He wouldnae.”

“He would force me into the Dragon’s Tail,” Sebastian said, the words cutting through the quiet room like a blade.

Cold settled heavily into Sebastian’s stomach. Because now he could see it clearly. He had spent the last two days worrying about contracts, about pride, and about the way her lips had felt against his in the dark Solar. He had let her ride away because his own stubborn dignity would not let him tell her he needed her.

And all the while, he had sent her straight into the trap.

Malcolm Kerr did not care about Fergus MacKenzie’s spears. He did not care about the MacRae alliance. Even if Fergus woulddefend his land with every man he owned, Malcolm Kerr would burn everything between them with the sole purpose of draging Sebastian out into the open. He would turn the Dragon’s Tail into a slaughterhouse, and Alba was sitting in a slow-moving wooden box right in the middle of his path.

“She has six outriders,” Sebastian said, his voice rising, the panic finally breaking through his discipline. “Six, Hamish.”

“And a baggage cart,” Hamish added, his face pale. “They’re movin’ at a nursery pace because of Lady Margaret’s condition.”

Sebastian stood abruptly from the table, the movement so hard and violent it shoved the heavy oak chair backward until it hit the stones with a deafening crash.

“Prepare horses,” Sebastian commanded.

Hamish blinked once slowly, his hand freezing on the edge of the map. “For how many?”

“Ten men,” Sebastian snapped, already turning on his heel and reaching for his sword belt where it hung from the peg behind the high seat. “The fast mounts. Nay heavy armor.”

“Sebastian, the men are tired from the watch,” Hamish warned, though he was already sliding his own legs over the bench. “And the Pass will be black as pitch by the time we hit the tree line.”

“I daenae care about the darkness,” Sebastian growled, slamming the iron buckle of his belt into place with a fierce, decisive snap. His hands were shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the sudden, roaring rush of adrenaline that had completely cleared the whisky from his brain. “If Kerr’s scouts are on that ridge, they’ll hit them before they reach the main Gates at MacKenzie Land.”

“Where are we goin’ then?” Hamish asked, his voice hardening as he followed his Laird toward the doors. “The Border Stone or the Lower Valley?”

Sebastian did not stop. He threw the heavy timber doors open, the cold night wind hitting him as he looked out into the dark courtyard.

“MacKenzie’s,” Sebastian said. “We ride until we catch the carriage.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Great Hall at MacKenzie Castle felt almost peaceful. The storm outside was a distant, rhythmic hiss against the heavy stone walls, a sharp contrast to the stark, quiet tension that had occupied her mind for the past two days.

Lilly slept curled beside the massive hearth beneath a mound of thick woolen blankets, her breathing soft and undisturbed. Near the orange flames, Margaret sat in a low oak chair, her head bowed as she carefully stitched tiny white shirts for the new babe growing inside her.

Alba took a slow sip from her cup, trying to focus entirely on the warmth of the spiced liquid.

His lips…

She blinked rapidly, clearing her throat to drown out the sudden, unbidden memory of the dark solar.

“How is the ale?” asked Fergus.

“I have to admit the MacGregor ale has a far heavier body,” Alba said aloud, her voice tight but forced into an easy, conversational rhythm. “Yer brewers put entirely too much water in the mash this season.”

Fergus scoffed from across the long trestle table, setting his heavy wooden tankard down with a solid thud. “Too much water? Alba, ye’ve been locked in that northern fortress so long yer tongue has gone completely numb. The MacKenzie brew could cure a winter fever. It has twice the malt.”

“It tastes like river silt,” Alba countered, leaning back and forcing a small, mocking smile to hide the frantic pace of her own thoughts.