Page 6 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“Enjoyin’ yerself?” she asked, her blue eyes freezing over as she stopped before him.

“Nay.” He glanced across the bustling courtyard before returning his gaze fully to her. “This wasnae me first choice either.”

“And yet ye still invaded me home.”

“I brought starvin’ people to shelter.”

“Ye brought an army.”

“A small one.”

She stared at him, her chest heaving slightly beneath her stays. The sheer, unadulterated disbelief on her face was almost entertaining to him.

“The neighborin’ clans already ken MacLaren stands vulnerable,” he said, cutting in before she could find the breath for her next word. “The bloody wars in the North are done. Whatever is comin’ is movin’ south. Ye ken that already.” He watched the grim realization move across her sharp features despite every effort she made to prevent it. “How long before someone far less cooperative came for yer walls?”

Her jaw tightened so hard a small muscle jumped in her cheek. She looked away toward the gates, then snapped her gaze back. “We were doin’ just fine.”

“Were ye?”

The heavy silence that followed was the most honest thing she had said to him yet.

“I want yer men out of the East Wing,” she said, shifting her stance.

“Denied.”

Her eyes widened, flashing with sudden fire. “Denied?”

“Aye.” He held her furious gaze without a flicker of difficulty. “Ye’ll survive the disappointment.”

She took one provocative step closer, closing the distance until he could smell the rain on her skin. “Ye arrogant brute.”

Sebastian pushed off the timber gatepost, towering over her. “Lead me to yer study. We have things to discuss.”

He walked ahead without waiting for her consent. Behind him, he heard her sharp, furious intake of breath, and that was entirely sufficient to satisfy him.

* * *

Her private study smelled of peat smoke, old parchment, and amber whisky, with maps lying around.

Alba shut the heavy oak door behind her with a firm click and turned to see Sebastian MacGregor already comfortably seated in her chair. Her chair, behind her desk, with her own amber whisky poured into two glasses he had no right to touch, looked completely at home in a room he had been inside for about thirty seconds.

She stayed rooted near the stone hearth. She did not touch the whisky he pushed toward her side of the desk.

“If this is another attempt to justify what ye’ve done,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register, “save yer breath.”

“Yer people need protection.”

“Theyhadprotection.”

“They had walls.” His voice was perfectly level. Infuriatingly level. “That isnae the same thing as protection.”

Alba pressed her back teeth together until her jaw ached. The absolute worst part, the part she would sooner die than give him, was that the beast was not entirely wrong about the Northern Wars moving south.

She had lain awake enough cold nights running the exact same terrifying calculation herself. Walls without men behind them were an invitation to raiders, not a defense. She knew it. She had simply chosen never to finish the thought aloud.

“What exactly do ye want from me?” she said, her hands clenching under her cloak.

He looked at her straight across the desk. There was no preamble. No softening of the blow.