Page 70 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“Back,” Alba said, her voice shaking as she pulled free sharply, ripping her sleeve from her cousin’s fingers. “I have to warn Sebastian.”

“Absolutely nae,” Margaret snapped, stepping directly into her path, her face pale but unyielding. “Look at the yard, Alba! The wind is risin’!”

“Margaret, let me pass,” Alba hissed, her hands trembling with a volatile mixture of fury and fear. “Kerr’s men are already movin’. If they hit the valley before the MacGregors can form a line?—”

“Ye’d ride directly into a war!” Margaret’s voice cracked with panic now, her eyes bright with terror for her cousin. “The North Ridge is crawlin’ with scouts! Ye wouldnae make it past the first watch!”

“If Kerr reaches that Stronghold before Sebastian kens he’s been spotted…”

“Sebastian can defend the Castle!” Margaret shouted back, her fingers gripping Alba’s shoulder to force her to listen. “He isthe Beast of Blackthorn, for God’s sake! He has two hundred hardened men behind those stone walls! He does nae need a woman on a pony to tell him how to fight!”

“That’s nae what frightens me!”

The words escaped her mouth before she could stop them, raw, loud, and bleeding with a truth she had spent days trying to bury under ledger entries.

Silence followed immediately. Margaret froze, her lips parting as she stared at Alba’s frantic, tear-bright eyes. The confession hung in the damp air of the Hall, heavier than any treaty.

Alba was not afraid of the Castle falling. She was not afraid of the MacLaren name being erased. She was afraid of him dying. She was afraid of a world where those dark, suffocating eyes never looked at her again.

Before Alba could bolt past her toward the courtyard, Fergus stepped between them, his towering frame completely blocking the exit. His massive hands gently but firmly grasped her shoulders, anchoring her in place.

“Let me go, Fergus,” Alba whispered, her teeth chattering from the sheer force of the adrenaline. “I am goin’. I have to go.”

“Listen to me, lass,” Fergus said, his deep voice remarkably calm as the shouts of his captains echoed from the yard outside. “Sebastian sent word.”

Alba blinked, her mind refusing to process the statement. “He said nothin’ of it. He told me himself the trail had gone cold.”

“He daenae ken for certain,” Fergus said, reaching into his heavy leather doublet. He pulled out a creased, heavy piece of parchment, the wax seal broken but still visible, and thrust it before her face. “But a man like him doesnae wait for certainty before he prepares for the worst. He asked me to double the watch along the Ridge Road, in case Kerr came lookin’ for a way around yer walls instead of through them. One letter among a dozen precautions, I’d wager.”

Alba stared at the dark red wax, the coiled MacGregor serpent.

His message.

The crucially important letter he had commanded her to deliver to Fergus before she left.

“He warned ye,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “And said nothin’ to me.”

“He warns everyone of everythin’, lass. That’s the soldier in him,” Fergus said, his grip loosening slightly but remaining steady. “It doesnae mean he isnae standin’ there right now with three men and a locked gate, hopin’ he guessed right.”

“I cannae sit here,” Alba said, the words catching in her throat as she looked from Fergus to the parchment. The image of the small boy sneaking through the corridors, of Sebastian standingalone against a man who burned villages out of spite, burned away every ounce of Fergus’s reassurance.

What if he’d guessed wrong? What if Kerr had more men than any letter could account for?

“Alba, please,” Margaret pleaded from behind her. “Listen to reason.”

“Nay,” Alba pushed Fergus’s hands off her shoulders with a sudden, violent surge of strength. “Maps and letters are nae the same as iron on the Ridge. He expects me to sit here like a ledger on a shelf while he decides the efficiency of his own survival. I will go.”

“Alba, ye are bein’ a fool!” Margaret cried out as Alba vaulted past Fergus. “The Pass is a slaughterhouse!”

“Then I will ride faster!” Alba shouted back over her shoulder, already sprinting down the narrow stone corridor that led toward the lower stables.

She burst through the back doors into the freezing, rain-soaked night, the fierce northern wind immediately tearing her dark hair from its tight braid. The cold rain struck her face like a slap, but she did not care. She marched directly into the stables, her leather boots sinking into the wet straw as the horses shifted restlessly in their stalls, sensing the panic in the air.

“Saddle the bay,” Alba commanded the startled stable boy, her voice booming with authority. “Now!”

“But me Lady…” the boy stammered, dropping his wooden bucket. “The Laird said the Gates are to be barred.”

“I am Lady MacLaren,” Alba hissed, her hands steadying despite the terror hammering inside her ribs as she grabbed the leather bridle herself and threw it over the horse’s head. “I do nae need anyone’s permission to go home.”