Chapter 20 #2
“And ye are no’ my commander.” Her chin lifted as she said it, and he watched as her fingers toyed with the sleeve of her dress where he knew she kept a dagger hidden. Feisty lass.
No matter her threat to him, she would not win this battle.
“I’m no’ some na?ve lass, MacLeod,” she said, leaning closer to him, her voice gaining force, “There is a reason my uncle sent me here with ye. There is a reason Kerr has followed us. He wants me for some reason.”
“And acknowledging that truth does no’ mean I’ll allow ye to walk into a trap. Your uncle named me your guardian, and as such, I am your commander.”
“My uncle also bid ye as Guardian of Scotland to weed out the rat. At the end of the day, I’m one person. There are hundreds of thousands at risk. Use me.”
Lachlan moved toward her, the tips of his boots hitting the toes of her slippers, he closed the distance in a way that left no doubt of his intent. “No.”
“Lachlan—”
“I will not risk ye.”
Her frustration broke through fully then, her voice tightening with it. “Ye canna protect me from everything.”
“I can try. And I will. ’Tis my duty.”
“I dinna want ye to try,” she said. “I want ye to trust me.”
The words struck harder than he expected.
Before he could stop himself, he reached for her, his hand closing around her arm as she turned away. She spun back toward him instantly, and the space between them vanished. The heat of her body sank into his chest, and every muscle within him tightened.
“Ye are the most stubborn woman I have ever met,” he muttered.
“And ye are the most infuriating man I have ever known,” she returned.
The anger between them burned hot, but it was not the only thing burning. His hand slid from her arm to her waist almost without thought, drawing her flush to him before he could stop himself.
Isabel did not resist, if anything she leaned into him, her gaze hot on his.
The kiss came fast, fierce, driven by everything neither of them had been willing to say aloud.
There was no hesitation, no careful restraint—only the intense and overwhelming release of tension that had been building since the moment they had first looked at one another and understood something neither had been prepared for.
Her fingers gripped his leine, pulling him closer even as he pressed the backs of her thighs against the table. The maps scattered beneath them slipped to the floor, forgotten entirely, and the world beyond the room seemed to fall away beneath the force of it. Zounds, he wanted her. Needed her.
The intoxicating passion that gripped him did not last.
It might have, in another world, one without war pressing in from every side, without betrayal threading through loyalties, without the constant awareness that everything he cared for was being stripped from him.
But this was not another world, and Lachlan knew it.
Even as Isabel’s arms wove around his neck and her warmth pressed against him, reality forced its way back in, unwelcome but undeniable.
The ships on the horizon, the quiet fracture of alliances, the name Kerr still echoing in his mind—none of it allowed for carelessness.
And she was no longer simply a woman he desired. She was something else he could lose. The realization cut through the desire with a ragged blow like a sword on a fallen limb.
He tore himself away from her, not for lack of want, but necessity.
The moment shattered between them before either of them could fully claim it, leaving behind only the ache of what had almost been.
Cold air rushed into the space where her warmth had lingered, and suddenly he was painfully aware of everything he could not allow himself to forget—who he was, what waited beyond these walls, how quickly happiness could be stolen from a man foolish enough to reach for it.
Yet when Isabel looked at him, her eyes searching his with breathless confusion and something far more perilous beneath it, his resolve faltered. God help him, but walking into battle felt easier than stepping back from her.
“What is it?” There was a slight tremble to her words, a mix of passion and surprise.
Lachlan forced himself to step back another pace, though every instinct pushed against his actions.
He needed distance. Needed control. Needed something solid to hold onto before he did something he could not undo.
“The timing,” he managed to say, his hands gesturing toward the ruined maps.
“’Tis no’…” But his words trailed off, sounding like an excuse even to him.
Hurt registered on her face, and she looked away, smoothing her hands down her skirts while they trembled.
“Ye’ve kissed me quite a lot for a man who think ’tis a mistake.” She did look up at him then, her gaze every bit as fierce as a warrior on the battlefield.
That look felt like an axe to the chest.
Lachlan opened his mouth to answer—and found that he could not.
Not because he did not know the truth, but because the truth itself was the problem.
Kissing her was not a mistake, quite the opposite.
He’d been wanting to kiss her since the moment he’d first laid his delirious eyes on her.
But she was not his to kiss. Not his to touch, as much as he wanted to press her back to the planks of that table and sink deep inside her.
To bring her to the heights of passion and watch her fall apart beneath him.
To show her exactly how much he wanted her…
Instead of answering, Lachlan turned away, his gaze fixing on the oak doors that led out to the courtyard and the battles that would be waged just beyond.
He should say something. Comfort her. But the only words that came out were, “Ye are meant for someone else. That is why I should no’ have kissed ye.
” But lord help him, he wanted to fight for her. And yet… he avoided her gaze.
The silence that followed was not empty. It stretched, heavy and unspoken, filled with everything he had not said and everything she now understood without needing him to.
With his gaze on the door, he didn’t see so much as heard the rustle of her skirts, the steady footsteps of her shoes on the rushes as she left the great hall with a quiet finality that settled into the space between them like a closing door.
And then she was gone.
He remained where he was, his hands braced on his hips, wishing he could turn back time, pull back what he’d said. Declare that he would ask for her hand instead. The war inside him battled almost as fiercely as his enemies soon would.
The English would be here before nightfall; he had a gut feeling.
And the battle would be fought upon his lands and under his command, where every decision would carry weight and consequence.
This was no longer a war he could ride toward or leave behind—it was one that would unfold at his gate, among his people, with everything he could not afford to lose standing directly in its path.
With her…
With Kerr leading the English directly to his gates, Lachlan had at least succeeded in one task set forth to him by the Bruce.
But the second one—to protect Isabel, he was certain he’d already failed.