Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“We need tae prepare fer winter…”
The council chamber was warm despite the open windows, and Lachlann found his attention drifting as Malcolm Maclyon, one of his father's oldest advisors—droned on about grain stores and winter preparations.
Important matters, certainly. Necessary matters. But after two days with almost no sleep and the constant worry about Alba gnawing at his gut, Lachlann was finding it difficult to focus.
"—and if we increase the tithin’ from the southern farms by even half a percent…"
"We're nae increasin’ the tithin’," Lachlann interrupted. "The southern farms had a poor harvest last year. They're still recoverin’. We'll make dae with what we have."
Malcolm's bushy eyebrows drew together. "But me laird, with an extra mouths tae feed—"
"A few extra people willnae strain our resources," Lachlann said flatly. "What else?"
The men around the table exchanged glances.
James, sitting at Lachlann's right hand, kept his expression carefully neutral, but Lachlann could feel his friend's amusement.
"Speakin’ of extra mouths," Duncan, the head of the castle guard, said carefully, "there's been talk. About our... guest."
"What kind of talk?" Lachlann's voice went cold.
"Just questions, me laird. About Lady MacKinnon and why she's here. About whether harborin’ her might bring trouble from this Torquil MacLean we've been hearin’ about."
"Let me make this very clear." Lachlann leaned forward, his hands flat on the table.
"Lady MacKinnon is under me protection. This is the type of protection that the covenant established.
She's here because circumstances required it, and she'll remain here until it's safe fer her tae return tae her clan.
That is nae open fer debate. Is that understood? "
Duncan nodded quickly. "Aye, me laird. I meant nay disrespect."
"Then there's naething more tae discuss on that matter." Lachlann's gaze swept the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "Alba MacKinnon is a guest in this castle, tae be treated with the same respect ye'd show any visitin’ lady. Anyone who has a problem with that can bring it tae me directly."
Silence settled over the council chamber. No one seemed inclined to argue.
"Good," Lachlann said. "Now, about those coastal patrols—"
Movement outside the window caught his eye. He turned his head slightly and saw two figures in the garden—Alba in her green dress, her dark braid gleaming in the afternoon sun, and Orla beside her.
As he watched, Alba bent to examine something—a flower, perhaps—and said something that made Orla laugh. The sound carried through the open window, light and genuine, and Alba smiled in response.
It was the first time Lachlann had seen her smile since before the ball.
Something in his chest tightened.
"Me laird?"
Lachlann blinked and turned back to find the entire Council watching him. "What?"
"Ye were askin’ about the patrol schedule," Duncan repeated, though there was a knowing glint in his eye. "Fer the coastal routes."
"Right. Yes." Lachlann forced his attention back to the table, to the maps spread before them, to the matters that required his focus. "Continue with the current rotation but add an extra watch at the northern point. If Torquil MacLean daes decide tae make trouble, that's the most likely approach."
They discussed patrols and defenses for another quarter hour, but Lachlann's mind kept drifting back to the window, to the garden, to Alba's smile and the way the sunlight had caught in her hair.
Finally, he stood abruptly. "We've covered what's necessary fer today. Unless there's anything urgent that cannae wait?"
The men shook their heads, gathering their papers and rising from their seats.
"Dismissed, then."
They filed out, though James lingered behind. "Goin’ somewhere in particular?" he asked innocently.
"I need tae check that our guest is settlin’ in properly," Lachlann said, already moving toward the door.
"Of course. Very dutiful of ye."
"Shut up, James."
His friend's laughter followed him out into the corridor.
Lachlann made his way down to the gardens, telling himself it was simply courtesy. He was the laird, she was his guest. It was his responsibility to ensure she had everything she needed.
He found them near the herb garden, Orla explaining something about the various plants while Alba listened with obvious interest.
She looked beautiful, the rest and the bath had helped, and the green dress suited her far better than her ruined ball gown had.
But the bruise on her cheek was darker now, and the cut on her throat made his jaw clench every time he saw it.
They both looked up as he approached, and Orla immediately bobbed a curtsy. "Me laird."
"Orla." He nodded to her, then turned to Alba. "Lady MacKinnon. I trust yer accommodations are satisfactory?"
"Aye, they are." Alba's voice was polite, formal. "Very much so. Thank ye fer yer hospitality."
"And Orla has been takin’ good care of ye?"
"She's been wonderful. She was just showin’ me the gardens." Alba gestured to the plants around them. "They're beautiful. Yer maither had excellent taste."
"She did." The mention of his mother sent a familiar pang through his chest, but he kept his expression neutral. "She spent hours out here. Said it was the only place she could think clearly."
"I can understand that." Alba's sea-blue eyes met his, and for a moment, the formality between them eased. "There's something about growin’ things that makes the world feel... steadier."
"Aye." He found himself wanting to tell her about his mother, about the lessons she'd taught him in this very garden, about how he still went there when he needed to think. But they weren't alone, and the words felt too personal, too revealing. "I'm glad ye're findin’ it peaceful."
An awkward silence fell. Orla glanced between them, clearly sensing the tension but uncertain what to do about it.
"I should nae keep ye from yer duties," Alba said finally, straightening slightly. "I'm sure ye have more important matters tae attend tae than garden tours."
The dismissal stung, though he knew she was right. "I'll see ye at dinner, then. In the great hall. Orla can show ye the way."
"Of course. Thank ye, Laird MacNeil."
Back to formality. Back to proper distance.
Lachlann nodded to them both and turned away, telling himself it was better this way. Safer. Less complicated.
But as he walked back toward the castle, he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder once. Alba had already turned back to the herbs, listening to something Orla was saying, but the stiffness in her shoulders hadn't eased.
He'd made her uncomfortable. And that was probably for the best, even if it felt like shite.
Alba had been dreading the dinner from the moment Lachlann mentioned it.
A formal meal in the great hall, surrounded by Lachlann's clan, all of them curious about the mysterious MacKinnon lady who'd appeared on their laird's boat.
She'd spent the afternoon trying to prepare herself, choosing her words carefully, rehearsing polite responses to questions she anticipated.
But when Orla led her into the great hall that evening, Alba realized no amount of preparation could have readied her for it.
The hall was massive with a vaulted ceiling supported by thick oak beams. Torches lined the walls, their flickering light dancing across tapestries that depicted what she assumed were scenes from MacNeil history.
Long tables filled the space, already crowded with clan members eating and talking and laughing.
Every eye in the room turned to her as she entered.
Alba lifted her chin and forced herself to walk steadily beside Orla, very aware of the whispers that followed in her wake. She caught fragments of conversation—
"… MacKinnon lass."
"What happened…"
"… Bruise on her face, did ye see?"
Orla led her to the high table, where Lachlann sat with what appeared to be his senior household members. He stood as she approached, and the rest of the table followed suit.
"Lady MacKinnon," he said formally. "Welcome. Please, sit."
He gestured to the seat beside him, and Alba's stomach dropped. Of course he'd seat her there—she was a visiting lady, entitled to a place of honor. But it meant everyone in the hall would be watching them, speculating about why Calum MacKinnon's sister was dining at Lachlann MacNeil's right.
She sat carefully, smoothing her skirts, and tried to ignore the weight of all those curious stares.
The meal began, and Alba focused on her plate, grateful for something to do with her hands.
The food was good—fresh bread, roasted meat, vegetables that had clearly come from the garden she'd visited earlier. But her appetite was minimal, her stomach still tight with nerves.
"Ye should eat more than that, lass," a voice said from her other side.
Alba turned to find an older woman watching her with shrewd but kind eyes. "I'm afraid I'm nae very hungry, miss...?"
"Morag. I run the kitchens." The woman smiled. "And I ken ye've had a difficult few days. But ye need tae keep yer strength up."
"I'll try," Alba promised, taking a small bite of bread to prove her intention.
Around them, conversation flowed—talk of the day's work, plans for the following one, the usual rhythm of clan life. Alba listened without really hearing, too focused on maintaining her composure.
Then a server appeared at Lachlann's elbow, murmuring something too low for Alba to hear. Lachlann nodded and gestured toward the kitchens.
A few minutes later, the server returned and set a bowl before Alba.
She could see chunks of tender meat swimming in dark, herb-flecked gravy alongside carrots, turnips, and potatoes. A sprig of fresh thyme garnished the top, and the whole thing had been served with a thick slice of crusty bread on the side.
Alba stared at it in surprise. "I already have—"
"Try it," Lachlann said quietly beside her. "I think ye'll like it."