Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Leave me, Orla. Please."
Alba's voice was steadier than she felt, her hands already working at the laces of her dress. The maid hesitated, fingers pausing over the stack of fresh linens she'd been arranging.
"Are ye certain, me lady? I can help ye with—"
"I need tae be alone." Alba softened the words with a small smile. "Just fer a while. I'll manage the bath meself."
Orla studied her for a moment, those perceptive brown eyes seeing far too much. But she dipped a curtsy and moved toward the door. "I'll return in an hour tae help ye dress fer dinner."
"Thank ye."
The door clicked shut, and Alba released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her fingers trembled as she finished unlacing her bodice, the green fabric pooling around her feet as she stepped free of it.
I dinnae want tae be far from ye, Alba.
Lachlann's words echoed through her mind, low and fierce and completely impossible to ignore. She'd told him to be careful what he said. That he needed to mean it.
And he'd looked at her like she'd wounded him by even suggesting he might speak without meaning every word.
Alba moved to the tub Orla had prepared, testing the water with her fingertips. Still hot enough to sting pleasantly. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals, smelling faintly of lavender and something else—rosemary, perhaps.
She shed her shift and stepped into the bath, sinking beneath the surface with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her chest. The heat wrapped around her like an embrace, easing muscles she hadn't realized were tense.
Her eyes drifted closed.
I dinnae want tae be far from ye.
What was she supposed to do with that? What did he expect her to say?
The truth was that she didn't want to be far from him either.
The truth was that every moment in his presence made her heart race and her thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
The truth was that she'd spent years burying those feelings, convincing herself they were impossible, forbidden, a childish crush that would fade with time.
But they hadn't faded.
If anything, they'd grown stronger. Deeper. More terrifying.
Alba slid lower in the tub until the water lapped at her chin, letting the heat seep into her bones. She needed to think. Had to decide what she was going to do about Lachlann MacNeil and the way he looked at her like she was something precious. Something worth protecting. Something worth—
"If ye think I ever speak without meanin', then ye dinnae ken me at all."
Alba's eyes flew open.
Lachlann stood just inside the doorway, his grey eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made the air between them crackle. He'd come in so quietly she hadn't heard the door, hadn't heard his footsteps, hadn't had any warning at all.
And now he was here. In her room. While she was—
Alba gasped and immediately sank lower in the tub, her arms crossing over her chest even though the water and soap provided some measure of coverage. Heat flooded her face that had nothing to do with the bath.
"Lachlann! What are ye—ye cannae just come in here without knockin’."
He froze mid-step, his entire body going rigid as realization crashed over his features. His gaze dropped—just for a second, just long enough for Alba to see his eyes widen—before he jerked his head away, turning his back to her so abruptly he nearly stumbled.
"Christ. Alba, I didnae—I wasnae thinkin', I’m sorry."
"Turn around!" Her voice came out higher than intended, somewhere between mortified and furious. "I mean—dinnae move!"
"I'm nae movin'." His voice was strained, rougher than usual. "I swear I'm nae movin'."
Alba stared at his back, at the rigid set of his shoulders beneath his shirt, at the way his hands had clenched into fists at his sides. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, feel it in her throat.
"Why are ye here?" she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Why did ye come in without knockin'?"
He stopped, took a breath. "Ye told me tae be careful what I say. That I had tae mean it. And I needed ye tae understand that I always mean what I say. Especially tae ye."
Despite everything—despite her mortification, despite the absurdity of having this conversation while she was naked in a bathtub—something warm unfurled in Alba's chest.
"I appreciate that," she said quietly, her eyes still fixed on his back. On the way his hair curled slightly at his collar. On the breadth of his shoulders that blocked most of the doorway. "I appreciate the honesty. And I... I believe ye now. I'll ken from now on that ye mean everythin' ye say."
Lachlann's shoulders moved with his breathing. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, so quietly she almost didn't hear it: "Good."
He started toward the door, his movements careful and controlled, like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter something fragile between them.
"Lachlann?"
He paused but didn't turn around. "Aye?"
Alba swallowed hard, wrapping her arms tighter around herself even though he wasn't looking. Even though he couldn't see her. "Thank ye. Fer... fer meanin' it."
His hand found the door frame, gripping it like he needed something to hold onto. "Always, lass. With ye, it'll always be the truth."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that left Alba staring at the space where he'd been.
She sat there for a long moment, the bath water cooling around her, her heart still racing and her skin still flushed. Her hands were shaking as she pressed them to her face, trying to process what had just happened.
He'd walked in on her. Seen her. And then he'd turned away without hesitation, without taking advantage, without—
I needed ye tae understand that I always mean what I say. Especially tae ye.
Alba's hands dropped to grip the edge of the tub, her knuckles turning white. The porcelain was cool and solid beneath her fingers, anchoring her when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
This was dangerous. All of it. The way he looked at her. The way her body responded to his nearness. The way he kept saying things that made her want to believe in impossible futures.
But maybe—just maybe—it wasn't impossible.
Maybe it was just terrifying.
Time stretched and bent around her as she sat in the cooling water, her mind racing through a thousand different thoughts and fears and hopes. By the time she finally forced herself to finish washing and step out of the tub, the water had gone cold and her skin had covered in goosebumps.
She dried herself mechanically, her movements automatic as she pulled on a clean shift and wrapped herself in her robe. Her fingers were still trembling slightly as she tied the sash.
With ye, it'll always be the truth.
Alba pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing her eyes and taking a long, steadying breath.
She was in so much trouble.
Lachlann hit the training dummy so hard the wooden post shuddered.
"Christ," he muttered, stepping back and rolling his shoulders. Sweat dripped down his temple despite the cool autumn air. "What the hell were ye thinkin'?"
The dummy didn't answer, which was probably for the best.
He'd walked in on Alba. While she was bathing. Naked in a tub, all soft skin and wet hair and those wide, shocked eyes looking at him like—
Lachlann swung again, the impact jarring up his arm. The solid thunk of wood on wood echoed across the empty training grounds.
He'd turned around.
Of course he'd turned around. What kind of gentleman would he be if he hadn't? But for that one second—that single, frozen heartbeat before his brain had caught up with what he was seeing—he'd looked.
And he was going to be seeing that image behind his eyelids for the rest of his damned life.
"Ye're an idiot," he told himself, adjusting his grip on the practice sword. "A complete and utter—"
I appreciate the honesty. I believe ye now.
Her voice, soft and sincere, cut through his self-recrimination. The way she'd said it, like his words mattered. Like they meant something to her.
Like maybe he meant something to her.
Lachlann moved through a series of strikes, letting his body take over while his mind churned.
Thrust, parry, swing. Again. Faster.
The movements were automatic after years of training, muscle memory guiding him through combinations he could execute in his sleep.
But they weren't enough to quiet his thoughts.
He'd told her the truth. That he didn't want to be far from her. And she'd told him to be careful what he said, to make sure he meant it.
As if there was any question.
As if he hadn't been fighting this pull toward Alba MacKinnon, knowing it was forbidden, knowing Calum would never approve, knowing it could destroy the brotherhood that had been forged in blood and trauma at Loch Eilein.
The practice sword whistled through the air.
Lachlann's muscles burned, his breath coming harder now as he increased the speed and intensity of his movements. Sweat soaked through his shirt, making the fabric cling to his chest and back.
Good. Tire yerself out. Stop thinkin' about her.
Except he couldn't stop thinking about her.
About the way she'd looked at him when he'd rescued her from Torquil—relief and fear and something else he hadn't dared name.
About the way she'd smiled at Captain, bright and genuine and unguarded.
About the way she'd danced with him in the village, her body moving in perfect rhythm with his like they'd been partners for years instead of twice.
About the flash of skin he'd seen before he'd turned away. The curve of her shoulder. The way her dark hair had clung to—
"Enough," Lachlann growled, attacking the dummy with renewed ferocity.
The sun beat down on his shoulders, hot despite the season. He'd shed his doublet sometime in the last quarter hour, working now in just his shirt and trousers. But even that felt like too much, the linen sticking to his skin uncomfortably.
Lachlann set down the practice sword and pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, tossing it onto the bench beside the training ground. The cool air hit his bare chest and he exhaled roughly, rolling his shoulders back.
Better.
He picked up the sword again, testing its weight.
This was good. This was what he needed—physical exertion, something to focus on besides the impossible situation he'd created by bringing Alba there. By wanting her when he had no right.
The blade cut through the air in a perfect arc. His footwork was precise, each step placed exactly where it needed to be.
Thrust. Parry. Turn. Strike.
His father had taught him those forms when he was barely tall enough to hold a real sword.
“Control yer body, control yer mind,” the old laird had said. “A warrior who cannae master himself will never master his enemy.”
But what happened when the enemy was his own heart?
Lachlann moved faster, pushing himself harder.
His muscles flexed and released with each movement, power coiling and striking like a snake. The practice sword became an extension of his arm, moving with lethal precision through combinations that would have left a real opponent bleeding on the ground.
The sounds filled the empty training yard—steel cutting air, his heavy footfalls on packed earth, his controlled breathing as he executed each drill with savage focus. Sweat ran down his bare torso in rivulets, his skin gleaming under the afternoon sun.
But it still wasn't enough to quiet the voice in his head that whispered:
She believes ye. She kens ye mean it.
What was he supposed to do with that?
The answer was nothing. Alba was Calum's sister. Under his protection because of the Covenant. A responsibility. A duty.
Not a woman he wanted so badly it was becoming difficult to breathe around her.
Lachlann's blade struck the dummy hard enough to splinter wood. He froze, staring at the crack he'd created, his chest heaving with exertion and frustration in equal measure.
Time passed as he drilled relentlessly, the sounds of steel and heavy footfalls echoing across the grounds, his body moving with lethal grace even as his mind refused to settle.