Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Orla, have ye seen me—"
Alba stopped mid-sentence as the maid turned from the window, a knowing smile already spreading across her face.
"Yer what, me lady?"
"Me..." Alba frowned, trying to remember what she'd been looking for. "Me shawl. The blue one."
"Ye're wearin' it."
Alba glanced down at her shoulders where the soft wool rested, exactly where she'd placed it. Heat crept up her neck.
"Oh. Aye. So I am."
Orla's smile widened. "Perhaps ye should take a walk, me lady. Clear yer head a bit."
"Me head is perfectly clear."
"Is it now?" Orla crossed her arms, leaning against the window frame. "Because ye've been pacin' this chamber fer the better part of an hour, pickin' up things and puttin' them down again without seein' them at all."
"I have nae."
"Ye picked up the same book three times."
Alba pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to defend herself further. It would only prove Orla's point.
"Fine," she said instead. "Perhaps a walk would dae me good."
"Perhaps it would." Orla's eyes sparkled with mischief. "The gardens are lovely this time of day. Or the kitchens, if ye're hungry."
"Thank ye, Orla."
Alba swept from the chamber before the maid could finish whatever teasing suggestion she'd been about to make. The corridor outside stretched long and empty, afternoon light slanting through the narrow windows that overlooked the training grounds.
She'd meant to turn toward the gardens. She really had.
But her feet carried her past the turn, toward those windows instead, drawn by something she couldn't name, or wouldn't.
This is foolish, Ye shouldnae be—
The sound reached her first. Steel cutting through air. The solid thunk of impact. Heavy breathing.
Alba's pulse quickened.
She told herself to keep walking. To turn around. To go anywhere else.
Instead, she moved closer to the window.
The opening was narrow, barely wide enough to see through clearly, but it offered a perfect view of the training yard below. And there, in the center of that yard, was Lachlann.
Alba's breath caught.
He'd shed his shirt.
Sweat gleamed across his bare chest and shoulders as he moved through sword forms with lethal precision.
Each strike flowed into the next—thrust, parry, turn, swing—his body a study in controlled power.
Muscles flexed and released beneath sun-bronzed skin.
Dark hair had come loose from its tie, strands clinging to his neck and temple.
Heat bloomed in Alba's cheeks, spreading down her throat and across her chest.
She should look away. She couldn't look away.
Lachlann's blade cut through the air in a perfect arc before slamming into the practice dummy hard enough to splinter wood. The impact reverberated across the yard. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, and for one brief moment his eyes lifted—
Directly toward her window.
Alba stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth.
Did he see me?
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed her back against the cool stone wall of the corridor, hidden from view but unable to move further. Heat pulsed through her entire body—feverish, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
Below, she heard the practice sword clatter against something. Footsteps on stone.
Oh God.
Alba forced herself to breathe, to think, to—
"Were ye lookin' fer somethin', lass?"
She jumped, spinning to find James standing a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes far too knowing. He was covered in mud and looked tired.
"I—" Alba smoothed her skirts, lifting her chin. "I was simply takin' a walk. As Orla suggested."
"Were ye now?" James glanced meaningfully at the window she'd just been pressed against. "That's a fine spot fer... walkin'."
"It offers a pleasant view of the grounds."
"Aye." His mouth twitched. "Very pleasant, I'm sure."
Alba's face burned hotter. "If ye'll excuse me—"
"The laird's gone back inside," James said casually. "Looked like he was in a hurry about somethin'. Almost like he'd seen—" He paused, his gaze sliding back to her. "—somethin' that required his immediate attention."
"Thank ye, but I wasnae lookin’ fer him."
"Course ye werenae, me lady." James stepped aside, gesturing down the corridor. "Enjoy the rest of yer walk."
Alba gathered what remained of her dignity and swept past him, keeping her spine straight and her pace measured despite the urge to flee. She could feel his amused gaze following her.
The corridor seemed longer than before. Each window she passed felt like a test she was failing. She kept her eyes forward, her breathing carefully controlled, her thoughts—
Stop thinkin' about him.
But she could still see it. The way his muscles had moved. The sheen of sweat on his skin. The intensity in his eyes as he'd—
"Alba."
She froze.
Lachlann's voice came from behind her, low and rough. Footsteps approached—measured, deliberate, closing the distance between them with each step.
"Hello," she said quickly, not turning around. "I’m walkin'. Orla said I should walk."
"Ye're walkin' very fast fer someone who's just enjoyin' the afternoon."
"I walk at whatever pace pleases me."
"Dae ye now?" His voice was closer. Much closer. "And daes it please ye tae walk away from me?"
Alba's hands clenched her skirts. "I wasnae walkin' away from ye. I was simply—"
"Ye were watchin' me."
Her breath hitched. "I was daein' nay such thing."
"Alba." He was right behind her now. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Turn around."
"I'd rather nae."
"Why?"
"Because I—" She pressed her eyes shut. "Because I'm perfectly fine where I am, thank ye."
A pause. Then his hand, gentle but firm, touched her elbow.
"Please, lass. Look at me."
The softness in his voice undid her.
Alba turned slowly, keeping her gaze fixed somewhere around his chest. Which proved to be a mistake, because although he'd pulled his shirt back on, he had left it unlaced at the throat, and she could still see—
"Higher," Lachlann murmured.
Her eyes snapped to his face.
His storm-grey eyes held hers with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs. And his expression—
God help her, but he knew.
"I didnae mean tae—" Alba started.
"Didnae mean tae what?" He stepped closer. "Watch me train?"
"I wasnae watchin' ye train."
"Nay?" One corner of his mouth lifted. "Then what were ye daein' at that window, lass?"
"Enjoyin' the view of the grounds."
"The grounds." His smile deepened. "That what ye're callin' it now?"
Heat flooded her face. "Ye're bein' insufferable."
"Am I?" He reached up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
The movement drew her attention to his forearm—to the way muscles shifted beneath skin, the old scars that marked him, the strength in—
Alba jerked her gaze away.
Lachlann's soft laugh wrapped around her. "Ye're flustered."
"I am nae."
"Yer face is red."
"It's warm in this corridor."
"Is it?" He moved closer still, until barely a foot of space remained between them. "Strange. I find it quite comfortable."
Alba's pulse hammered. "What are ye daein'?"
"Talkin' tae ye." His voice had gone lower, rougher. "Ye’re breathin' fast." His gaze dropped to her throat, where her pulse beat visibly beneath skin. "Heart racin'. Eyes wide." He lifted his hand slowly, giving her time to pull away. "Almost like ye've got a fever."
"I dinnae have a—"
His fingers brushed her cheek.
The words died in Alba's throat.
Lachlann's touch was feather-light, just the backs of his knuckles trailing along her jaw. But it might as well have been fire for how it scorched through her.
"Ye're burnin' up," he murmured.
"I'm—" She couldn't finish. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe.
He moved closer still, his body nearly touching hers. His other hand moved up, fingers sliding into her hair at the base of her skull. The touch sent shivers racing down her spine.
"Tell me," Lachlann said softly. "Are ye flustered because of me?"
Alba's lips parted but no sound came out.
"Because," he continued, his thumb stroking along her jaw, "if ye are, lass, I need tae ken it. Need tae hear ye say it."
"Why?" The word came out breathless.
"Because I've been losin' me mind thinkin' about ye." His forehead dropped until it nearly touched hers. "Because every time I close me eyes, I see ye in that bath. Because I cannae stop wantin' things I have nay right tae want."
Her hands came up, gripping his forearms for balance. "Lachlann—"
"So tell me." His breath ghosted across her lips. "Tell me ye feel it too. Tell me I'm nae the only one who's burnin' from this."
The last of her restraint crumbled.
"Aye," Alba whispered. "Aye, I feel it."
Something fierce and wild flashed in his eyes. "Say it again."
"I—"
"Say it."
"I feel it." Her fingers tightened on his arms.
His mouth crashed into hers.
The kiss was nothing like Alba had imagined during all those years of secret longing. It wasn't gentle or tentative or sweet.
It was desperate.
Lachlann's hand fisted in her hair, angling her head as his lips moved against hers with urgent hunger.
His other arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. Heat radiated from him—the sweat-slick warmth of his skin through the thin linen of his shirt, the solid strength of muscle beneath.
Alba gasped against his mouth and he deepened the kiss immediately, his tongue sweeping past her parted lips.
The taste of him flooded her senses—salt and man and something uniquely him that made her head spin.
She pressed closer, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the flex and release of muscle as he held her. One of her palms found bare skin where his unlaced shirt had fallen open, and the contact sent fire racing through her veins.
And his, apparently. Lachlann groaned, low and rough, and the sound vibrated through her entire body.
His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, trailing heat down to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Alba's head fell back, a soft sound escaping her throat that she barely recognized as her own voice.
"Christ," Lachlann breathed against her neck. "The sounds ye make, lass."
His hand slid from her waist to her hip, fingers spreading possessively across the curve. Even through layers of fabric, the touch burned. He pulled her tighter against him, and Alba felt the full evidence of his desire pressing into her belly.
Heat pooled low in her stomach, liquid and aching and entirely new.
"Lachlann," she gasped.
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers.
They'd gone dark, pupils blown wide with want. His chest heaved with each breath, and she could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat.
"Still think I dinnae mean it?" His voice was wrecked. "Still think I'm just bein' braitherly?"
Alba shook her head, unable to form words.
"Say it." His hand tightened on her hip. "I need tae hear ye say it."
"Nay." Her voice came out hoarse. "I dinnae think that."
"Good." He leaned in again, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. "Because I've never meant anythin' more in me entire life."
He kissed her again—slower this time, but no less intense. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she opened for him immediately, matching his rhythm, learning the taste and feel of him.
One of his hands slid up her side, his thumb grazing just beneath the curve of her breast. Alba arched into the touch without thinking, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth.
Lachlann pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers as they both struggled for breath.
"We're in the middle of a corridor," he said roughly.
"I ken that."
"Anyone could walk by."
"Aye."
"I should let ye go."
"Probably."
Neither of them moved.
Lachlann's hand slid from her side to cup her face, his thumb stroking across her kiss-swollen lips. The tenderness in the gesture made her chest ache.
"I've wanted tae dae that," he murmured, "since I saw ye all grown up at Calum's gatherin' three years ago.
Ye were standin' in the gardens, laughin' at somethin' yer braither said, and the sun caught in yer hair and I thought—" He stopped, swallowing hard.
"I thought ye were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "
Alba's breath caught. "Three years ago?"
"Three years of pretendin' I didnae notice the way ye looked at me. Three years of tellin' meself ye were forbidden. Three years of—" His jaw clenched. "Of wantin' ye so badly I could barely stand tae be in the same room."
"I thought I was the only one."
"Nay, lass." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eye. "Ye were never the only one."
Footsteps echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
They sprang apart like guilty children, Alba smoothing her skirts while Lachlann dragged a hand through his hair. His shirt hung open, his lips were red from kissing, and there was absolutely no way anyone looking at either of them wouldn't know exactly what they'd been doing.
The footsteps grew closer.
Lachlann's hand left hers.
"We should leave," he said quietly.
The footsteps rounded the corner—just a servant carrying linens, who took one look at them and quickly averted her eyes, hurrying past.
Alba's face burned.
Lachlann turned and walked away, leaving Alba standing alone in the corridor with her heart racing, her lips swollen, and her entire world tilted on its axis.
She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth.
What happens next.
The words echoed through her mind as she watched him disappear around the corner, his broad shoulders filling the space, his stride confident despite everything that had just passed between them.
Alba took a shaky breath.
There was no going back from that.