Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Ye're goin' tae wear a hole in that floor, me lady."
Alba jerked her head up from where she'd been staring at the flagstones, finding Orla watching her with concerned eyes.
"I'm just—"
"Stop pretendin' ye're fine when ye're clearly worried sick." Orla moved closer, her voice softening. "He'll be back soon, me lady. Captain Fraser said it was just a routine patrol."
"I ken that." Alba turned back to the window, her fingers gripping the stone sill. "I ken he's perfectly capable and surrounded by trained men but Torquil—"
"I ken, and ye're goin' tae fret until he walks through those gates."
Alba's shoulders sagged. "Aye."
"Then at least fret while sittin' down. Ye've been on yer feet since dawn."
"I cannae sit. I need tae..." Alba trailed off, searching for something—anything—to occupy her restless energy. "There must be somethin' that needs daein'."
Orla sighed, recognizing a losing battle when she saw one. "The solar needs organizin'. Lady MacNeil was particular about keepin' it tidy before she passed, but it's been somewhat neglected of late."
"Perfect." Alba stated walking. "I'll start there."
The solar sat on the castle's eastern side, its windows overlooking the training grounds and, beyond that, the vast expanse of moorland stretching toward the coast. Alba tried not to look as she worked, tried to focus instead of scanning the horizon for riders.
She failed spectacularly.
Every few minutes, her gaze would drift to those windows. To the empty road. To the sky growing slowly darker as afternoon stretched toward evening.
He's fine. He has tae be fine. James wouldnae have let him go if there was real danger.
But the voice in her head refused to quiet.
Alba moved to the next shelf, her movements mechanical. The room smelled of old leather and beeswax, comfortable and familiar despite it being only her second week in the castle.
Her second week of wanting Lachlann MacNeil with an intensity that terrified her.
Her second week of knowing, with absolute certainty, that she'd never be able to walk away from him.
Alba tugged, heard a soft clink, and watched in horror as a delicate porcelain mug teetered on the edge of the shelf.
She lunged for it.
Too late.
The mug hit the floor with a sharp crack, shattering into a dozen pieces that scattered across the flagstones.
"Nay, nay, nay—" Alba dropped to her knees, reaching for the largest fragment.
She felt a sting on her palm.
She gasped, jerking her hand back. Blood welled from a thin cut across her skin, dripping onto the broken porcelain.
"Perfect," she muttered, pressing her other hand against the wound. "Just perfect."
The door burst open.
"I heard—" Orla stopped short, taking in the scene. "What happened?"
"I was careless." Alba kept pressure on the cut, feeling foolish and frustrated in equal measure. "The mug...I dinnae ken when it fell.”
"It's just a mug, me lady." Orla knelt beside her, gently pulling Alba's hand away to examine the wound. "And this needs cleanin' before it festers. Come on."
"I should clean up the mess."
"I'll handle it." Orla's tone left no room for argument. "Ye're goin' tae the kitchens to wash that properly and let cook wrap it."
Alba wanted to protest. Wanted to insist she was fine, that she could manage on her own, that she didn't need to be fussed over like a child.
But the truth was, she felt very much like a child at that moment. Lost and scared and utterly helpless while the man she—
The man I what?
Alba pressed the thought away as Orla guided her from the solar, down the winding stairs, through corridors that seemed longer than they had that morning. Her hand throbbed in time with her pulse, a steady reminder of her distraction.
The kitchens were warm and bustling with preparations for the evening meal. Cook took one look at Alba's palm and immediately pulled her to the basin, tsking under her breath.
"How'd ye manage this, me lady?"
"Dropped a mug. It shattered."
"And ye tried tae catch the pieces?" Cook shook her head, pouring clean water over the wound.
"I wasnae thinkin'."
"Clearly." But Cook's voice was kind as she patted the cut dry and reached for a clean cloth. "There now. It's nae too deep. Just keep it wrapped for a day or two and it'll heal fine."
Alba watched as the older woman bound her palm with practiced efficiency, the white linen stark against her skin.
"Thank ye."
"Ye're welcome, me lady." Cook tied off the bandage and stepped back. "Now, would ye like somethin' tae eat?"
"I'm nae hungry."
"That isnae what I asked."
Alba managed a weak smile. "Daes everyone in this castle feel compelled tae feed me?"
"Only when ye look like a strong wind could blow ye over." Cook crossed her arms. "The laird willnae be pleased if he returns tae find ye've wasted away tae naethin'."
When he returns. Nae if.
"I'll eat later," Alba promised. "After..."
"After he's home safe." Cook's expression softened. "Aye, me lady. I understand."
Alba fled before the pity in the older woman's eyes could undo her completely.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of restless movement. She tried to read but couldn't focus on the words. Tried to sew but pricked her fingers twice in as many minutes. Tried to help in the kitchens but nearly knocked over a pot of stew.
Finally, as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, Alba gave up all pretense of productivity and simply stood at the window of her chamber, watching the road.
Waiting.
The bandage on her palm felt tight and confining. Her hand throbbed dully.
But it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.
Please.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass.
Please come home safe.
The sky turned gold, then amber, then the deep purple of approaching dusk.
And still, the road remained empty.
The arrow came from nowhere.
One moment Lachlann was scanning the treeline, checking for any sign of Torquil's men returning. The next, white-hot pain exploded through his left side.
"Christ—" He jerked in the saddle, his hand flying to the wound. His fingers came away red.
"Me laird!"
Malcolm's shout seemed distant, muffled beneath the roaring in Lachlann's ears.
Arrow. Archer. Find them.
Training took over, pushing past the pain. Lachlann's right hand went to his sword while his left pressed hard against his side, feeling the arrow's shaft protruding from his flesh.
Not deep. Glancing blow, caught him at an angle.
Lucky.
He scanned the rocks to his left, searching for movement. There, a flash of dark fabric behind a boulder.
"There!" Lachlann pointed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Behind the outcroppin’!"
His men moved immediately, spreading out to flank the position. Lachlann dismounted carefully, keeping pressure on the wound. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky, but the flow seemed steady rather than pulsing.
Nae arterial. Good.
He followed his men on foot, sword drawn despite the way his side screamed with each step. The archer was trying to retreat, scrambling up the rocky slope toward better cover.
"Cut him off!" Lachlann ordered.
Two of his men broke left, moving faster over the uneven terrain. The archer saw them coming and changed direction—
Straight into Malcolm's path.
The boy, barely eighteen and eager to prove himself, didn't hesitate. He tackled the archer from the side, both men going down in a tangle of limbs and curses.
By the time Lachlann reached them, Malcolm had the man pinned face-down with a knee in his back.
"Got him, me laird!"
Lachlann studied the archer as his men hauled the man to his feet. Young, maybe twenty-five. Dark hair, lean build. And wearing Torquil's colors.
"Check him fer weapons."
They found two daggers and a dirk, all of which were confiscated.
"Bind his hands," Lachlann said, his free hand still pressed to his side. The pressure was starting to make his arm shake. "We're takin' him back to the castle."
"Me laird, yer wound, it’s bleeding."
"I'm fine." He wasn't, but that could be dealt with later. "Get him secured. Now."
His men worked quickly, binding the archer's hands behind his back and tying him to a horse. The man didn't struggle, didn't speak, just watched Lachlann with cold calculation.
Lachlann ignored him, focusing instead on staying upright as he mounted his own horse. The movement sent fresh agony lancing through his side, but he gritted his teeth and swung into the saddle.
"Move out," he ordered. "Quick pace but steady. I dinnae want tae lose our guest."
They set off at a controlled canter, the archer secured between two guards. Lachlann rode near the front, his left hand clamped over the wound while his right held the reins.
Blood continued to seep between his fingers. Not dangerously fast, but enough to make his shirt stick to his skin, enough to leave dark stains on his saddle.
Just get home. Then ye can bleed.
The journey back felt longer than the ride out had been. Every jolt of the horse sent fresh waves of pain radiating from his side. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.
"Me laird," Malcolm ventured after a few miles. "Should we slow down? Yer wound, we could tie it with cloth."
"Is fine." Lachlann's jaw clenched. "We keep movin'."
Because slowing down meant more time bleeding. Meant more time for infection to set in. Meant more time away from Alba, who was probably already worried sick.
She told ye tae be careful.
Well, he'd tried. Not his fault some bastard had decided to use him for target practice.
The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson. Appropriate, Lachlann thought darkly, given how much blood he was currently losing.
"Castle ahead, me laird!"
Relief flooded through him at Malcolm's call. There, rising against the darkening sky, were the familiar walls of home.
"Signal them," Lachlann ordered. "Let them ken we're comin' in with a prisoner."
One of his men raised a horn, blowing the pattern that indicated successful patrol returning with a captive. Moments later, an answering call came from the walls.
They'd been seen.
Lachlann urged his horse faster, ignoring the way his vision swam slightly at the edges.
Just a bit further. Just a few more minutes.
The gates opened as they approached. Guards lined the walls, bows ready in case this was some kind of trick. But Lachlann's men rode through without incident, the bound archer silent between them.
James was waiting in the courtyard, his expression shifting from relief to alarm in the span of a heartbeat.
"What happened?"
"Archer." Lachlann dismounted with less grace than he would have liked, his legs nearly buckling before he caught himself against his horse. "Got me in the side. It's nae so bad."
"Ye're bleedin' everywhere." James was at his side immediately, supporting his weight. "Someone get the healer! Now!"
"The prisoner—"
"Is secured. I can see him just fine." James's grip tightened. "Ye, however, look like ye're about to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"Aye, and I’m probably blind cause I cannae see how this is ye being fine me laird." James started hauling him toward the castle entrance. "Can ye walk or dae I need to carry ye?"
"I can walk." To prove it, Lachlann took a step.
And immediately regretted it as pain exploded white-hot through his entire torso.
"Christ—" His vision grayed at the edges.
"That's it. I'm carryin' ye."
"James, I swear if ye try that I’ll—"
But James was already shifting his grip, preparing to lift him like a sack of grain.
"Wait—" Lachlann grabbed his friend's arm. "Is she... did anyone tell Alba?"
James's expression softened. "Nay one's told her anythin' yet. We just got word ye were comin' in."
"Good." Lachlann exhaled roughly. "That's... good. Dinnae want her seein' me like this."
"Lachlann, she's goin' tae see ye anyway. Ye cannae hide a wound like that."
"I ken." He pressed harder against his side, trying to stem the flow. "But I'd rather nae have her seein' me bleed all over the courtyard first."
"Stubborn bastard."
"Aye." Lachlann managed a weak smile. "But I'm yer stubborn bastard."
"Unfortunately." James started moving again, slower this time, supporting most of Lachlann's weight. "Come on. Let's get ye tae yer chamber before ye bleed out on me boots."
They made it three steps before the castle doors burst open.
And there, framed in the doorway with wide, terrified eyes, was Alba.