Chapter 20 #2
She tried to move away from it, but that just made everything worse—her stomach lurching, the room spinning even with her eyes closed.
"Easy, lass. Dinnae move too fast."
Lachlann's voice. Low and rough and infinitely welcome.
Alba forced her eyes open slowly, squinting against the candlelight. The room swam into focus—unfamiliar walls, a large hearth, dark wooden furniture. Not her chamber.
"Where—" Her voice came out as a croak.
"Me chamber. I had Morag tend tae ye here." A hand touched her forehead, gentle and warm. "How dae ye feel?"
"Like someone hit me with a tree." Alba tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as the room tilted violently. "Oh God."
Lachlann's arms were around her instantly, supporting her weight, holding a basin under her chin as she retched. Nothing came up, her stomach was too empty, but the spasms went on for what felt like forever.
Finally, they subsided. Alba slumped back against the pillows, breathing hard, tears streaming down her face from the effort.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"Dinnae be." Lachlann set the basin aside and wiped her face with a cool cloth. "Ye've naethin' tae be sorry fer."
She let him tend to her, too weak and dizzy to protest. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not quite doing so.
"What dae ye remember?" he asked quietly.
Alba closed her eyes, trying to sort through the fragmented memories. "A man. In me chamber. He—" She touched her temple gingerly, wincing. "He hit me. And then... horses. Forest. They were takin' me tae a boat."
"They were takin' ye tae Torquil." Lachlann's voice had gone hard. "But we caught them before they could get ye off the island."
"We?"
"Me men and I. Tracked ye through the forest and intercepted them at the eastern cove." His hand found hers, gripping tight. "I'm sorry, Alba. I should have protected ye better. Should have—"
"Stop." She squeezed his fingers weakly. "It wasnae yer fault."
"It was. Someone in me own castle betrayed us. Let those bastards in." He looked away, jaw clenching. "I failed ye."
"Ye saved me." Alba tugged on his hand until he looked at her again. "Ye came fer me. That's what matters."
Something shifted in his expression, relief and pain and something deeper she couldn't quite name.
"When I saw ye were gone," he said quietly, "when I found yer chamber empty and realized what had happened—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I thought I'd lost ye."
"But ye didnae."
"This time." His thumb stroked across her knuckles. "But what about next time? What if I'm too late?"
He broke off, his jaw working as he fought for control.
Alba waited, watching emotions play across his face. She'd never seen him like that, raw and vulnerable and clearly struggling with something that went deeper than just the day's events.
"Me braither," Lachlann said finally, his voice rough. "I had a younger braither. Eòin. He was sixteen when he died."
Alba's breath caught. She'd known Lachlann had lost someone—all the Covenant brothers carried grief from the Battle of Loch Eilein—but she'd never heard him speak of it.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
"I was eighteen. Newly made laird after me faither's death.
And there was a raid—rival clan testin' our borders, seein' if the young laird could hold what was his.
" Lachlann's eyes were distant, lost in memory.
"I ordered everyone to stay within the castle walls while we dealt with it.
But he—" His voice cracked. "He was brave and foolish and wanted tae prove himself.
So he took a handful of men and rode out tae defend a village that was under attack. "
Alba's hand tightened on his.
"By the time I realized what he'd done and got there—" Lachlann stopped, closing his eyes. "The raiders had already overrun them. I found him in the village square, bleedin' out from a sword wound. He died in me arms while I begged him tae hold on."
"Lachlann."
"I was supposed to protect him. I was his laird. His braither. And I failed." His eyes opened, meeting hers with devastating honesty. "Just like I almost failed ye today."
"Nay." Alba sat up despite the way it made her head swim, reaching for him with both hands. "Nay, ye didnae fail me. Ye came fer me. Ye saved me."
She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her.
Lachlann's hand moved up to cover hers where it rested against his cheek. "When I thought I might lose ye, when I was ridin' tae catch up and didnae ken if I'd make it in time—" He paused, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. "I realized I couldnae bear it. Couldnae bear losin' ye."
Alba's heart stuttered. "Lachlann."
"I ken I shouldnae feel this way. I ken yer braither would never fergive me. But I cannae help it, Alba."
Lachlann rested his forehead against hers. She lay in his arms, too overcome and exhausted to answer him.
"Rest," he murmured. "Ye need tae rest."
"Stay with me?"
"Always, lass." He shifted, making room beside her on the bed. "Always."
Alba settled against his chest, his arm secure around her shoulders. She could hear his heartbeat beneath her ear, steady and strong and alive.
"Tell me more," she said quietly. "About yer braither. About what he was like."
So Lachlann did.
He spoke softly in the darkness, sharing memories of a younger brother who'd been brave and reckless and full of life. Of the guilt that had haunted him ever since. Of how every person he'd failed to protect since then—every close call, every near-miss—brought it all rushing back.
And Alba listened, her hand over his heart, offering what comfort she could simply by being there. By being safe. By being alive.
Time passed in quiet conversation and long silences filled only with breathing and the crackle of the fire.