Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Ishould let ye rest."
Lachlann started to rise from the bed, careful not to jostle Alba too much. But her hand shot out, catching his wrist.
"Wait."
He froze, looking down at her. "Lass, ye need tae sleep. Properly."
"I ken what I need." Alba's fingers tightened on his wrist. "And right now, that's fer ye tae stay."
"Alba—"
"Please." Her eyes met his, dark and earnest in the candlelight. "But first... there's a book. In me chamber. On the table beside the window. Could ye fetch it fer me?"
Lachlann frowned slightly. "Ye should be restin', nae readin'."
"I willnae be able tae rest if me mind keeps churnin' through everythin' that happened." She released his wrist, settling back against the pillows. "The book will help. It always daes."
He understood that. The need to escape into something outside yourself when your own thoughts became too heavy to bear.
"All right," he said quietly. "I'll get it. But then ye need tae actually sleep, aye?"
"Aye."
Lachlann left his chamber and moved quickly through the corridors, nodding to the guards he passed but not stopping to speak with any of them. Alba's room was exactly as it had been when he'd found it empty—the window still open, the brush still on the floor.
He crossed to the table she'd mentioned and found the book there. Small, leather-bound, well-worn from frequent reading. He picked it up, catching the faint scent of lavender that seemed to cling to everything Alba touched.
She had been there and then she wasn’t.
The thought sent fresh anger flooding through him. Anger at himself for not posting more guards. Anger at Thomas for his betrayal. Anger at Torquil for orchestrating all of it.
But mostly anger at the helpless terror he'd felt when he'd realized she was gone.
Lachlann closed his fingers around the book and headed back to his own chamber.
Alba was exactly where he'd left her, propped against the pillows with her eyes closed. But they opened when he entered, a small smile touching her lips.
"Ye found it."
"Aye." He held it up. "Though I'm still nae convinced ye should be readin' when ye've got a head wound."
"Ye read it tae me."
Lachlann stopped mid-step. "What?"
"Ye read." Alba patted the bed beside her. "I'll listen. That way me eyes can rest and me mind stays occupied."
"I'm nae sure that's a very good idea."
"Please, Lachlann." She looked up at him with those dark eyes, and he felt his resistance crumbling. "I dinnae want tae be alone right now. And yer voice... it helps."
How was he supposed to refuse that?
"All right," he said, settling carefully onto the bed beside her. "But if yer head starts hurtin' worse, ye tell me immediately."
"I will."
Lachlann opened the book, finding where a ribbon marked her place about halfway through. The text was poetry, old Highland verses about love and loss and the wild beauty of the isles.
He began to read.
His voice felt rough at first, uncertain, but it smoothed out as he found the rhythm of the words. Alba shifted closer, her head resting on his shoulder, and Lachlann adjusted his position to make her more comfortable.
The candlelight flickered across the pages, casting moving shadows that danced with each word he spoke.
Outside, the castle had settled into evening quiet—only the occasional footstep in the corridor, the distant bark of a dog, the ever-present whisper of wind against stone.
"'And when the sun sets o'er the loch,'" Lachlann read, "'and darkness claims the Highland sky, I'll think of ye, me bonnie lass, until the day I die.'"
Alba made a soft sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. Her breathing had grown slower, deeper, her body relaxing against his.
Lachlann glanced down and saw her eyelids drooping, fighting to stay open.
"Sleep," he murmured, pausing in his reading. "I'll keep goin'. Ye dinnae have tae stay awake."
"But I want tae."
"I’ll be here." He pressed a kiss to her temple, careful of the bruise. "Rest, lass."
"Only if ye keep readin'."
"I will."
Her eyes closed fully then, though she remained pressed against his side. Lachlann continued reading, his voice low and steady, feeling the gradual softening of her body as sleep pulled her under.
"'The heather blooms on distant hills,'" he read quietly, "'the seabirds cry their mournful song. But here beside the peat fire's warmth, is where me heart belongs.'"
Alba's breathing had evened out completely now, slow and deep. Lachlann glanced down and confirmed what he'd suspected. She was asleep, her face peaceful despite the dark bruise marring her temple.
He should stop reading. Should carefully extract himself and let her rest properly.
Instead, he shifted to make them both more comfortable, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders with his free hand while keeping the book open with the other.
And he kept reading.
Not because she could hear him anymore. But because the words gave him something to focus on besides the fear that still coiled in his chest. Besides the memory of her limp body in that bastard's arms.
Besides the terrible question of what might have happened if he'd been too late.
"'Through storm and strife, through joy and pain,'" Lachlann read softly, "'I'll hold ye close and keep ye near. Fer ye're the light that guides me home, the one I hold most dear.'"
The words felt too close to truth. Too much like a confession he wasn't ready to make, not even to himself.
But sitting there in the candlelight with Alba asleep against his shoulder, Lachlann couldn't deny it anymore.
He cared for her. Deeply. Dangerously.
In a way that went far beyond duty to Calum or the obligations of the Covenant.
"Sleep well, lass," he whispered, closing the book but not moving. "I've got ye. I'll keep ye safe."
Time passed quietly. The candles burned lower. The fire settled into glowing embers.
And Lachlann sat vigil through the night, keeping watch over the woman who'd somehow become more important to him than anything else in the world.
Alba woke slowly, awareness returning in gentle stages.
Warmth. She was warm and comfortable, wrapped in soft blankets that smelled of woodsmoke and something distinctly masculine. Clean. Safe.
She opened her eyes cautiously, half-expecting the movement to bring back yesterday's vicious headache. But while her head still ached dully, it was manageable—more of a persistent throb than the splitting agony she'd experienced.
Morning light filtered through the window, painting everything in shades of pale gold.
Alba turned her head carefully, expecting to find Lachlann still beside her.
But the bed was empty.
Disappointment flickered through her chest before she noticed the folded note on the bedside table, propped against an unlit candle where she couldn't possibly miss it.
She reached for it, her fingers slightly clumsy from sleep, and unfolded the parchment.
Lachlann's handwriting was strong and clear, each letter formed with careful precision:
Alba,
I didnae want tae wake ye, but I have a council meetin' that cannae wait. I must deal with the matter of Thomas and the kidnappers before another day passes.
Ye were restin' so peacefully I couldnae bear tae disturb ye. Morag will check on ye this mornin'.
I ken how much ye love readin', so I thought I'd leave ye somethin' tae occupy yer mind while I'm in Council. It's a tradition in the Highlands. When a man is away from the woman he cares fer, he leaves her a letter. Somethin' tae remind her she's thought of.
I'm startin' this tradition with ye now. Every day I'm away, whether fer Council or patrol or anythin' else, I'll leave ye somethin' tae read. A letter, a poem, a page from a book I think ye'd like.
Because I want ye tae ken that even when I'm nae beside ye, I'm thinkin' of ye.
Rest today. Let yerself heal. And I'll see ye as soon as I can escape from me duties.
Yers,
Lachlann
Alba read the letter twice, then a third time, her fingers tracing the words as though she could feel the warmth of his hand in the ink.
A smile tugged at her lips despite the ache in her head, despite the soreness in her body, despite everything that had happened those past days.
He was thinking of her. Even while dealing with traitors and kidnappers and all the weight of being a laird, he'd taken time to write that letter. To promise her something small but precious.
Alba folded the letter carefully, holding it close to her chest for a moment before setting it gently on the bedside table where she could see it.
The room around her was unmistakably Lachlann's.
Large and masculine, with dark wood furniture and tartan blankets. His sword hung on the wall beside the hearth. His boots stood neatly by the door. The faint scent of him lingered everywhere, leather and pine and something uniquely his.
She should probably return to her own chamber. It wouldn't do for people to find her there, in the laird's bed, even if nothing improper had happened.
But Alba found she didn't want to move. Not yet.
She sat up slowly, testing how her head felt with the change in position. The room swayed slightly but didn't spin, and the nausea from the day before seemed to have passed.
Progress.
Alba stretched carefully, feeling the pull of stiff muscles and bruised skin. Her fingers found the lump on her temple, exploring it gently. Still tender, but not as bad as it could have been.
He saved me.
The memory came back in flashes. The kidnapper's cruel grip. The ride through the forest. Waking to find herself being carried away.
And then Lachlann, appearing like something out of a legend, his sword drawn and his face terrible with rage.
I realized I couldnae bear it. Couldnae bear losin' ye.
His words from the night before echoed in her mind, sending warmth flooding through her chest.
He cared. More than duty required. More than friendship with Calum demanded.
He cared.
Alba picked up the letter again, reading through it one more time, letting each word sink in.
The woman he cares fer.
Not just protects. Not just guards out of obligation.
Cares fer.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," Alba called, quickly smoothing down her hair and trying to look less like someone who'd just spent the night in the laird's bed.
Morag entered, carrying her medicine bag.
"Good, ye're awake." The healer set her bag on the table and moved to open the curtains wider. "And how's yer head this mornin'?"
"Better. Still aches, but nae like yesterday."
"That's tae be expected." Morag came to sit on the edge of the bed, her weathered fingers gentle as they probed the injury. "Any nausea? Dizziness?"
"A bit when I first sat up, but it passed."
"Good. That's a good sign." Morag checked her eyes, had her follow a finger with her gaze, asked her a series of questions to test her memory and awareness.
Finally, the healer sat back, satisfied.
"Ye're healin' well, me lady. But ye still need rest. Nay sudden movements, nay ridin', and definitely nay excitement fer at least another day or two."
"I'll rest," Alba promised. "Though I'd like tae return tae me own chamber at some point."
"The laird said ye were tae stay here." Morag's tone was firm. "Where he can keep an eye on ye properly. And before ye argue—" She held up a hand as Alba opened her mouth. "—he was very clear about it. Said he'd carry ye back himself if ye tried tae leave."
Alba's cheeks warmed.
"And judgin' by the look on his face when he said it, I wouldnae test him." Morag stood, gathering her supplies. "I'll send Orla up with some breakfast. Light fare—bread, weak tea, maybe some broth. Ye need tae eat, but carefully."
"Thank ye, Morag."
The healer paused at the door, her expression softening. "Ye take care now, me lady.”
Then she was gone, leaving Alba alone with her thoughts and the letter still clutched in her hands.
He sat with me all night.
Alba pressed the letter to her chest again, closing her eyes and letting herself feel the full weight of what was happening between them.
It was dangerous. Complicated. A betrayal of everything Calum expected, everything the Covenant represented.
But sitting there in Lachlann's bed, surrounded by his scent and his care, holding words he'd written just for her—Alba couldn't bring herself to regret it.
She opened her eyes and carefully placed the letter back on the bedside table, where she could see it.
The first of many, he'd promised.
And despite everything—despite the danger, despite the complications, despite the guilt that whispered she was being selfish and reckless—
Alba found herself smiling as she settled back against the pillows to wait for his return.