Chapter 3 #2
Alasdair did not offer his arm to Marsaili, though the instinct to do so burned sharp and immediate.
He did not touch her again beyond the hand she still held, because he had seen the way her body reacted when Gavin moved, the brief tightening that betrayed how close her fear still lay beneath the surface.
He would not risk becoming another presence she had to brace against.
Instead, he kept his palm around hers for one more measured moment, before easing his grip slowly, so she could draw back without feeling cast loose.
“Me lady,” he said, and the title settled heavily on his tongue. “Can ye walk?”
Her chin lifted. Her eyes were bright with shock and fury, and he hated what the torchlight revealed there, the strain at the corners, the way her mouth held itself tight to keep control.
“Aye,” she said, though her breath still trembled.
Tavish moved immediately to her other side, close enough to protect her, and Alasdair understood the instinct because it matched his own. Tavish’s hand hovered near her elbow, a careful restraint as though he feared touching her.
Marsaili did not lean into him. She kept herself upright on stubborn will alone, and Alasdair found that his attention snagged on that, on the effort of it, on the steel beneath her composure.
He led them away.
He took the longer route to his solar, corridors that would keep them out of the main passageways and away from the great hall, and he moved with the sharp awareness that every servant who saw her like that could cause her trouble.
He heard the whisper of her slippers, heard the scrape of Tavish’s boot, heard Gavin’s heavier stumble behind them, and each sound landed like a tally in his mind.
He had let it come to this. That was the thought he refused to voice. It sat under his ribs all the same, familiar as any old wound.
At the door of his solar, Fergus waited already, broad-shouldered and grim, his eyes sharpening the moment he saw the group. He took in Marsaili’s torn gown, Tavish’s panic, Gavin’s blood, and his jaw clenched.
“Nay one enters,” Alasdair said quietly. “Nay one listens at this door. If ye see a servant hovering, ye send them away.”
Fergus nodded once. “Aye, me laird.”
Alasdair ushered them in.
The solar was lit by the low glow of banked coals and six tall candles. The room smelled of parchment, ink, peat smoke, and the faint sharpness of the whiskey Gavin carried on his skin. Alasdair hated that scent in the same way he hated all weakness dressed as pleasure.
He shut the door himself, then turned the lock.
Gavin’s eyes flicked to the door as though he weighed escape again, and Alasdair met his gaze until Gavin looked away.
“Sit,” Alasdair said to Gavin, and pointed to the chair nearest the wall, farthest from Marsaili.
Gavin hesitated. Tavish moved one step forward, dirk now plainly visible in his grip, and Gavin sank into the chair with a shallow, resentful breath.
Marsaili remained standing.
Alasdair saw the faintest sway pass through her before she drew herself back into stillness, and the effort of it struck him harder than any open display of fear might have done.
Something tightened low in his chest at the sight, an instinctive pull that demanded he move, that he close the distance and lend her his strength without thought or permission.
His hand curled against the edge of the desk instead, knuckles whitening as he anchored himself there.
He knew, with a clarity that left no room for doubt, that what she needed was not the press of another hand or the weight of a man too close, but the quiet assurance that he was here, unshaken, and fully in command of what came next, for her sake as much as his own.
“There is water,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady, lifting his gaze to hers and holding it a heartbeat longer than courtesy required, enough for her to see that he was not turning away from her, before he inclined his head toward the pitcher on the side table. “If ye’d like some.”
She nodded, crossed the room and poured for herself.
He watched her from his peripheral vision, aware of the careful control in her movements, the way her hands only betrayed her when the cup reached her mouth, and something in him settled into a quiet, fierce resolve as he stood there, silent and unmoving, guarding the space she needed to breathe.
Alasdair took his own seat behind the desk, placing structure between them.
“What happened?” he said, and looked to Marsaili first, because this was her story to tell, not Gavin’s to twist.
Marsaili set the cup down with care. When she turned back, her gaze met Alasdair’s without wavering, and the steadiness of it hit him in a place he kept locked away. She looked like a woman who had been hunted and had refused to become prey.
“He came tae me chamber,” she said, voice clear despite the strain. “He was drunk. He barred the door, so I defended meself and then he chased me down the corridor. Then he—” Her throat worked once, and for a heartbeat Alasdair saw the shock behind her control. “Well, ye ken the rest.”
Tavish made a sound low in his chest, something between a growl and a prayer.
Gavin straightened in his chair, color rising in his face as though indignation could save him. “That isnae what—”
Alasdair lifted his hand and Gavin stopped.
“I believe ye,” Alasdair said, and meant it without condition or hesitation.
Marsaili’s eyes flickered up to his, surprise breaking through her careful composure, and something quiet and vulnerable passed between them in that held look, an understanding that did not require explanation, only the knowledge that she was not alone in this any longer.
Tavish leaned forward, dirk glinting in the candlelight. “There will be retribution,” he said, the words clipped and fierce. “Me sister isnae some serving lass tae be cornered like an animal. If I had reached her first—”
“Ye would have killed him,” Alasdair said, and did not soften it.
“Aye,” Tavish snapped. “I would.”
Alasdair held his gaze. He understood it. He respected it. He also understood what it would do to Marsaili if her brother killed the laird’s brother in a corridor.
“We will decide what is tae be done together,” Alasdair said again, calmer than he felt. “We will dae it with clear minds, and we will dae it in a way that protects her.”
Marsaili drew a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice carried something harder than fear.
“I will nae marry him,” she said. “After tonight, I will nae stand beside him at a church door and bind meself tae a man who thinks he may put his hands where he wishes and call it his right.”
Gavin’s mouth opened, and Tavish’s chin rose a fraction. Alasdair lifted his hand once more.
Alasdair should have felt only relief at her refusal, because it was the honorable, necessary choice.
Yet something else moved under it, quiet and unwanted, awareness that he did not want her bound to Gavin for reasons that had nothing to do with alliances.
He had noticed her in the hall days ago, sitting with her spine straight, refusing to laugh at Gavin’s crude jokes, and he had felt a pull he had dismissed as irritation.
He had been wrong. The pull had remained.
She should have looked like ruin now, but what Alasdair saw was ferocity, the kind that survived storms. It stirred something in him he had no patience for, because desire complicated decisions, and he had lived his life making decisions that could not afford complication.
He kept his face still.
“We can walk away,” Tavish said, “we leave at dawn. We take ye home. Let the Grants choke on their broken bargain.”
Marsaili turned her head sharply. “And what then?” she demanded, and the sudden heat in her voice startled even Tavish into silence. “Dae ye remember Mary?”
Tavish’s face tightened immediately. Alasdair did not know the name, but he understood the way it landed in the room, heavy with memory.
“She had her betrothal broken,” Marsaili said, and her hands curled at her sides, knuckles whitening.
“They whispered that she must have done something tae deserve it, that nay man would cast a woman aside wi’out cause, and our own kin began tae look at her as though she were spoiled.
They sent her tae the nunnery because it was easier than defending her. ”
Tavish swallowed, his jaw working.
“I will nae be sent away like that,” Marsaili continued, and now she faced Alasdair fully, as though she had decided he was the one responsible to shape the outcome.
“If I leave Freuchie wi’ a broken betrothal, they will ruin me wi’ whispers before me horse reaches the border. I willnae trade one cage fer another.”
Alasdair met her eyes and felt something settle into place, the unspoken request passing between them with a force that bound him more tightly than any oath.
“What would ye have o’ me?” he asked.
Marsaili did not flinch. “I would have a solution,” she said. “A way fer this tae end wi’out the stain falling on me. A way fer me tae leave this marriage unscathed.”
The room fell silent.
Gavin shifted in his chair, breathing hard, and Alasdair looked at him then.
He felt a cold anger settle in his bones.
Gavin had risked more than Marsaili’s body.
He had risked a war. He had risked the name of Grant.
He had risked the fragile peace Alasdair had spent years keeping with discipline and restraint.
He had trusted Gavin to behave as a man of their blood ought to. He would not make that mistake twice.
“I will think on it,” Alasdair said at last.
Marsaili’s expression did not soften. “Ye must think fast,” she replied, and there was only pressure in her voice. “We have two weeks. Folk will begin traveling fer the wedding, and once they dae, it will be too late tae act wi’out making it public.”
The number landed like a blade laid on a table. Alasdair sat back slightly, feeling the weight of it, already turning possibilities in his mind, alliances and obligations and the laws of honor that held clans together.
He met her gaze again, and for a moment he saw something behind her control, fear under her courage.
“Ye have me word,” he said, and the vow settled in his chest like iron. “Two weeks, and I will find a solution. Until then, Gavin will nae come near ye. If he daes, he will deal with me.”
Marsaili’s breath caught, and Alasdair felt the way her attention fixed on him again as though she could not help it, and he had no right to notice that, no time to want it, but the awareness slid in anyway, unwelcome and sharp, because she was looking at him as though he might be more than a laird solving a problem.
He forced his focus back to the immediate.
“Fergus will escort Mistress MacBain back tae her chambers,” Alasdair said, standing. “Tavish, ye will stay wi’ her. Gavin will remain here until I decide where tae put him fer the night.”
Gavin jerked. “Alasdair—”
Alasdair raised his hand again, and Gavin fell silent.
Marsaili turned, and for a heartbeat she hesitated. Her eyes met Alasdair’s once more, and something passed between them that did not belong to politics or duty, something raw and private that Alasdair did not have language for, only the sensation of it tightening his grip on control.
Then the door behind her opened as Fergus knocked and entered at Alasdair’s call, and the moment fractured, replaced by movement and consequence, and Alasdair watched Marsaili step into the corridor with Tavish at her side, her torn gown gathered in her fist like a banner she refused to drop.
Alasdair remained standing behind his desk as the door shut again, leaving him with his brother’s shallow breathing and the ringing truth of her demand, and he turned slowly toward Gavin, his jaw tightening as the weight of two weeks settled fully on his shoulders.