Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
"Another glass of wine, me lady?"
Alba MacKinnon glanced up at the servant hovering at her elbow, his silver tray gleaming in the torchlight. She shook her head, offering a polite smile beneath her delicate mask. "Nay, thank ye."
The servant bowed and moved away, leaving Alba alone once more at the edge of Dunstaffnage Castle's grand ballroom.
Around her, the masquerade swirled in a riot of color and sound—silk gowns in jewel tones, masks adorned with feathers and gold thread, the rich notes of fiddles and pipes blending with laughter and conversation.
It was beautiful. Intoxicating, even. A rare gathering where Highland clans came together for diplomacy and celebration rather than rivalry.
Alba was looking around, taking in everything, when she saw Lachlann Macneil and she just couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He stood across the room, near the massive stone hearth, speaking with Laird MacDonald and another man she didn't recognize. Even with half his face concealed by a simple black mask, surrounded by other warriors and lairds, Lachlann commanded attention.
His broad shoulders filled out his formal doublet, and when he moved, it was with the ease and authority of a man born to lead—someone equally comfortable on a longship's deck or a battlefield.
Alba's fingers tightened around her wine goblet as she watched him laugh at something David, one of the covenant brothers, said. The sound carried across the room, rich and warm, and she felt it settle somewhere low in her belly.
She shouldn't have been watchin' him like that.
Shouldn't let her gaze linger on the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair was tied back but had a few rebellious strands escapin' to frame his face.
Shouldn't wonder what it would feel like if those storm-grey eyes turned her way with something other than brotherly affection.
But Alba had been fighting that pull toward Lachlann MacNeil for years now, and it only seemed to grow stronger with time.
Why on earth does he have tae be me braither’s best friend.
"Lady MacKinnon, what a vision ye are this evenin'!"
Alba turned to find Lady Moira Campbell approaching, her round face flushed with excitement and wine. The older woman's mask was decorated with peacock feathers that bobbed enthusiastically as she spoke.
"Lady Campbell," Alba greeted, grateful for the distraction from her dangerous thoughts. "Ye look lovely as well."
"Oh, this old thing?" Moira waved a dismissive hand at her emerald gown, though her pleased smile suggested she was quite satisfied with her appearance. "Tell me, dear, are ye enjoyin' the festivities? I saw ye sittin' here alone and thought ye might want some company."
Just wanted tae be alone tae admire Lachlan.
"That's kind of ye. Aye, it's a beautiful celebration."
"Beautiful indeed! Though I must say—" Moira leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to what she likely thought was a whisper but was still quite audible, "—I've never seen so many eligible young men in one place.
Surely ye've noticed? Half the unmarried lairds in the Highlands are here taenight. "
Alba forced her smile to remain pleasant. "I hadnae given it much thought."
"Hadn't ye?" Moira's eyebrows rose above her mask. "A bonnie lass like yerself? Come now, ye must have caught the eye of more than a few."
"I'm here tae represent me clan, Lady Campbell, nae tae find a husband."
"Nonsense! Ye can dae both." Moira's gaze swept the room appraisingly. "Now, let me see... Young Laird Fraser over there has been watchin' ye. And I believe MacGordon is still unwed, though he's a bit sour fer me taste..."
Alba's pleasant expression faltered. "I'm nae lookin' fer a match taenight, me lady."
"Every woman is lookin' fer a match, dear, whether she admits it or nae." Moira patted her arm with maternal condescension. "Mark me words, by the end of the season, half the lasses here will be betrothed. Ye'd dae well tae consider yer options while ye have them."
Before Alba could formulate a response that wouldn't be outright rude, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of young men had started some sort of drinking competition, their raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls.
"Goodness!" Moira pressed a hand to her ample chest. "Young men these days have nay sense of decorum. If ye'll excuse me, dear, I should go find me husband before he joins them."
She swept away in a flutter of peacock feathers, leaving Alba alone once more.
Alba took a sip of wine and let her gaze drift back across the room, only to find Lachlann looking directly at her.
Her breath caught. For a moment, their eyes met across the crowded ballroom, and the noise and movement around her seemed to fade. Lachlann's expression was unreadable behind his mask, but something in the intensity of his gaze made heat bloom in her cheeks.
Then someone said something that drew Lachlann's attention away, and the moment shattered.
This was madness. Lachlann was her brother's closest friend, one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant.
They'd all grown up together after that terrible battle, forged into brothers through shared trauma and honor. Which made any attraction she felt toward him completely, utterly forbidden.
She set her empty goblet on a passing servant's tray and smoothed her hands over her blue silk gown. Perhaps she should find some of the other ladies, engage in the sort of social conversation expected of her. Or—
"Lady Alba."
The voice was smooth as honey and twice as cloying. Alba's spine stiffened before she even turned around.
Torquil MacLean stood far too close, a goblet in one hand and a predatory smile on his lips. His mask was adorned with silver thread that matched the excessive embroidery on his doublet. She'd felt his eyes on her throughout the evening, watching her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
"Laird MacLean." Alba dipped her head in the barest acknowledgment courtesy demanded.
"Ye look absolutely enchantin’ this evenin'." His gaze traveled over her in a way that made her wish she'd worn something far less fitted. "That shade of blue is remarkably becomin' on ye."
"Ye're too kind."
"Nae at all. I speak only the truth." He shifted closer, and Alba caught the sharp scent of wine on his breath, too much wine. "I've been hopin' fer a chance tae speak with ye all evenin'. Ye're a difficult woman tae catch alone."
Alba forced her expression to remain neutral. "The celebration has kept me quite occupied."
"I'm sure it has. A woman of yer... qualities must be in high demand." His cold blue eyes glittered behind his mask. "But surely ye can spare a moment fer me? I've been most eager tae better make yer acquaintance."
Every instinct Alba possessed was screaming at her to leave, to make some excuse and put distance between herself and this man.
But they were at a diplomatic gathering, surrounded by representatives from a dozen different clans.
Insult him too obviously, and it would reflect poorly on the MacKinnons.
"What did ye wish tae discuss, Laird MacLean?" she asked carefully.
Torquil's smile widened, and there was something sharp and dangerous in it.
"Dance with me," he said, reaching for her hand. "The musicians are starting a new set, and I would be honored tae have ye as me partner."
Alba's fingers trembled as Torquil's hand reached for hers.
She could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on her—the eyes of other guests who'd noticed the exchange, the rules of Highland hospitality and courtesy that bound her, the dangerous glint in Torquil's eyes that promised consequences if she refused.
Refusing a dance at a formal gathering like this would be seen as a grave insult. It would cause talk, speculation, possibly even offense that could ripple out into clan politics.
"Aye," she heard herself say, her voice steadier than she felt. "I would be honored."
Torquil's smile sharpened as he led her onto the dance floor. His hand settled on her waist—too tight, too possessive—and Alba fought the urge to pull away as they began to move through the steps of the reel.
"Ye dance beautifully, Lady Alba," Torquil murmured, leaning closer than the dance required. "Just as I knew ye would."
"Ye're too kind, Laird MacLean."
"Nae at all." They turned, and his grip tightened fractionally. "I've been watchin' ye all evenin', ye ken. Waitin' fer the right moment tae approach."
Alba's pulse quickened, but not with pleasure. "Have ye?"
"Aye. Because I have somethin' important tae discuss with ye." His cold blue eyes locked on hers. "Somethin' that concerns both our futures."
Dread pooled in Alba's stomach. "I dinnae understand—"
"I think ye dae, lass." Torquil pulled her closer as they moved through another turn. "Ye're a clever woman. Surely ye've considered what a union between our clans could mean? The MacLeans and the MacKinnons, bound together… think of the power, the influence."
Alba's breath caught. "Laird MacLean, I—"
"I'm askin' fer yer hand, Alba." His voice dropped lower, more intense. "Marry me. Become Lady MacLean."
Alba stiffened, recognizing the danger immediately. This was no polite inquiry or a tentative courtship—this was a demand dressed up as an offer, and the possessive way Torquil held her made it clear he'd already decided she would be his.
"I'm afraid that's nae possible," she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Any discussions about marriage would need tae go through me braither, as is proper—"
"Yer braither is in England." Torquil's smile turned cold. "And from what I understand, he's made nay arrangements fer ye. I'm offerin' ye security, Alba. Protection. Nae many lairds would be so generous tae a woman whose braither left her so... vulnerable."
The threat beneath his words was unmistakable. Alba's mind raced, searching for a way out of the conversation, out of the dance, away from that man who was holding her too tight and smiling like a predator who'd cornered his prey.
"I must respectfully decline," she said firmly, lifting her chin. "I have nay interest in marriage at this time, and even if I did—"
"Ye misunderstand, lass." Torquil's fingers dug into her waist hard enough to bruise. "I wasnae askin' fer yer permission. I was extendin' ye the courtesy of hearin' it from me first, before I make the formal arrangements with yer clan."
Alba's heart hammered against her ribs. She opened her mouth, though she had no idea what words would come out—
"I'm afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me."