Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
"I'm afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me."
The voice was deep and familiar, and it sent relief flooding through Alba's veins like whisky warmth.
Lachlann MacNeil stood at her shoulder, his storm-grey eyes fixed on Torquil with an intensity that could have frozen a loch in summer.
He was taller than the MacLean laird, broader through the shoulders, and there was something in his posture—relaxed but ready—that spoke of a warrior who'd seen real battle.
Torquil's smile tightened. "I wasnae aware Lady MacKinnon had made any prior commitments."
"Well, now ye are." Lachlann's tone was pleasant enough, but there was steel beneath it. He turned to Alba, and his expression softened slightly. "Are ye ready, lass?"
Alba's heart hammered against her ribs for an entirely different reason now. "Aye," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "I am."
She placed her hand in Lachlann's, and the warmth of his palm against hers made her breath catch.
His fingers closed around hers—gentle but sure—and she felt the calluses from years of sword work, of hauling ropes on longships, of a life lived in service to his clan.
Torquil's jaw clenched. "Perhaps after this dance, Lady MacKinnon—"
"I'm afraid Lady MacKinnon's evenin' is quite full," Lachlann interrupted smoothly. "But I'm sure ye'll find nay shortage of willin’ partners, Laird MacLean. Lady Blair was just mentionin' how much she enjoys dancin'."
It was a dismissal, polite but absolute.
Torquil's cold blue eyes flickered between them, and Alba could practically see him calculating whether to push the matter. But Lachlann was a laird in his own right and one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant. Challenging him publicly would be foolish.
"Of course," Torquil finally said, his smile sharp as broken glass. "Enjoy yer dance."
He melted back into the crowd, but Alba could feel his gaze on her like ice water down her spine.
"Come," Lachlann murmured, his hand moving to the small of her back as he guided her toward the center of the ballroom where other couples were forming sets. "Let's get ye away from that bastard."
"Lachlann…"
"Later." His voice was low, meant only for her ears. "Smile, Alba. Half the room is watchin'."
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the attention they'd drawn.
Lady Campbell was whispering behind her fan to another woman. Several young warriors were watching with poorly concealed interest. Even David MacDonald had turned from his conversation to observe them with a thoughtful expression.
Alba lifted her chin and let Lachlann lead her into position as the musicians began a reel. His hand settled on her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath it.
"Ye shouldnae have done that," she said quietly as they began to move through the steps. "Torquil MacLean isnae a man who takes kindly tae bein' thwarted."
"Torquil MacLean can go straight to hell," Lachlann replied, his tone conversational despite the venom in his words. "Did ye want tae dance with him?"
"Nay."
"Then I did exactly what I should have done." His grey eyes met hers, and there was something fierce in them that made her pulse quicken. "Ye looked like a hare caught in a snare, Alba. Did ye truly think I'd just stand there and watch?"
"It wasnae yer responsibility."
"Aye, it was." They turned in time with the music, his hand firm and steady at her waist. "Calum asked me tae keep an eye on ye while he's in England. That's exactly what I'm daein'."
Alba's stomach dropped. Of course. Of course that's why he'd intervened. Her brother had asked him to watch over her, to protect her in his absence. It had nothing to do with her specifically, and everything to do with Lachlann's loyalty to Calum.
She should be grateful. She was grateful. But beneath the relief was a treacherous thread of disappointment that she had no right to feel.
"I didnae ken Calum had asked that of ye," she said, keeping her voice light.
Lachlann's hand tightened fractionally on her waist as they moved through a turn. "Yer braither's in England dealin' with trade negotiations, and ye're at a ball full of ambitious lairds and too much wine. Of course I've been watchin' ye."
"How... reassurin'."
His lips quirked. "Ye're angry."
"I'm nae angry."
"Ye are. Yer shoulders just tightened, and ye get this particular look in yer eyes when ye're tryin' nae tae lose yer temper." He guided her through another series of steps with easy confidence. "I've known ye since ye were a wee lass, Alba. I can read ye better than ye think."
That was precisely the problem, wasn't it? Lachlann had known her for years—watched her grow from a grieving child into a woman. But he still saw her as Calum's little sister, someone to be protected and watched over. Not as...
Not as what? What did she want him to see when he looked at her?
Alba pushed the dangerous thought away. "I'm nae angry," she repeated, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I'm grateful ye intervened. Torquil was makin' me uncomfortable."
"I noticed." Something dark flickered across Lachlann's face.
Lachlann was quiet for a moment as they moved through the dance. Around them, other couples swirled and laughed, but Alba was hyperaware of the man holding her—the warmth of his hand, the way he smelled of leather and salt air, the small scar above his left eyebrow that she'd never dared ask about.
"If he approaches ye again taenight," Lachlann finally said, his voice low and serious, "ye come find me immediately. Dae ye understand?"
"Lachlann, I'm nae helpless."
"I ken ye're nae helpless, Alba. But Torquil MacLean is dangerous." His grey eyes held hers, and she could see genuine concern there beneath the command. "He's ambitious and cunnin’, and he daesnae take nay fer an answer. Promise me ye'll be careful."
The intensity in his gaze made her throat tight. "I promise."
"Good."
They finished the reel in silence, moving through the final steps with a synchronicity that felt natural, inevitable. When the music ended and Lachlann released her, Alba felt the loss of his touch like cold wind against her skin.
He glanced around the ballroom, and his jaw tightened. "When are ye leavin'?"
"Soon. Me escorts are probably waitin' already, I told them I wouldnae stay late."
"Good. I'll walk ye out."
"Ye dinnae need tae."
"Alba." He gave her a look that brooked no argument. "I'm walkin' ye tae yer carriage. Let me dae this without a fight, aye?"
She wanted to argue, to prove she didn't need constant watching over. But the memory of Torquil's cold eyes and possessive smile was still too fresh. "Aye. Thank ye."
They made their way through the crowd toward the castle's entrance. Alba could feel eyes following them, speculation and curiosity in equal measure.
The cool night air was a relief after the press and heat of the ballroom. Alba's escorts, two MacKinnon warriors, were indeed waiting near where the carriages had been arranged. They straightened when they saw her approaching with Lachlann.
"Lady MacKinnon," the older of the two, Finn, greeted with a respectful nod. "We were just about tae come fetch ye."
"I'm ready tae leave." Alba turned to Lachlann, suddenly unsure what to say. Thank ye seemed inadequate, but what else was there? "Will ye be stayin' much longer?"
"Nay. Another hour, perhaps, then I'll be headin' back tae me ship.” His grey eyes searched her face. "Ye'll be safe with Finn and Dougal. They're good men."
"I ken."
"And ye'll write to Calum about what happened taenight? With Torquil?"
Alba hesitated. Her brother had enough to worry about with the English trade negotiations. The last thing she wanted was to add to his burdens. "I'll... consider it."
"Alba."
"I'll be fine, Lachlann. Truly." She managed a smile. "Go enjoy the rest of yer evenin'. Dance with some of those lasses who've been watchin' ye all night."
Something flickered in his expression—surprise? amusement? —but before she could identify it, Finn stepped forward to help her into the carriage.
"Safe travels, Lady MacKinnon," Lachlann said formally, stepping back.
"And ye, Laird MacNeil."
The title felt strange on her tongue, too formal, too distant for someone she'd known most of her life. But it was proper, appropriate for a public farewell.
Alba settled into the carriage, and Dougal closed the door. Through the window, she could see Lachlann standing in the torchlight, watching as Finn climbed up to the driver's seat.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Alba let her head fall back against the cushioned seat, releasing a long breath. Her heart was still racing from the dance, from the warmth of Lachlann's hand at her waist, from the fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he'd faced down Torquil.
She was a fool. A complete and utter fool for letting herself feel anything beyond gratitude.
The road leading away from Dunstaffnage Castle was dark, lit only by the moon and the single lantern on the carriage. The sound of hoofbeats and creaking wheels filled the silence as they traveled through the wooded path toward the main road that would take them north to MacKinnon lands.
Alba closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing thoughts.
In a few days, Calum would return from England, and life would return to normal.
She'd go back to her duties, to managing the household and representing her clan at smaller gatherings.
And Lachlann would go back to Barra, to his own responsibilities and his own life.
That night would become just another memory to lock away, another moment when she'd let herself pretend, just for a dance, that forbidden things might be possible.
The carriage continued through the darkness, carrying Alba away from the castle, from the ball, from Lachlann MacNeil and all the dangerous feelings he stirred in her heart.
“Something daes nae seem right.”
The first arrow struck the lantern as Finn was done making his quick observation.
Glass shattered, plunging the road into darkness save for the pale moonlight filtering through the trees. Alba lurched forward as the carriage jerked violently, Finn's shout of alarm cutting through the night.
"What—" Alba began, but her words were drowned out by the whistle of more arrows slicing through the air.
The horses screamed. The carriage tilted dangerously as one of them went down, and Alba was thrown against the side panel hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. The world became a chaos of sound and motion as the carriage tipped, skidded, and finally crashed onto its side with bone-jarring force.
Alba's head cracked against something solid. Stars burst behind her eyes, and for a moment, she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but lie there in the wreckage trying to remember which way was up.