Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“Margaret!”
Margaret had arrived just before dusk, riding through the Gate with two outriders and a baggage cart, her hood thrown back despite the cold.
Alba spotted her from the top of the stairs and was halfway across the courtyard before she’d decided to move at all, her cloak slipping off one shoulder and dragging through the mud behind her.
Margaret swung down from the cart before anyone could help her, laughing, both arms already open.
Alba crashed into her, hard enough to rock them both back a step, and held on.
The heavy, suffocating silence that had hung over the Castle all morning vanished against the familiar scent of woodsmoke and heather clinging to Margaret’s woolens.
“Careful!” Margaret said into her hair, still laughing. “I am carryin’ a MacKenzie menace.”
Alba pulled back so fast she nearly stumbled. “Ye’re pregnant.”
She stared at Margaret’s middle, then at her face, then back down again, as though the second look might reveal she’d misheard. “And ye made this trip?”
“It’s the shortest road in the Highlands, Alba.”
“With the Dragon’s Tail along it.” Alba’s hand found Margaret’s arm, her fingers tightening instinctively. “It’s nae safe even on a good day.”
“It was a good day.”
“It’s never a good day on that road, and ye ken it.
” Alba looked her over again, sharper now, checking for things that weren’t there to find.
A limp, a wince, a hand pressed too carefully to her side.
Margaret stood there and let her look, entirely unbothered, the way she’d let Alba fuss over her since they were girls.
Whatever temper Alba had been building melted out of her at once.
“Ye look happy,” she said instead, quieter, her hand going still against Margaret’s sleeve.
“I am.” Margaret’s whole face softened, something private moving behind her eyes. “Tired constantly. Fergus hovers like I am made of glass. But happy.”
“Good.” Alba meant it more plainly than she’d meant anything those past few days. “Ye deserve it.”
A small weight pressed against Alba’s side before either of them could say more. Brian arrived from nowhere, peering around her skirts at the stranger with deep suspicion. He had a smudge of flour on his cheek from the kitchens, and his fingers were tucked firmly into the wool of her dress.
Margaret blinked, then her mouth curved into a warm, genuine smile. “And who’s this?”
Brian drew himself up to his full height, chin lifted, chest out, every inch the warrior he was convinced he already was. He let go of Alba’s skirt to rest his small hand on the pommel of his wooden practice sword.
“Brian MacGregor.” A pause, for weight. “Future Laird.”
Margaret’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so?”
“Aye.”
Both women laughed, the sound light and clear against the graying sky, and Alba rested a hand against the boy’s shoulder, more out of habit now than thought.
I see you, stand easy.
Brian did not lean away from the touch; instead, he seemed to ground himself against her palm, his dark eyes never leaving Margaret.
Just then, she heard Sebastian cross the courtyard without any wasted motion, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically against the gravel.
He came to stand half a step in front of them both, his towering frame immediately blocking the biting northern wind.
He greeted Margaret with the easy, formal warmth he reserved for anyone who was not Alba.
“Lady MacKenzie. Welcome to MacGregor land.”
“Laird MacGregor.” Margaret’s voice stayed perfectly polite. Her eyes did not. They darted from Sebastian’s broad shoulders down to the way Alba’s hand still lingered protectively on the young MacGregor heir.
He turned to give some order to one of the outriders, just out of earshot, pointing toward the stables with a brief, efficient gesture. The second his back was turned fully to them, Margaret leaned in close to Alba’s ear.
“Saints,” she breathed, her voice a tiny, delighted puff of white air. “Is that the Beast of Blackthorn?”
Alba said nothing. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her jaw locked.
“Alba.” Margaret’s grip found her wrist, delighted, scandalized. “Are ye certain ye want to run away from him?” She paused, entirely too pleased with herself. “Maybe ye should run toward him.”
Alba turned and looked at her cousin, her eyes narrowing into what she hoped was a terrifying expression of administrative disapproval.
Margaret only laughed.
Across the courtyard, Sebastian turned back around, and Alba’s face had already gone carefully, perfectly blank—though her ears had gone a shade too warm for the cold evening air to explain.
“The Hall is warm,” Alba said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of the frantic, screaming panic currently hammering inside her ribs. “And the soup is ready. Come inside before the frost settles into yer bones, Margaret.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicked down to Alba’s face, his dark eyes lingering on the slight flush at her cheekbones before moving to Margaret. “Yer men have been directed to the lower barracks, Lady MacKenzie. They will be fed and looked after. Me commander will see to yer baggage.”
“Ye are most gracious, Laird MacGregor,” Margaret said, her tone smooth, though she gave Alba’s wrist a sharp, parting squeeze that spoke volumes.
They moved out of the damp cold, and into the Great Hall, where the massive stone hearth was throwing a roaring, golden heat across the floorboards.
The smell of roasted venison and baked bread filled the air, a sharp contrast to the stark, quiet tension that usually occupied the room.
Alba guided Margaret toward the smaller trestle table near the fire, deliberately choosing a seat that kept her back toward the high table where Sebastian usually sat.
Brian trailed behind them like a small, silent shadow, his boots tapping softly on the stone. When Alba sat, he immediately pulled a heavy oak stool right beside her, wedging himself into the small space between her chair and the stone hearth.
“Ye’ve a shadow, I see,” Margaret noted softly, settling into her seat with a small sigh of relief as she unclasped her heavy traveling cloak.
Alba reached out, her fingers catching the edge of Brian’s collar to pull the fabric straight. “He thinks he is guardin’ me,” she murmured, a rare, soft smile playing at the corner of her lips. “He takes his duties very seriously.”
“And his uncle?” Margaret leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes sparkling with unmitigated curiosity. “Does he take his duties seriously as well?”
Alba paused, her hands going still on Brian’s shoulder. She could feel Sebastian’s presence even without looking; he had entered the Hall and was currently speaking to his captain near the heavy oak doors, his deep, gravelly voice a low murmur against the crackle of the fire.
“He is efficient,” Alba said, choosing her words with extreme caution.
She poured a cup of warm, spiced ale and slid it across the table to her cousin.
“He has spent the last five days fixin’ the outer defenses and ensurin’ the winter stores are accounted for.
He does nae waste words, nor does he waste time. ”
“That is nae what I asked, Alba, and ye ken it.” Margaret took a slow sip, her gaze tracking over the rim of the cup. “I asked about the man. Nae the Laird.”
Alba’s thumb traced the grain of the oak table, her mind slipping back to the dark corridor from three nights ago.
The heat of his hand gripping her wrist, the collapse of his self-control, and the breathless, bruising intensity of his mouth against hers.
Her chest tightened at the memory, a sudden, sharp ache of vulnerability that terrified her.
“There is nay man separate from the Laird,” Alba said quietly, her voice dropping so low the crackle of the logs nearly swallowed it. “He is here for his people. He wants stability for the boy. Everythin’ else is just... logistics.”
“Logistics do nae make a woman’s ears turn red in the middle of a freezin’ courtyard,” Margaret observed dryly.
Before Alba could shoot back a sharp retort, Philomena approached the table, carrying a large wooden trencher piled high with thick slices of bread and stew. The older woman’s sharp eyes darted between the two cousins, a subtle, knowing smirk settling on her weathered face.
“Lady MacKenzie,” Philomena said, setting the food down with a solid thud. “It’s good to see some life in this Hall again. Heaven kens these two have been mopin’ about like two roosters sharin’ the same fence.”
Alba let out a small, indignant gasp. “Philomena. I do nae mope.”
“Aye, ye daenae mope, me Lady,” Philomena retorted, untying her apron with a sharp snap. “Ye just pace the floor until the rugs are worn through and stare at the ledgers until yer eyes bleed. It’s a miracle the Laird hasnae thrown those books into the fire just to get ye to look at him.”
Margaret broke into a delighted laugh, while Alba looked down at her lap, her face burning anew.
Brian looked up from his stool, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he looked at Philomena. “The Laird doesnae burn books. He fixed the library window so the wind wouldnae blow the pages.”
Alba’s chest squeezed. She looked down at the boy, her hand reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. “Did he?”
“Aye,” Brian nodded, tearing off a piece of bread with his teeth. “He said the books belong to the Castle. And to ye.”
Alba went quiet, the simple statement striking a chord deep within her.
She looked across the hall, past the rows of eating men, to where Sebastian stood.
He had shed his heavy leather doublet, wearing only a dark wool shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was listening to an old MacLaren tenant, his head tilted slightly, his expression serious and attentive.
There was no arrogance in his posture, no threat.