Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The heat from the great hearth was immense, roaring with thick blocks of peat and dry pine that threw a rich, golden light across the timber rafters of the Hall.
The musicians had positioned themselves on the small wooden dais near the western wall, the frantic, lilting scraping of three fiddles and the deep, rhythmic thrum of a goatskin drum playing loudly.
The castle was holding a farewell for its former Lady. And yet, looking out across the crowded room, it felt less like a solemn parting and more like a strange, beautiful alchemy.
MacLaren weavers were passing heavy clay flagons to MacGregor huntsmen, and hardened northern warriors with scarred knuckles were laughing at jokes told by the old village elders.
Instead of glaring across tables, they were slowly beginning to drink together, the shared survival of a brutal winter forging an unexpected bridge between them.
Alba stood near the massive stone hearth, her shoulder lightly resting against the warm masonry. She watched Brian dance terribly with several village children, his small leather boots tripping spectacularly over his own feet as he tried to mimic a complicated four-step dance.
He was flushed, his dark hair damp against his forehead, his face split into a wide, breathless grin. When he caught Alba looking, he panted heavily and gave her a frantic, two-handed wave before being dragged back into the spinning circle by the blacksmith’s youngest daughter.
Alba’s lips curved into a soft, genuine smile, her chest filling with a rare, sweet warmth at the sight.
She should have felt entirely relieved. The ledger was closed.
The village was fed. Her people were secure under a formidable name, and by morning, she would be riding away from this cold, administrative prison toward the safety of MacKenzie Land.
Instead, her chest ached strangely, a dull, heavy throbbing right behind her ribs that she could not quite account for.
“Ye look sad for someone who saved half the Castle from misery,” Margaret observed quietly beside her.
Alba looked toward her cousin in surprise, her thoughts fracturing. The memory of the early evening rushed back.
Alba had hugged Margaret fiercely the moment she entered the Hall, burying her face into her cousin’s shoulder with a desperate, clinging intensity that had shocked them both.
Yet even now, with her cousin standing right beside her, smelling of lavender water and clean wool, something still felt entirely wrong. The air in her own Hall felt thin.
“I am nae sad,” Alba answered automatically.
Margaret snorted softly, taking a measured sip of her spiced water. “Alba. I have ken ye since we were bairns. Ye only use that specific, bloodless voice when ye are either about to scream or about to cry.”
Alba looked away from her cousin’s piercing hazel eyes, turning her gaze back toward the crowded Hall instead. Her eyes traveled past the swirling dancers, past the long trestle tables piled high with the remnants of the feast, tracking toward the far wall.
Toward Sebastian.
He was standing near the heavy iron-reinforced doors, speaking with Hamish and an older MacLaren elder.
The torchlight caught sharply across his face, carving deep, dramatic shadows beneath his strong brow and highlighting the rugged, unyielding line of his jaw.
He had his arms crossed over his chest, listening intently to the old man, his head tilted slightly.
“I should be happy,” Alba admitted quietly, her voice dropping so low it was nearly swallowed by the drum’s roar.
She did not look at Margaret; she kept her eyes fixed on the distant, powerful frame of the MacGregor Laird.
“Me people are safe. It is good they have a Laird. He will nae have to fight with every man and every merchant at every instance to secure their safety. His name only carries safety.”
“The Beast of Blackthorn, aye,” Margaret said, her tone smoothing, losing its teasing edge as she followed Alba’s gaze. “Men think twice before testin’ a wall guarded by a man who survived the Northern Fires.”
“And the MacGregors are settlin’ well,” Alba continued, her fingers tightening around the smooth silver rim of her cup until the metal bit into her palm.
She watched Sebastian laugh at something Hamish said.
A rare, brief flashing of his teeth that completely transformed his rugged features, making him look younger, lighter.
“They are findin’ berths in the stables.
The weavers are sharin’ the looms. It is exactly what I worked for. It is exactly what I intended.”
She swallowed against a sudden, dry lump in her throat. “So why does it feel like somethin’ is missin’?”
Margaret did not answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on Sebastian, watching the way his dark eyes suddenly flicked across the crowded room, navigating through the sea of moving bodies until they landed squarely on the hearth.
On Alba. Even from across the vast, noisy Hall, the sudden, electric weight of his stare made Alba’s breath catch in her throat.
His expression did not change, but his broad shoulders squared slightly, his attention entirely splitting from the men beside him.
Margaret smiled slightly into her drink.
“Oh nay,” Alba muttered immediately, ripping her eyes away from Sebastian to glare at her cousin. “Daenae make that face.”
“What face?” Margaret asked, her eyebrows arching with complete innocence.
“The one where ye think ye understand somethin’ that isnae there.”
Margaret looked entirely unrepentant. “I usually do.”
“There is nothin’ to do about it,” Alba hissed, her ears warming rapidly despite the draft cutting across the stone floor.
“I am leavin’ in the mornin’, Margaret. The horses are already shoed.
Me trunks are at the Gate. This... whatever this madness is, it is just the fatigue of three years of survival finally catchin’ up to me. ”
“Alba,” Margaret said softly, reaching out to rest her hand over Alba’s white-knuckled grip on the cup.
“Ye spent three years holdin’ this place together with nothin’ but sheer will.
Ye survived Ewan’s death, ye survived the raids, and ye survived the Council’s doubt.
But you did it by freezin’ yerself solid. ”
She paused, her eyes shifting back to the dance floor where Brian was currently laughing so hard he had fallen onto his backside. “Look at the boy. Look at the way he looks at ye. And then tell me that nothin’ has melted.”
Alba looked down at her cup, her reflection dancing unsteadily in the dark amber liquid.
She thought of the Library, the quiet safety of the secret passageway she had shared with Brian, and the soft, heavy weight of the boy sleeping against her chest. She thought of the corridor, the terrifyingly beautiful chaos of Sebastian’s hands in her hair.
She had spent three years believing that to be safe meant to be alone behind a wall of stone and parchment.
“He gave me seven days, Margaret,” Alba whispered, the truth finally slipping out. “An ultimatum. Marriage to secure the alliance, to give Brian a mother. He took me home by force, and then he demanded me hand as if it were just another line in a trade agreement.”
“And ye hate him for it?” Margaret asked gently.
Alba closed her eyes for a single, agonizing second.
“I wanted to. God help me, I tried to. But how can I hate a man who fixes the roofs me own Council ignored? How can I hate a man who looks at his dead brother’s son with so much devotion it breaks me heart?
Every time he walks into a room, the air goes entirely out of me, and I...
I daenae ken who I am anymore if I am nae the Lady who handles everythin’ alone. ”
“Ye’re just a woman, Alba,” Margaret said, her voice full of a tender, sisterly warmth that made Alba’s throat ache. “A woman who is finally allowed to feel somethin’ other than terror and duty.”
Before Alba could answer, the music came to a sudden, crashing halt.
The fiddlers drew their bows from the strings, and the drum gave one final, resonant thud.
A breathless, laughing cheer rose from the village children as Brian came skidding across the floorboards, stopping right in front of Alba’s skirts.
“I did the four-step!” Brian shouted proudly, his face red, his small hands gripping her skirts for balance. “Alba, did ye see? I didnae fall down until the very end!”
Alba’s chest cracked completely open. She dropped to her knees right there, entirely unbothered by her fine gown, and pulled the boy into her arms. She buried her face in his hair, which smelled of wool and sweet cakes.
“I saw, wee lad,” she murmured into his hair, her voice thick but steady. She pulled back, offering him a bright, luminous smile that lit up her entire face, her fingers gently wiping the smudge of soot from his nose. “Ye were absolutely fearsome. The grandest dancer in the entire valley.”
Brian beamed, his dark eyes shining with total, uncritical devotion.
Above them, a shadow fell across the fire. Alba looked up, her breath hitching.
Sebastian stood there. He had walked across the Hall without her even noticing, his towering frame casting a long, protective silhouette over her and the boy. He looked down at them, his dark eyes unreadable.
“The wind has passed,” Sebastian said, his gravelly voice low and quiet against the ambient chatter of the Hall.
He looked at Margaret, offering a brief, respectful nod, before his gaze dropped back to Alba’s upturned face.
“The road through the Dragon’s Tail will be clear by sunrise, Lady MacLaren.
Yer escort will be ready whenever ye are. ”
The administrative title felt like a slap of ice water.
Lady MacLaren.