Page 24 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

"Unlike people?" The words slipped out before Morag could stop them.

Colin looked at her then, and for a moment something almost like humor flickered in his dark eyes. "Perhaps in another life, I would have been a stable boy. Simpler work, simpler expectations."

The unexpected jest caught Morag completely off guard. This was the first time since that night in the kitchen that she'd seen anything approaching lightness from him.

There he is.

She felt a flutter of something dangerously close to affection.

The man hiding beneath all that armor.

"I've never kent a stable boy made of iron," she replied, her own lips quirking slightly. "Usually they're much happier and more fun."

The moment the words left her mouth, Morag knew she'd made a mistake. Colin's expression shuttered completely. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and when he looked at her again, the Iron Laird was firmly back in place.

"We should go," he said curtly, his voice returning to its usual cold formality. "The people are expectin’ us."

He helped her mount with what appeared to be cool efficiency, but Morag couldn't help the way her breath caught as his large hands spanned her waist. She tried to match Colin’s outward calmness, but even through the fabric of her riding habit, she could feel the heat of his palms, the controlled strength in his fingers as he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle. For a moment, his face was level with hers, so close she could see the dark stubble along his jaw, catch the scent of leather and something uniquely masculine that made her pulse flutter.

If I leaned a mere inch more, I would be able tae touch yer lips with me own. How would it feel tae kiss ye? Tae have those full lips kiss me?

Morag felt flare on her as she noticed the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, and how the morning light caught the dark waves of his hair. This close, she could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the slight tension in his jaw that suggested he wasn't as unaffected by their proximity as he pretended to be.

When his hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary at her waist, she caught the way his breathing quickened, and how his pupils dilated slightly as his gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.

He feels it too. Whatever this... heat is between us.

He adjusted the stirrups with careful precision, his movements deliberately controlled, but Morag noticed how he shifted his stance, the way he seemed to be fighting some internal battle. There was something almost predatory in the way he moved around her horse, checking the bridle and reins with more attention than necessary, as if he were using the tasks to maintain his distance.

Then he swung onto his own destrier with fluid grace, the powerful muscles of his thighs flexing as he settled into the saddle. Morag found herself watching the confident way he controlled the massive warhorse, remembering the gentleness of those same hands on Storm's neck, and on her own waist moments before.

How can the same man be so tender and be so cold all at once? What will lying in the same bed with ye feel like? Will ye let yer tenderness take control or will yer cold side be in charge?

Morag wondered, noting how his posture had gone rigid again, his jaw set in that familiar hard line.

As they rode out of the castle gates, Morag found herself stealing glances at her husband's profile, wondering what nerve she'd struck with her careless reference to his iron nature. The strong line of his nose, the way his dark hair caught the breeze, the slight furrow between his brows that spoke of deep thought—everything about him seemed designed to fascinate and frustrate her in equal measure.

Just when I think I might be glimpsing the man beneath the laird's mask, he retreats further behind it than ever. But I saw how ye looked at me, Colin Armstrong. Ye're not as immune tae this as ye pretend tae be.

As they made their way toward the village, Morag continued to wonder about her husband. Why did he armor himself so completely? What was he so afraid of letting her see?

When they reached the village, Morag was surprised to see how much work had already been accomplished. Colorful banners hung between the cottages, long wooden tables were being arranged in the square, and the air was filled with the sounds of preparation—hammering, laughter, and the cheerful bustle of a community coming together.

The moment Colin dismounted, he was surrounded by his men, who immediately began updating him on various tasks. Morag watched as he shed his formal distance like a discarded cloak, rolling up his sleeves and moving to help carry heavy benches as if he were any other clansman rather than their laird.

"Me lady!" A warm voice called out, and Morag turned to see a group of women approaching with genuine smiles. The eldest, a silver-haired woman with kind eyes, stepped forward. "I'm Mairi Campbell, and we're all so pleased tae finally meet ye properly." She bowed her head and gave a small curtsy.

"Thank ye," Morag replied, dismounting with care. She felt suddenly self-conscious in her fine riding habit among these women in their practical work dresses.

"We could use another pair of hands with the baking, if ye're willing," said a younger woman with red hair and flour-dusted hands.

"I'd be honored," Morag said, meaning it. After days of careful isolation in the castle, the prospect of genuine human interaction was more appealing than she'd expected.

Mairi beamed and put her hand on the small of her back to guide her. "Come then, let's get ye an apron before ye ruin that lovely dress. The men may think they're organizing this fair, but we all ken it's the women who make it work."

As they walked toward the makeshift outdoor kitchen, Morag found herself swept into easy conversation. These women asked about her family, her journey, her impressions of the area—all with genuine interest rather than the careful politeness she'd grown accustomed to at the castle.

"Our laird's a good man," said Isla MacLeod, Duncan's wife, as she handed Morag a wooden spoon to help stir a massive pot of stew. "Stern, aye, but fair. He's carried heavy burdens for our clan."