Page 100 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

But footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and reality intruded.

Lachlann stepped back, his hand falling away. "I should go. James will have me head if I make them wait any longer."

"Of course." Alba clutched the scroll tighter, using it as armor against the sudden awkwardness. "I'll just... continue readin' then."

He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "Tomorrow, lass. I promise."

Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Alba stood alone in the library, the scroll still pressed to her chest, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Tomorrow.

She moved to the window seat and settled in, carefully unrolling the scroll. The parchment was old but well-preserved, the ink still dark against the aged surface.

In the year of our Lord 1495, during the season when heather blooms purple across the highland hills, a great battle was waged at Loch Eilein...

Alba read slowly, tracing the words with her finger, imagining Lachlann as a boy listening to his father read those same passages. Imagining him memorizing them, carrying them with him into adulthood.

She smiled despite the lingering flutter in her chest from their encounter.

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

"The king? Ye're certain?"

Lachlann's voice cut through the tense atmosphere in the council chamber. He sat at the head of the long table, his hands flat on the polished wood, staring at James with an intensity that made the other man shift slightly.

"Aye." James pushed a letter across the table. "Our contact in Edinburgh sent word this mornin'. Torquil's filed a formal petition with the Crown, claimin' Alba as his betrothed and demandin' her return."

Lachlann snatched up the letter, his eyes scanning the contents rapidly. With each line, his jaw grew tighter.

"This is shite," he said finally, throwing the letter down. "Complete and utter shite. There was never a betrothal. Calum would never."

"We ken that," Someone said from the seat near the window. "But the king daesnae. And Torquil's been clever about it, he's framin' it as a matter of honor and contract law rather than an attempted kidnappin’."

"Because that's what it is." Another council member leaned forward, his scarred hands clasped on the table. "A calculated political move. He kens if he can get the king on his side, we're forced tae either surrender Alba or openly defy royal authority."

Lachlann's hands curled into fists. "I'll be damned before I hand her over tae that bastard."

"Which is exactly the response Torquil's hopin' fer," James said quietly. "He's settin' a trap, Lachlann. Makin' ye choose between Alba and the stability of the Highlands."

"There's nay choice." Lachlann's voice was flat. "She stays here. Under me protection."

"We're nae sayin' we disagree," Malcolm said carefully. "But ye need tae understand what ye're committin' tae. If the king sides with Torquil—and he might, given the way it's been presented—ye'll be in direct violation of royal decree."

"Then I'll be in violation." Lachlann stood abruptly, the chair scraping against stone. "I willnae hand Alba over tae be forced into a marriage she daesnae want. I dinnae care what the king says."

"Even if it means war?" James asked.

"Even then."

Silence fell over the council chamber.

Finally, one of the council member spoke. "Under the Covenant, if any of ye are threatened, ye all stand taegether. That's what was sworn. What we've always sworn."

"Aye," Malcolm agreed. "Which means if Torquil comes for Alba—if the king sides with him—he's nae just facin' Clan MacNeil. He's facin' all of us. All the convent braithers too."

Warmth bloomed in Lachlann's chest despite the gravity of the situation. "Ye'd dae that?"