Page 17 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

James was quiet for a long moment, and Lachlann could feel his friend's gaze boring into his back. Finally, James sighed. "As ye say, me laird."

The title, formal and distant, made Lachlann wince, but he didn't correct it. Instead, he focused on measuring out herbs for tea, movements precise and controlled despite the tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Chamomile for calm. Valerian root to help her sleep. A touch of mint to settle her stomach in case the rocking of the boat made her ill.

He'd watched his mother prepare this blend countless times when he was young, back when his world had been simpler and the weight of leadership hadn't yet settled on his shoulders. Back before his brother died.

Everything would be fine.

The kettle began to whistle softly, and Lachlann removed it from the heat, pouring the steaming water over the herbs he'd placed in a simple clay cup. The scent rose up, familiar and soothing, and for just a moment, he let himself close his eyes and breathe it in.

"She means something tae ye."

Lachlann's eyes snapped open. "James…"

"I've known ye fer ten years, Lachlann. But I've never seen ye act the way ye did when ye carried her ontae this boat." James's voice was quiet but insistent. "So dinnae stand there and tell me this is just about the Covenant."

"Maybe nae, but what I feel daesnae matter." Lachlann kept his gaze on the tea, watching the herbs steep and swirl in the hot water. "She's Calum's sister. That makes her untouchable."

"Daes Calum ken how ye feel?"

"There's naething tae ken." He picked up the cup carefully, testing the temperature. "Now if ye'll excuse me, I need tae bring this tae her before it gets cold." Lachlann turned back from the ladder. "And James."

"Aye?"

"Dinnae look at me like that."

A pause. Then, "Like what, me laird?"

Lachlann didn't answer.

He carried the tea down the passage.

He knocked.

A short silence. Then her voice. "Aye?"

He opened the door. She was sitting up on the bed with one of the blankets around her shoulders, the food in front of her, a frightened look on her face. He held out the cup, she looked at it, then at him, with an expression he couldn't entirely read.

"It'll help ye sleep," he said.

"Thank ye," she said softly. "Ye didnae have tae."

The gratitude in her voice made his chest tighten. "Aye, I did." His grey eyes held hers, and he let himself look—really look—at her for just a moment. At the way she spoke despite her fear. At the intelligence in her gaze. At the soft curve of her mouth as she spoke. "Ye've been through hell today, Alba. The least I can dae is make sure ye can rest."

The least I can dae is keep ye safe. Keep ye close. Make sure that bastard never gets near ye again.

She took it. Her fingers, which were trembling, brushed his as she did. She was trying to hide her fear, lifting her chin with false bravado.

But he saw it anyway. God, he wanted to protect her.

"Ye're hurt," she said, her gaze fixing on his shoulder.

Lachlann glanced down at the blood staining his shirt where Torquil's dirk had caught him. He'd forgotten about it entirely. "It's naething."

She was quiet for a moment, something shifting in her expression that he couldn't quite read. Then: "Ye should tend tae yer shoulder. That wound needs cleanin'."

"I will. After I make sure ye're settled." He stepped back deliberately, putting proper distance between them in the narrow passage. Because standing that close to her, seeing the way the lamplight played across her features, noticing how her lips parted slightly when she was thinking⁠—