Page 24 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Good," Lachlann said. "Now, about those coastal patrols⁠—"

Movement outside the window caught his eye. He turned his head slightly and saw two figures in the garden—Alba in her green dress, her dark braid gleaming in the afternoon sun, and Orla beside her.

As he watched, Alba bent to examine something—a flower, perhaps—and said something that made Orla laugh. The sound carried through the open window, light and genuine, and Alba smiled in response.

It was the first time Lachlann had seen her smile since before the ball.

Something in his chest tightened.

"Me laird?"

Lachlann blinked and turned back to find the entire Council watching him. "What?"

"Ye were askin’ about the patrol schedule," Duncan repeated, though there was a knowing glint in his eye. "Fer the coastal routes."

"Right. Yes." Lachlann forced his attention back to the table, to the maps spread before them, to the matters that required his focus. "Continue with the current rotation but add an extra watch at the northern point. If Torquil MacLean daes decide tae make trouble, that's the most likely approach."

They discussed patrols and defenses for another quarter hour, but Lachlann's mind kept drifting back to the window, to the garden, to Alba's smile and the way the sunlight had caught in her hair.

Finally, he stood abruptly. "We've covered what's necessary fer today. Unless there's anything urgent that cannae wait?"

The men shook their heads, gathering their papers and rising from their seats.

"Dismissed, then."

They filed out, though James lingered behind. "Goin’ somewhere in particular?" he asked innocently.

"I need tae check that our guest is settlin’ in properly," Lachlann said, already moving toward the door.

"Of course. Very dutiful of ye."

"Shut up, James."

His friend's laughter followed him out into the corridor.

Lachlann made his way down to the gardens, telling himself it was simply courtesy. He was the laird, she was his guest. It was his responsibility to ensure she had everything she needed.

He found them near the herb garden, Orla explaining something about the various plants while Alba listened with obvious interest.

She looked beautiful, the rest and the bath had helped, and the green dress suited her far better than her ruined ball gown had.

But the bruise on her cheek was darker now, and the cut on her throat made his jaw clench every time he saw it.

They both looked up as he approached, and Orla immediately bobbed a curtsy. "Me laird."

"Orla." He nodded to her, then turned to Alba. "Lady MacKinnon. I trust yer accommodations are satisfactory?"

"Aye, they are." Alba's voice was polite, formal. "Very much so. Thank ye fer yer hospitality."

"And Orla has been takin’ good care of ye?"

"She's been wonderful. She was just showin’ me the gardens." Alba gestured to the plants around them. "They're beautiful. Yer maither had excellent taste."

"She did." The mention of his mother sent a familiar pang through his chest, but he kept his expression neutral. "She spent hours out here. Said it was the only place she could think clearly."

"I can understand that." Alba's sea-blue eyes met his, and for a moment, the formality between them eased. "There's something about growin’ things that makes the world feel... steadier."

"Aye." He found himself wanting to tell her about his mother, about the lessons she'd taught him in this very garden, about how he still went there when he needed to think. But they weren't alone, and the words felt too personal, too revealing. "I'm glad ye're findin’ it peaceful."