Page 25 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

An awkward silence fell. Orla glanced between them, clearly sensing the tension but uncertain what to do about it.

"I should nae keep ye from yer duties," Alba said finally, straightening slightly. "I'm sure ye have more important matters tae attend tae than garden tours."

The dismissal stung, though he knew she was right. "I'll see ye at dinner, then. In the great hall. Orla can show ye the way."

"Of course. Thank ye, Laird MacNeil."

Back to formality. Back to proper distance.

Lachlann nodded to them both and turned away, telling himself it was better this way. Safer. Less complicated.

But as he walked back toward the castle, he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder once. Alba had already turned back to the herbs, listening to something Orla was saying, but the stiffness in her shoulders hadn't eased.

He'd made her uncomfortable. And that was probably for the best, even if it felt like shite.

Alba had been dreading the dinner from the moment Lachlann mentioned it.

A formal meal in the great hall, surrounded by Lachlann's clan, all of them curious about the mysterious MacKinnon lady who'd appeared on their laird's boat.

She'd spent the afternoon trying to prepare herself, choosing her words carefully, rehearsing polite responses to questions she anticipated.

But when Orla led her into the great hall that evening, Alba realized no amount of preparation could have readied her for it.

The hall was massive with a vaulted ceiling supported by thick oak beams. Torches lined the walls, their flickering light dancing across tapestries that depicted what she assumed were scenes from MacNeil history. Long tables filled the space, already crowded with clan members eating and talking and laughing.

Every eye in the room turned to her as she entered.

Alba lifted her chin and forced herself to walk steadily beside Orla, very aware of the whispers that followed in her wake. She caught fragments of conversation⁠—

"… MacKinnon lass."

"What happened…"

"… Bruise on her face, did ye see?"

Orla led her to the high table, where Lachlann sat with what appeared to be his senior household members. He stood as she approached, and the rest of the table followed suit.

"Lady MacKinnon," he said formally. "Welcome. Please, sit."

He gestured to the seat beside him, and Alba's stomach dropped. Of course he'd seat her there—she was a visiting lady, entitled to a place of honor. But it meant everyone in the hall would be watching them, speculating about why Calum MacKinnon's sister was dining at Lachlann MacNeil's right.

She sat carefully, smoothing her skirts, and tried to ignore the weight of all those curious stares.

The meal began, and Alba focused on her plate, grateful for something to do with her hands.

The food was good—fresh bread, roasted meat, vegetables that had clearly come from the garden she'd visited earlier. But her appetite was minimal, her stomach still tight with nerves.

"Ye should eat more than that, lass," a voice said from her other side.

Alba turned to find an older woman watching her with shrewd but kind eyes. "I'm afraid I'm nae very hungry, miss...?"

"Morag. I run the kitchens." The woman smiled. "And I ken ye've had a difficult few days. But ye need tae keep yer strength up."

"I'll try," Alba promised, taking a small bite of bread to prove her intention.

Around them, conversation flowed—talk of the day's work, plans for the following one, the usual rhythm of clan life. Alba listened without really hearing, too focused on maintaining her composure.

Then a server appeared at Lachlann's elbow, murmuring something too low for Alba to hear. Lachlann nodded and gestured toward the kitchens.