Page 27 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Ten years. She fell ill one winter and just... never recovered." His jaw tightened. "The healers tried everything, but naething worked."

"I'm sorry." Alba knew how inadequate the words were, but she meant them. "I lost me maither when I was young too. It never really stops hurtin’, daes it?"

"Nay. But it gets easier tae carry." Lachlann looked at her, and something passed between them—a shared understanding of loss, of grief, of the weight of missing someone who'd shaped ye. "Ye learn to hold onto the good memories and let the pain fade a bit."

Alba nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

They finished their meal in that same comfortable near-silence, occasionally exchanging quiet comments about the food or the people around them.

Lachlann pointed out various members of his household, giving her names and brief descriptions that helped the sea of unfamiliar faces feel slightly less overwhelming.

And slowly, Alba felt herself relaxing. The tension in her shoulders eased. Her appetite even returned a bit, and she finished most of the stew.

When the meal finally ended and people began tae disperse, Lachlann stood and offered her his hand. "I'll walk ye back tae yer chamber."

Alba took his hand and let him help her up, very aware of how warm his palm was against hers, how carefully he held her.

They walked through the corridors in silence, their footsteps echoing softly off the stone walls. When they reached her door, Lachlann released it and stepped back.

"Sleep well, Alba," he said quietly. "And if ye need anything, anything at all, just tell Orla. She'll make sure ye get it."

"Thank ye. Fer the stew, especially."

His smile was soft, genuine. "It was naething."

"It wasnae naething," Alba insisted. "It was... it meant a lot. That ye remembered."

For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other. Alba was suddenly very aware of how close he was, of the way the torchlight caught in his grey eyes, of the small scar above his eyebrow that she still wanted to ask about.

"Goodnight, Lachlann," she whispered.

"Goodnight, Alba."

She slipped into her chamber and closed the door, leaning back against it as her heart raced.

Something had shifted that evening. Some small wall between them had crumbled, and Alba wasn't sure whether to be terrified or exhilarated by it.

Both, she decided. Definitely both.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Cannae sleep either?"

Alba nearly dropped the candle she was carrying. She spun around to find Lachlann standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a wry smile on his face and a wine bottle in his hand.

"I—ye startled me," she said, pressing a hand to her racing heart. "I just came down fer some water."

"Water's over there." He nodded toward the barrel in the corner. "But I'm havin’ wine if ye'd prefer somethin’ stronger."

Alba hesitated. She should say no. Should take her water and return to her chamber like a proper lady. But the thought of going back to that room, to lying awake in the dark with only her thoughts for company, made her chest tight.

"Aye," she heard herself say. "Wine sounds good."

Lachlann's eyebrows rose slightly, but he pulled out two cups and poured generous measures of dark red wine. He handed one to Alba and gestured to the rough wooden table where the kitchen staff took their meals.

They settled across from each other, and Alba took a sip of wine. It was stronger than she'd expected, much stronger than what had been served at dinner, and it burned pleasantly down her throat.

"That's... potent," she said, coughing slightly.