Page 42 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

By the time they finished, the sun was well past its peak and Alba's arms ached pleasantly from the work. She'd shed her shawl hours before, and she could feel sweat cooling on her neck despite the autumn chill. Her dress—the green one from the castle—was dusty and streaked with chaff, and her braid had come half undone.

"Thank ye," Eilidh said, beaming at her. "We'd have been here till dark without yer help."

"It was me pleasure," Alba said honestly. "Thank ye fer includin' me."

"Will ye stay fer the meal?" Catriona asked hopefully. "We always share food after the work's done. It's tradition."

Alba glanced around, looking for Lachlann.

"I'm nae sure—" Alba began.

"Please stay," Moira said. "It'd be nice tae have ye. The laird never stays fer our celebrations, but maybe if ye're here..."

Before Alba could answer, tables were being dragged out and set up in the square.

Women appeared with baskets of bread—golden brown loaves still warm from the ovens. Men rolled out barrels of ale, the wood worn smooth from years of use. Children ran about, laughing and playing, while someone tuned a fiddle nearby, the notes bright and cheerful in the cooling air.

The whole village was transforming before her eyes, work giving way to celebration with an ease that spoke of long tradition.

Torches were being lit as the afternoon shadows lengthened, their flames dancing in the breeze. Someone spread a worn but clean cloth over one of the tables, and suddenly platters of cheese appeared, wheels of it in pale yellow and deep orange. Smoked fish, apples from someone's orchard, honey in clay pots.

Alba made her way to where Lachlann stood. He was watching the preparations with something like resignation on his face, his arms crossed over his chest.

"They want us tae stay," she said quietly. "Fer the meal and... apparently there's dancin'?"

"Aye." Lachlann sighed. "They always dae this after the supply work. I usually make me excuses and leave before it starts."

"Oh." Alba felt her disappointment settle heavy in her chest. Of course he'd want to leave. He probably had important laird things to do back at the castle. "Can we stay?"

He hesitated.

Lachlann studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Aye, we can stay."

"Really?"

"We'll stay. Fer a while."

Relief and something warmer flooded through Alba. "Thank ye."

They found seats at one of the long tables, squeezed in between Eilidh's family and an elderly couple who introduced themselves as Hamish and Greer.

Immediately people began pressing food and drink on them. Alba accepted a cup of ale—lighter than the wine Lachlann had given her in the castle kitchen, thank the saints—and a thick slice of bread with cheese.

The bread was still warm, the crust crackling under her fingers. The cheese was sharp and tangy, perfectly complementing the slight sweetness of the bread. Alba suddenly realized how hungry she was and took another bite.

"Eat up, miss," Greer said kindly, pushing a bowl of apples toward her. "Ye worked hard today. Need tae keep yer strength up."

Around them, conversation flowed easily.

Hamish told a story about a sheep that had escaped three times in one week, each time ending up in increasingly improbable locations. The whole table roared with laughter when he got to the part about finding it in the kirk, bleating indignantly from the pulpit.

Children darted between the adults, stealing bits of food and shrieking when they were caught.

It was chaotic and loud and wonderful.

The ale flowed freely, laughter rang out from every table, and the smell of bread and smoke and autumn air filled the square. As the sun sank lower, the torches grew brighter, painting everything in warm, flickering gold.

Alba caught Lachlann watching her at one point, a small smile playing at his lips.