Page 44 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

He didn't speak. Didn't explain or apologize or make excuses.

He just kept his hand on her arm and steered her toward the dance floor.

The music was still playing—a reel, fast and lively. Around them, couples were spinning and laughing, their movements energetic and joyful.

The women's skirts swirled in shades of brown and grey and faded blue, the torchlight catching on the movement. Men's faces were red with exertion and ale, but everyone was smiling.

But when Lachlann took his position across from Alba, everything else seemed to fade.

His hand found her waist. Hers settled on his shoulder. And when the dance began, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

They'd danced at the ball out of necessity—to escape Torquil, to maintain appearances. But this was different. It was a choice. They were choosing to be there, together, in front of all those people who would talk and speculate and draw their own conclusions.

And Alba found she didn't care.

Lachlann moved with the same controlled grace she remembered from the ball, his hand steady at her waist as they turned through the steps. But his eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze that made her breath catch.

Intensity. Focus. Like she was the only person in the entire village. Like nothing else mattered but that moment, that dance, that connection between them.

The music swirled around them, fiddle and pipe twining together in perfect harmony.

The drum kept its steady heartbeat rhythm, pulling them forward, keeping them moving. Their feet knew the steps without thought—turn, step, turn again. His hand tightened fractionally when they spun, keeping her steady, keeping her close.

Alba was acutely aware of everything—the warmth of his palm through the fabric of her dress, the way his breath came just slightly faster as they moved, the small scar above his eyebrow that she could see clearly in the torchlight.

The way his thumb brushed against her waist, just once, in a gesture that might have been accidental but felt deliberate.

Around them, the other dancers were clapping and calling out, encouraging them. But Alba barely heard them. All she could focus on was Lachlann—the way he looked at her, the way he held her, the way they moved together like they'd been dancing for years instead of twice.

They didn't speak. There was nothing to say that their bodies weren't already communicating—the slight lean toward each other, the way they anticipated each movement, the perfect synchronization that came from something deeper than just knowing the steps.

The song built to its crescendo, the music faster and more urgent. The fiddle climbed higher, the pipes grew louder, the drum pounded faster. They moved with it, spinning and turning, their hands clasped tight and their eyes locked.

And when the final note rang out and they stopped, breathless and close, Alba realized two things simultaneously.

First, that every person in the village square had stopped what they were doing to watch them.

And second, that she was completely, irrevocably in love with Lachlann MacNeil.

The realization hit her hard. It wasn't a childhood crush or simple attraction. It was something bigger, deeper, more terrifying than anything she'd ever felt.

And from the way Lachlann was looking at her—his grey eyes dark and his hand still at her waist—she thought maybe, just maybe, she wasn't alone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"There's only one bed."

Alba stood in the doorway of the tavern room, staring at the narrow bed that took up most of the small space. The room was barely larger than a closet—just the bed, a small table with a cracked washbasin, and enough floor space for perhaps one person to stand comfortably.

Certainly not enough space for two people to sleep separately with any degree of propriety.

"Aye," Lachlann said from behind her, his voice carefully neutral. "It's all they have. The other rooms are taken by travelers."

Alba turned to look at him. He stood in the hallway, still holding both their saddlebags, his expression unreadable but his posture tense.

"We could ride back tae the castle," she offered, though the thought of another hour on horseback made her want to weep. Her legs were already sore from the day's ride, and exhaustion was pulling at her like a weight.

"Nae in the dark. The roads arenae safe, and the horses are tired." Lachlann's jaw tightened. "I'll sleep on the floor. Ye take the bed."