Page 45 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Lachlann—"

"It's nae up fer discussion, Alba." He moved past her into the room, setting the saddlebags down. "Ye've had a long day. Ye need proper rest. Me men dinnae ken we are sharin’, dinnae fash."

Alba wanted to argue, but the truth was she was too tired to fight. The work in the village, the dancing, the constant awareness of Lachlann's presence—all of it had left her drained in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

"At least take a blanket," she said finally. "The floor will be cold."

"I've slept on worse." But he pulled his heavy traveling cloak from his saddlebag and spread it on the floor beside the bed. The space was so narrow that when he lay down, his shoulder would nearly touch the bed frame.

They prepared for sleep in awkward silence. Alba turned her back while Lachlann removed his boots and sword belt. She could hear the rustle of fabric as he settled onto his cloak, the quiet creak of the floorboards.

"Ye can turn around now," he said, amusement coloring his tone. "I'm perfectly decent."

Alba turned to find him lying on his side, his head pillowed on his folded doublet, watching her with those steady grey eyes.

He'd removed his outer layers but kept his shirt and trousers on, and even in the dim light from the single candle, she could see the lean muscle of his shoulders.

She looked away quickly, focusing on removing her own boots. The bed was just wide enough for one person, the mattress thin but clean. She climbed onto it carefully, very aware that Lachlann was right there, close enough to touch if she reached down.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Aye." Alba pulled the blanket up to her chin, trying to ignore how strange this was. How intimate. They were alone in a room together, in the dark, with only inches separating them.

If anyone found out, her reputation would be destroyed. But somehow, she couldn't bring herself to care as much as she should.

"Now get some sleep. We've got a long ride tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Lachlann."

"Goodnight, lass."

Alba lay very still, listening to his breathing slow and deepen.

The candle guttered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. Outside, she could hear the muffled sounds of the tavern below—laughter, conversation, the clink of cups.

But in their small room, there was only silence and the warmth of Lachlann's presence so close beside her.

She told herself to sleep. To close her eyes and let exhaustion claim her.

But her mind wouldn't settle. It kept replaying the dance—the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd held her, the way the entire village had watched them move together like they were made for it.

The way she'd realized, with crystal clarity, that she loved him.

What was she supposed to do with that? How was she supposed to pretend she didn't feel it, when every moment in his presence made it harder to breathe?

Time passed.

Alba shifted restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position on the narrow mattress. The bed was pushed against the wall, and she'd instinctively moved toward it, away from the edge.

Alba woke with a gasp as she pitched sideways off the bed.

For a heart-stopping moment, she was falling, her arms flailing for purchase. Then she landed on something solid and warm, and everything became a tangle of limbs and muffled curses.

"Christ—" Lachlann's voice, rough with sleep and surprise. "Alba, what⁠—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Alba babbled, trying to push herself up. But the floor space was so narrow and Lachlann was right there, and every time she tried to move, she just seemed to press closer against him.

His chest was warm beneath her palms. She could feel his heart racing, matching the frantic rhythm of her own. His hands had gone up automatically to steady her, gripping her waist, and the heat of his touch burned through the thin fabric of her shift.