Page 46 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Are ye hurt?" Lachlann asked, his voice strained. "Did ye hit yer head?"

"Nay, I rolled off the bed." Alba tried again to push herself up, but her knee slipped on his cloak and she fell forward, her face ending up inches from his.

They both froze.

In the darkness, Alba could just make out the outline of his features—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes had gone wide. His breath was warm against her lips, coming faster now.

"This is..." Alba started, then stopped. Because what was it? Ridiculous? Mortifying? Dangerous?

A surprised laugh bubbled up from her chest, breaking the tension. "I'm sorry. I didnae—I didnae mean tae fall on ye like a sack of grain."

Lachlann's mouth twitched. "Ye're slightly lighter than a sack of grain. Slightly."

"How gallant."

"I'm a paragon of chivalry, clearly." But he was smiling now, she could hear it in his voice. "Are ye planning tae sleep here, or should I help ye back up?"

Alba knew she should move. Should scramble back onto the bed and put proper distance between them. But she was so warm, and he was so solid beneath her, and the way his hands were still resting on her waist made her feel safe in a way she couldn't explain.

Lachlann's hands tightened on her waist.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that she could see his eyes now, dark and intense and fixed on her face with an expression that made her pulse race.

"Alba," he said, and it sounded like a warning and a plea all at once.

She leaned closer. Just a fraction. Just enough that their noses nearly touched.

Lachlann's breath hitched. One of his hands moved from her waist to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading through her loosened braid. His thumb brushed against her cheek, gentle and reverent and⁠—

The reality of what they were about to do crashed over Alba like cold water.

She pushed herself upright abruptly, scrambling away from him and back onto the bed with none of her earlier grace. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didnae mean—that was⁠—"

"It's fine." Lachlann's voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the strain beneath it. "Ye just surprised me, that's all."

Alba pulled the blanket up to her chin like it could protect her from the feelings rioting through her body. From the want that was still thrumming in her veins. From the knowledge that if she hadn't pulled away, if she'd let that moment continue...

"Goodnight, Lachlann," she managed.

"Goodnight, Alba."

She turned to face the wall, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to calm her racing heart.

Behind her, she heard Lachlann shift on his cloak, settling back down. But she knew, somehow, that he wasn't sleeping any more than she was.

They lay there in the darkness, separated by inches and propriety and all the reasons why what had almost happened could never, ever happen.

No matter how much Alba wished it could.

The ride back to the castle the next morning was quiet. They reached just as the sun climbed to its peak.

Lachlann dismounted and moved to help Alba down, but she'd already slid from Shadow's back on her own. Their eyes met briefly, and Lachlann saw his own confusion and want reflected back at him before she looked away.

"I'll... I'll see ye at dinner," Alba said, her voice carefully neutral.

"Aye. At dinner."