Page 51 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Alba pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing her eyes and taking a long, steadying breath.

She was in so much trouble.

Lachlann hit the training dummy so hard the wooden post shuddered.

"Christ," he muttered, stepping back and rolling his shoulders. Sweat dripped down his temple despite the cool autumn air. "What the hell were ye thinkin'?"

The dummy didn't answer, which was probably for the best.

He'd walked in on Alba. While she was bathing. Naked in a tub, all soft skin and wet hair and those wide, shocked eyes looking at him like⁠—

Lachlann swung again, the impact jarring up his arm. The solid thunk of wood on wood echoed across the empty training grounds.

He'd turned around.

Of course he'd turned around. What kind of gentleman would he be if he hadn't? But for that one second—that single, frozen heartbeat before his brain had caught up with what he was seeing—he'd looked.

And he was going to be seeing that image behind his eyelids for the rest of his damned life.

"Ye're an idiot," he told himself, adjusting his grip on the practice sword. "A complete and utter⁠—"

I appreciate the honesty. I believe ye now.

Her voice, soft and sincere, cut through his self-recrimination. The way she'd said it, like his words mattered. Like they meant something to her.

Like maybe he meant something to her.

Lachlann moved through a series of strikes, letting his body take over while his mind churned.

Thrust, parry, swing. Again. Faster.

The movements were automatic after years of training, muscle memory guiding him through combinations he could execute in his sleep.

But they weren't enough to quiet his thoughts.

He'd told her the truth. That he didn't want to be far from her. And she'd told him to be careful what he said, to make sure he meant it.

As if there was any question.

As if he hadn't been fighting this pull toward Alba MacKinnon, knowing it was forbidden, knowing Calum would never approve, knowing it could destroy the brotherhood that had been forged in blood and trauma at Loch Eilein.

The practice sword whistled through the air.

Lachlann's muscles burned, his breath coming harder now as he increased the speed and intensity of his movements. Sweat soaked through his shirt, making the fabric cling to his chest and back.

Good. Tire yerself out. Stop thinkin' about her.

Except he couldn't stop thinking about her.

About the way she'd looked at him when he'd rescued her from Torquil—relief and fear and something else he hadn't dared name. About the way she'd smiled at Captain, bright and genuine and unguarded. About the way she'd danced with him in the village, her body moving in perfect rhythm with his like they'd been partners for years instead of twice.

About the flash of skin he'd seen before he'd turned away. The curve of her shoulder. The way her dark hair had clung to⁠—

"Enough," Lachlann growled, attacking the dummy with renewed ferocity.

The sun beat down on his shoulders, hot despite the season. He'd shed his doublet sometime in the last quarter hour, working now in just his shirt and trousers. But even that felt like too much, the linen sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

Lachlann set down the practice sword and pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, tossing it onto the bench beside the training ground. The cool air hit his bare chest and he exhaled roughly, rolling his shoulders back.