Page 84 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"'Through storm and strife, through joy and pain,'" Lachlann read softly, "'I'll hold ye close and keep ye near. Fer ye're the light that guides me home, the one I hold most dear.'"

The words felt too close to truth. Too much like a confession he wasn't ready to make, not even to himself.

But sitting there in the candlelight with Alba asleep against his shoulder, Lachlann couldn't deny it anymore.

He cared for her. Deeply. Dangerously.

In a way that went far beyond duty to Calum or the obligations of the Covenant.

"Sleep well, lass," he whispered, closing the book but not moving. "I've got ye. I'll keep ye safe."

Time passed quietly. The candles burned lower. The fire settled into glowing embers.

And Lachlann sat vigil through the night, keeping watch over the woman who'd somehow become more important to him than anything else in the world.

Alba woke slowly, awareness returning in gentle stages.

Warmth. She was warm and comfortable, wrapped in soft blankets that smelled of woodsmoke and something distinctly masculine. Clean. Safe.

She opened her eyes cautiously, half-expecting the movement to bring back yesterday's vicious headache. But while her head still ached dully, it was manageable—more of a persistent throb than the splitting agony she'd experienced.

Morning light filtered through the window, painting everything in shades of pale gold.

Alba turned her head carefully, expecting to find Lachlann still beside her.

But the bed was empty.

Disappointment flickered through her chest before she noticed the folded note on the bedside table, propped against an unlit candle where she couldn't possibly miss it.

She reached for it, her fingers slightly clumsy from sleep, and unfolded the parchment.

Lachlann's handwriting was strong and clear, each letter formed with careful precision:

Alba,

I didnae want tae wake ye, but I have a council meetin' that cannae wait. I must deal with the matter of Thomas and the kidnappers before another day passes.

Ye were restin' so peacefully I couldnae bear tae disturb ye. Morag will check on ye this mornin'.

I ken how much ye love readin', so I thought I'd leave ye somethin' tae occupy yer mind while I'm in Council. It's a tradition in the Highlands. When a man is away from the woman he cares fer, he leaves her a letter. Somethin' tae remind her she's thought of.

I'm startin' this tradition with ye now. Every day I'm away, whether fer Council or patrol or anythin' else, I'll leave ye somethin' tae read. A letter, a poem, a page from a book I think ye'd like.

Because I want ye tae ken that even when I'm nae beside ye, I'm thinkin' of ye.

Rest today. Let yerself heal. And I'll see ye as soon as I can escape from me duties.

Yers,

Lachlann

Alba read the letter twice, then a third time, her fingers tracing the words as though she could feel the warmth of his hand in the ink.

A smile tugged at her lips despite the ache in her head, despite the soreness in her body, despite everything that had happened those past days.

He was thinking of her. Even while dealing with traitors and kidnappers and all the weight of being a laird, he'd taken time to write that letter. To promise her something small but precious.

Alba folded the letter carefully, holding it close to her chest for a moment before setting it gently on the bedside table where she could see it.