Page 110 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"I'm sure he was." Orla squeezed her hands. "Me lady, this is splendid, ye deserve this. Ye deserve tae be loved like that. Properly, openly, without apology."

"It's nae simple," Alba said, her smile softening to something more complicated. "Calum might refuse. Torquil is still out there."

"Torquil." Orla's expression shifted.

Something in her tone made Alba go still. "What about him?"

"I should have told ye earlier, but I didnae want tae spoil yer day." Orla glanced toward the kennels door, as though checking they were truly alone. "There are rumors, me lady. Among the servants and the guards. Word came in with the supply boat this mornin'."

"What kind of rumors?"

Orla leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. "That Torquil has written tae the king. Formally. Claimin' ye as his betrothed and demandin' Lachlann return ye."

The warmth drained from Alba's face.

"And more than that." Orla hesitated. "They say the king may be inclined tae listen. That Torquil's been generous with his donations tae the Crown lately. Very generous."

Alba's hand stilled over Storm's head where she'd been absently stroking his fur. "The king."

"Aye." Orla's eyes were worried. "Me lady, what if the king sides with Torquil, if he orders Lachlann tae hand ye over?"

"Then Lachlann would be in direct violation of royal command if he refuses." Alba's voice came out remarkably steady given that her heart was hammering. "Which is exactly what Torquil wants. He's nae just comin' after me, he's tryin' tae make an enemy of Lachlann and the Crown at the same time."

Orla nodded, her earlier joy entirely replaced by concern.

Alba took a slow breath, her fingers resuming their movement through Storm's fur. The dog pressed closer, solid and warm and unbothered by politics.

He asked ye tae marry him. He loves ye. And Torquil wants tae tear all of it apart before it's even begun.

"Who told ye this?" Alba asked.

"Cook heard it from the supply master, who heard it from a merchant in from the mainland." Orla twisted her hands together. "It may be just rumor. But it felt true."

Alba said quietly. "It feels true."

She looked down at Storm, at his patient grey face and steady brown eyes. Then she bent and picked up the empty bowls, straightening her spine and smoothing her expression into something calm and deliberate.

"Ye were right tae tell me," she said. "Lachlann needs tae ken if he daesnae already."

"And if he daes ken?"

Alba glanced toward the castle walls, toward the window she knew led to his study, probably already lit by candlelight even in the late afternoon, probably already strewn with maps and letters and strategic calculations.

"Then he's already plannin'," she said. "That's what he daes."

"And ye? What dae ye dae?"

Alba wiped her hands on her apron, brushing away sand and dog hair and the last traces of their hidden beach afternoon.

"I trust him," she said simply.

But even as the words left her mouth, worry settled cold and quiet around her heart, patient and persistent, the way storms gathered on the horizon long before anyone felt the rain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Why didnae ye tell me?"

Alba didn’t wait for him to rise. She was already standing in the middle of his solar, arms crossed, the door still swinging on its hinges behind her, and her eyes were the kind of sharp that cut before the words even landed.