Page 12 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"This isnae over," Torquil hissed, spittle flying from his lips. "She's mine. The king will hear of this, I'll make sure of it. I'll tell him ye attacked me without provocation, that ye stole the woman I was courtin'."

"Run," Lachlann said softly, his voice deadly calm. "Run now, while ye still can. Because if ye're still standin' here when I count tae three again, I will gut ye where ye stand and damn the consequences. I dinnae bluff."

Torquil's eyes darted between Lachlann's face and the sword point, seeing the absolute truth of the threat.

"One."

Torquil backed toward his horse, his good hand reaching for the reins.

"Two."

He mounted clumsily, his broken wrist hanging useless at his side, his face twisted with pain and humiliation.

"This isnae over, MacNeil!" he shouted, wheeling his horse around. "The king will⁠—"

"Three."

Lachlann took a single step forward, and Torquil spurred his horse into a gallop, crashing through the trees toward the road.

His remaining men—those who could still move—scrambled after him, dragging their wounded with them, the sounds of their retreat echoing through the night.

Lachlann stood perfectly still until the hoofbeats faded completely into the distance. Only then did he lower his sword and turn to Alba, his hands immediately moving to her face, her shoulders, checking for injuries.

CHAPTER FOUR

He kept moving even after the last of Torquil's men had gone.

That was the thing about a fight, the body didn't understand it was over. His blood was still up, his sword still in his hand, his eyes still cutting through the treeline for movement that was no longer there.

The clearing had gone quiet except for the creak of the overturned carriage and the distant fading of hoofbeats, and Lachlann stood in the middle of it and made himself breathe.

Then he turned to Alba.

She was on her feet, which was the first thing he checked. Standing, upright, her hands pressed flat against her sides as though she needed somewhere to put them.

Her dress was torn at the shoulder, her hair had come half-loose, and at her throat — he crossed to her in four strides and caught her face in his hands, tilting her chin up toward what little moonlight there was.

The cut was shallow. Barely more than a graze.

It had bled the way throat cuts did, more dramatically than the wound deserved, and he exhaled slowly through his nose and made himself look at it properly rather than react to it.

"Are ye hurt anywhere else?" His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Alba. Look at me."

Her eyes found his.

She was shaking. A fine, barely-visible tremor running through her, the kind that came after, when the body finally understood what the mind had been too busy to process.

"I'm fine," she said. Her voice was a whisper.

"Yer throat, ye’re hurt."

" I ken. It's nae deep." She swallowed, winced slightly. "Finn and Dougal, they were killed."

"I ken." He lowered his hands from her face slowly.

His jaw was tight. He'd seen the fallen men when he'd ridden in, had taken it in with the cold accounting of someone mid-fight, and filed it away for later.

Later was now, and it sat badly. "I should have followed sooner. The man that brought me me horse told me Torquil was watchin' ye leave, told me he had a look on his face. I should have trusted me gut from the start."