Page 20 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

And for the first time since leaving the ball, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER SIX

The first light of dawn was breaking over the horizon when Lachlann felt the subtle shift in the boat's movement that told him they were approaching land. He'd been on deck, unable to sleep since Alba's early morning visit to complain about his snoring.

The memory made him smile despite his exhaustion. The outrage on her face. The way she'd frozen when she'd seen him shirtless, her eyes going wide before she'd collected herself. The flush that had stained her cheeks even in the dim lamplight.

Like a dying beast, she'd said.

James appeared at his elbow, looking as tired as Lachlann felt. "We'll be dockin’ within the hour."

"Good." Lachlann scanned the approaching coastline, picking out familiar landmarks in the growing light. "Have the men prepare to disembark. And make sure everything's ready at the castle, I want Lady MacKinnon settled as quickly as possible."

"Aye." James paused. "Ye should wake her. Give her time to prepare herself before we arrive."

Lachlann nodded. He made his way below deck, moving quietly through the narrow passages. The boat was starting to come alive around him, crew members emerging from their bunks, the sounds of morning preparations beginning.

He knocked softly on Alba's door. "Alba? We're approachin’ Barra. We'll be dockin’ soon."

There was a moment of silence, then he heard movement inside. "I'll be ready," her voice came through the door, still rough with sleep.

"Take yer time. I'll wait fer ye on deck."

He returned topside, watching as the port grew larger before them. Barra. Home.

The castle stood on the cliffs above the harbor, its grey stone walls gleaming in the morning sun. He'd been born in that castle, had learned to fight in its yards, to sail from its harbor. Had held his dying brother in its courtyard.

And now he was bringing Alba MacKinnon there, under circumstances that would require careful explanation to everyone, especially his Council.

The boat slid smoothly into the dock and his men immediately began securing lines and preparing the gangplank. Lachlann stood at the rail, very aware that half the port was watching their arrival with undisguised curiosity.

Word would spread quickly. He'd left for a simple masquerade ball and returned with Calum MacKinnon's sister. The speculation would be rampant.

Behind him, he heard soft footsteps. He turned to find Alba emerging from below deck, and his breath caught despite himself.

She'd cleaned up as best she could with the limited resources available, but her dress was still torn and stained, her hair falling loose from its braid. There was a bruise forming on her cheekbone that he hadn't noticed last night, and the cut on her throat stood out starkly against her pale skin.

She looked exhausted and battered and absolutely beautiful.

"Ready?" he asked quietly.

Alba's sea-blue eyes met his, and he saw uncertainty there alongside determination. "Aye. As I'll ever be."

He offered her his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, she took it. Together they walked down the gangplank, Alba's grip tightening on his arm as she took in the watching faces, the unfamiliar port, the castle looming above.

"It's all right," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "Ye're safe here."

A carriage waited at the end of the dock, and Lachlann helped Alba inside before climbing in beside her. The ride up to the castle was short but steep, the road winding up the cliff face in a series of sharp turns.

Alba sat rigidly beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but he kept his hands to himself. He'd already crossed enough lines bringing her there. He couldn't afford to cross more.

The castle gates opened as they approached, and servants hurried forward to greet them. Lachlann climbed out first, then turned to help Alba down.

"Welcome to Castle MacNeil," he said formally, aware of all the watching eyes. "Me home."

Alba nodded, her expression carefully neutral. "Thank ye fer yer hospitality, Laird MacNeil."

The formality hurt more than it should have. But it was necessary. Proper. What the situation demanded.