Page 4 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

1520, Ball at Dunstaffnage Castle

"Another glass of wine, me lady?"

Alba MacKinnon glanced up at the servant hovering at her elbow, his silver tray gleaming in the torchlight. She shook her head, offering a polite smile beneath her delicate mask. "Nay, thank ye."

The servant bowed and moved away, leaving Alba alone once more at the edge of Dunstaffnage Castle's grand ballroom.

Around her, the masquerade swirled in a riot of color and sound—silk gowns in jewel tones, masks adorned with feathers and gold thread, the rich notes of fiddles and pipes blending with laughter and conversation.

It was beautiful. Intoxicating, even. A rare gathering where Highland clans came together for diplomacy and celebration rather than rivalry.

Alba was looking around, taking in everything, when she saw Lachlann Macneil and she just couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He stood across the room, near the massive stone hearth, speaking with Laird MacDonald and another man she didn't recognize. Even with half his face concealed by a simple black mask, surrounded by other warriors and lairds, Lachlann commanded attention.

His broad shoulders filled out his formal doublet, and when he moved, it was with the ease and authority of a man born to lead—someone equally comfortable on a longship's deck or a battlefield.

Alba's fingers tightened around her wine goblet as she watched him laugh at something David, one of the covenant brothers, said. The sound carried across the room, rich and warm, and she felt it settle somewhere low in her belly.

She shouldn't have been watchin' him like that. Shouldn't let her gaze linger on the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair was tied back but had a few rebellious strands escapin' to frame his face. Shouldn't wonder what it would feel like if those storm-grey eyes turned her way with something other than brotherly affection.

But Alba had been fighting that pull toward Lachlann MacNeil for years now, and it only seemed to grow stronger with time.

Why on earth does he have tae be me braither’s best friend.

"Lady MacKinnon, what a vision ye are this evenin'!"

Alba turned to find Lady Moira Campbell approaching, her round face flushed with excitement and wine. The older woman's mask was decorated with peacock feathers that bobbed enthusiastically as she spoke.

"Lady Campbell," Alba greeted, grateful for the distraction from her dangerous thoughts. "Ye look lovely as well."

"Oh, this old thing?" Moira waved a dismissive hand at her emerald gown, though her pleased smile suggested she was quite satisfied with her appearance. "Tell me, dear, are ye enjoyin' the festivities? I saw ye sittin' here alone and thought ye might want some company."

Just wanted tae be alone tae admire Lachlan.

"That's kind of ye. Aye, it's a beautiful celebration."

"Beautiful indeed! Though I must say—" Moira leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to what she likely thought was a whisper but was still quite audible, "—I've never seen so many eligible young men in one place. Surely ye've noticed? Half the unmarried lairds in the Highlands are here taenight."

Alba forced her smile to remain pleasant. "I hadnae given it much thought."

"Hadn't ye?" Moira's eyebrows rose above her mask. "A bonnie lass like yerself? Come now, ye must have caught the eye of more than a few."

"I'm here tae represent me clan, Lady Campbell, nae tae find a husband."

"Nonsense! Ye can dae both." Moira's gaze swept the room appraisingly. "Now, let me see... Young Laird Fraser over there has been watchin' ye. And I believe MacGordon is still unwed, though he's a bit sour fer me taste..."

Alba's pleasant expression faltered. "I'm nae lookin' fer a match taenight, me lady."

"Every woman is lookin' fer a match, dear, whether she admits it or nae." Moira patted her arm with maternal condescension. "Mark me words, by the end of the season, half the lasses here will be betrothed. Ye'd dae well tae consider yer options while ye have them."

Before Alba could formulate a response that wouldn't be outright rude, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of young men had started some sort of drinking competition, their raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls.

"Goodness!" Moira pressed a hand to her ample chest. "Young men these days have nay sense of decorum. If ye'll excuse me, dear, I should go find me husband before he joins them."

She swept away in a flutter of peacock feathers, leaving Alba alone once more.

Alba took a sip of wine and let her gaze drift back across the room, only to find Lachlann looking directly at her.