Page 41 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

He moved immediately toward a group of men standing near what looked like a storage shed, his posture shifting from relaxed rider to focused laird in an instant.

Alba dismounted more slowly, taking a moment to steady herself and stroke Shadow's neck. The mare huffed softly, and Alba found herself grateful for the horse's calm presence. Around them, villagers were gathering, their curious stares making her skin prickle with awareness.

She was an outsider here. A stranger on MacNeil lands. And from the whispers she could hear, everyone knew exactly who she was.

"That's the MacKinnon lass."

"Why's she here?"

"… attacked on the road."

"… she's stayin' at the castle."

Alba lifted her chin and ignored them, focusing instead on tying Shadow's reins to the post where Lachlann's men had secured the other horses. She could handle curious stares. She'd been handling them her whole life.

Alba turned and saw a group of women, all around her age or slightly older, setting up the supply distribution for the winter stores at several tables being assembled in the square.

She walked over and addressed them shyly. "Would ye... that is, if ye need... could ye use an extra pair of hands?"

A smile flooded the woman's face. "Oh, bless ye. We would be very grateful fer yer help, me lady. I'm Eilidh. This is Moira and Catriona. "

"Alba." She smiled at them. "What dae ye need me tae dae? Just point me where ye need me."

And just like that, the awkwardness dissolved.

Eilidh led her toward a storehouse where sacks of grain were being brought out and sorted. The building was old stone, cool and dim inside, smelling of wheat and barley and the earthy scent of potatoes stored in barrels.

Alba fell into the work without hesitation, helping to carry the heavy sacks, counting them, recording the amounts in the ledger Eilidh kept. The burlap was rough against her palms, and she could feel the weight of the grain shifting as she hefted each sack.

The work was physical and repetitive, but Alba found it soothing. There was no need for careful words or political maneuvering here. Just honest labor and the easy camaraderie of women working together toward a common goal.

"Ye're stronger than ye look," Moira commented after Alba hefted a particularly heavy sack without complaint. The woman had red hair and laugh lines around her eyes. "Most ladies would be faintin' by now."

"I grew up helpin' with harvest," Alba said, brushing chaff from her sleeves. "Me braither always said I was too stubborn tae admit when somethin' was too heavy fer me."

The women laughed, and Alba felt something in her chest loosen. This was familiar. Comfortable. The kind of work she'd done at home before her father had died, before everything became about propriety and reputation and being the perfect lady.

They moved from grain to wool, sorting fleeces and checking them for quality.

The wool was soft under her fingers, some pure white, others cream or light grey. Catriona showed Alba how to judge the different grades, explaining which would be used for what purposes—the finest for noble garments, the coarser grades for blankets and working clothes.

"The laird's particular about the wool," Catriona explained, her hands moving deftly through a fleece. "Says if we're goin' tae sell it, it needs tae be the best quality. He's nae wrong, we get better prices than most villages."

Alba listened carefully, filing away the information. Around them, more women had joined the work, and the square had become a hive of activity. Children darted between the adults, sometimes helping, more often just getting underfoot. An old man sat on a bench in the sun, mending fishing nets with gnarled but steady hands.

The time passed quickly. Alba lost herself in the rhythm of the work, only vaguely aware that the sun had climbed higher in the sky.

Occasionally she'd catch a glimpse of Lachlann across the square—deep in conversation about things such as boundary stones, examining the construction of a new cottage with a critical eye or settling the grazing dispute with firm but fair words.

Once, their eyes met across the crowded square. Lachlann paused mid-sentence, and for a moment, something passed between them. Then someone asked him a question and his attention shifted away.

"The laird's a good man," Eilidh said quietly, following Alba's gaze. "Fair. Listens when ye speak tae him, even if ye're just a tenant farmer's wife."

"Aye," Moira agreed, shaking out a fleece with practiced movements. "His faither was the same. MacNeils have always taken care of their own."

"Me husband says he's the best laird we've had in three generations," Catriona added. "Kens every family by name, remembers the children's names too. Came himself when our wee one was sick last winter, brought the healer from the castle."

Alba didn't know what to say to that, so she just nodded and returned to sorting wool. But something warm settled in her chest at their words—pride, though she had no right to feel proud of Lachlann.