Page 52 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Better.

He picked up the sword again, testing its weight.

This was good. This was what he needed—physical exertion, something to focus on besides the impossible situation he'd created by bringing Alba there. By wanting her when he had no right.

The blade cut through the air in a perfect arc. His footwork was precise, each step placed exactly where it needed to be.

Thrust. Parry. Turn. Strike.

His father had taught him those forms when he was barely tall enough to hold a real sword.

“Control yer body, control yer mind,” the old laird had said. “A warrior who cannae master himself will never master his enemy.”

But what happened when the enemy was his own heart?

Lachlann moved faster, pushing himself harder.

His muscles flexed and released with each movement, power coiling and striking like a snake. The practice sword became an extension of his arm, moving with lethal precision through combinations that would have left a real opponent bleeding on the ground.

The sounds filled the empty training yard—steel cutting air, his heavy footfalls on packed earth, his controlled breathing as he executed each drill with savage focus. Sweat ran down his bare torso in rivulets, his skin gleaming under the afternoon sun.

But it still wasn't enough to quiet the voice in his head that whispered:

She believes ye. She kens ye mean it.

What was he supposed to do with that?

The answer was nothing. Alba was Calum's sister. Under his protection because of the Covenant. A responsibility. A duty.

Not a woman he wanted so badly it was becoming difficult to breathe around her.

Lachlann's blade struck the dummy hard enough to splinter wood. He froze, staring at the crack he'd created, his chest heaving with exertion and frustration in equal measure.

Time passed as he drilled relentlessly, the sounds of steel and heavy footfalls echoing across the grounds, his body moving with lethal grace even as his mind refused to settle.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Orla, have ye seen me⁠—"

Alba stopped mid-sentence as the maid turned from the window, a knowing smile already spreading across her face.

"Yer what, me lady?"

"Me..." Alba frowned, trying to remember what she'd been looking for. "Me shawl. The blue one."

"Ye're wearin' it."

Alba glanced down at her shoulders where the soft wool rested, exactly where she'd placed it. Heat crept up her neck.

"Oh. Aye. So I am."

Orla's smile widened. "Perhaps ye should take a walk, me lady. Clear yer head a bit."

"Me head is perfectly clear."

"Is it now?" Orla crossed her arms, leaning against the window frame. "Because ye've been pacin' this chamber fer the better part of an hour, pickin' up things and puttin' them down again without seein' them at all."

"I have nae."