Page 53 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Ye picked up the same book three times."

Alba pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to defend herself further. It would only prove Orla's point.

"Fine," she said instead. "Perhaps a walk would dae me good."

"Perhaps it would." Orla's eyes sparkled with mischief. "The gardens are lovely this time of day. Or the kitchens, if ye're hungry."

"Thank ye, Orla."

Alba swept from the chamber before the maid could finish whatever teasing suggestion she'd been about to make. The corridor outside stretched long and empty, afternoon light slanting through the narrow windows that overlooked the training grounds.

She'd meant to turn toward the gardens. She really had.

But her feet carried her past the turn, toward those windows instead, drawn by something she couldn't name, or wouldn't.

This is foolish, Ye shouldnae be⁠—

The sound reached her first. Steel cutting through air. The solid thunk of impact. Heavy breathing.

Alba's pulse quickened.

She told herself to keep walking. To turn around. To go anywhere else.

Instead, she moved closer to the window.

The opening was narrow, barely wide enough to see through clearly, but it offered a perfect view of the training yard below. And there, in the center of that yard, was Lachlann.

Alba's breath caught.

He'd shed his shirt.

Sweat gleamed across his bare chest and shoulders as he moved through sword forms with lethal precision. Each strike flowed into the next—thrust, parry, turn, swing—his body a study in controlled power. Muscles flexed and released beneath sun-bronzed skin. Dark hair had come loose from its tie, strands clinging to his neck and temple.

Heat bloomed in Alba's cheeks, spreading down her throat and across her chest.

She should look away. She couldn't look away.

Lachlann's blade cut through the air in a perfect arc before slamming into the practice dummy hard enough to splinter wood. The impact reverberated across the yard. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, and for one brief moment his eyes lifted⁠—

Directly toward her window.

Alba stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth.

Did he see me?

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed her back against the cool stone wall of the corridor, hidden from view but unable to move further. Heat pulsed through her entire body—feverish, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

Below, she heard the practice sword clatter against something. Footsteps on stone.

Oh God.

Alba forced herself to breathe, to think, to⁠—

"Were ye lookin' fer somethin', lass?"

She jumped, spinning to find James standing a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes far too knowing. He was covered in mud and looked tired.

"I—" Alba smoothed her skirts, lifting her chin. "I was simply takin' a walk. As Orla suggested."