Page 64 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Her second week of wanting Lachlann MacNeil with an intensity that terrified her.

Her second week of knowing, with absolute certainty, that she'd never be able to walk away from him.

Alba tugged, heard a soft clink, and watched in horror as a delicate porcelain mug teetered on the edge of the shelf.

She lunged for it.

Too late.

The mug hit the floor with a sharp crack, shattering into a dozen pieces that scattered across the flagstones.

"Nay, nay, nay—" Alba dropped to her knees, reaching for the largest fragment.

She felt a sting on her palm.

She gasped, jerking her hand back. Blood welled from a thin cut across her skin, dripping onto the broken porcelain.

"Perfect," she muttered, pressing her other hand against the wound. "Just perfect."

The door burst open.

"I heard—" Orla stopped short, taking in the scene. "What happened?"

"I was careless." Alba kept pressure on the cut, feeling foolish and frustrated in equal measure. "The mug...I dinnae ken when it fell.”

"It's just a mug, me lady." Orla knelt beside her, gently pulling Alba's hand away to examine the wound. "And this needs cleanin' before it festers. Come on."

"I should clean up the mess."

"I'll handle it." Orla's tone left no room for argument. "Ye're goin' tae the kitchens to wash that properly and let cook wrap it."

Alba wanted to protest. Wanted to insist she was fine, that she could manage on her own, that she didn't need to be fussed over like a child.

But the truth was, she felt very much like a child at that moment. Lost and scared and utterly helpless while the man she⁠—

The man I what?

Alba pressed the thought away as Orla guided her from the solar, down the winding stairs, through corridors that seemed longer than they had that morning. Her hand throbbed in time with her pulse, a steady reminder of her distraction.

The kitchens were warm and bustling with preparations for the evening meal. Cook took one look at Alba's palm and immediately pulled her to the basin, tsking under her breath.

"How'd ye manage this, me lady?"

"Dropped a mug. It shattered."

"And ye tried tae catch the pieces?" Cook shook her head, pouring clean water over the wound.

"I wasnae thinkin'."

"Clearly." But Cook's voice was kind as she patted the cut dry and reached for a clean cloth. "There now. It's nae too deep. Just keep it wrapped for a day or two and it'll heal fine."

Alba watched as the older woman bound her palm with practiced efficiency, the white linen stark against her skin.

"Thank ye."

"Ye're welcome, me lady." Cook tied off the bandage and stepped back. "Now, would ye like somethin' tae eat?"

"I'm nae hungry."