Page 65 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"That isnae what I asked."

Alba managed a weak smile. "Daes everyone in this castle feel compelled tae feed me?"

"Only when ye look like a strong wind could blow ye over." Cook crossed her arms. "The laird willnae be pleased if he returns tae find ye've wasted away tae naethin'."

When he returns. Nae if.

"I'll eat later," Alba promised. "After..."

"After he's home safe." Cook's expression softened. "Aye, me lady. I understand."

Alba fled before the pity in the older woman's eyes could undo her completely.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of restless movement. She tried to read but couldn't focus on the words. Tried to sew but pricked her fingers twice in as many minutes. Tried to help in the kitchens but nearly knocked over a pot of stew.

Finally, as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, Alba gave up all pretense of productivity and simply stood at the window of her chamber, watching the road.

Waiting.

The bandage on her palm felt tight and confining. Her hand throbbed dully.

But it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

Please.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

Please come home safe.

The sky turned gold, then amber, then the deep purple of approaching dusk.

And still, the road remained empty.

The arrow came from nowhere.

One moment Lachlann was scanning the treeline, checking for any sign of Torquil's men returning. The next, white-hot pain exploded through his left side.

"Christ—" He jerked in the saddle, his hand flying to the wound. His fingers came away red.

"Me laird!"

Malcolm's shout seemed distant, muffled beneath the roaring in Lachlann's ears.

Arrow. Archer. Find them.

Training took over, pushing past the pain. Lachlann's right hand went to his sword while his left pressed hard against his side, feeling the arrow's shaft protruding from his flesh.

Not deep. Glancing blow, caught him at an angle.

Lucky.

He scanned the rocks to his left, searching for movement. There, a flash of dark fabric behind a boulder.

"There!" Lachlann pointed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Behind the outcroppin’!"

His men moved immediately, spreading out to flank the position. Lachlann dismounted carefully, keeping pressure on the wound. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky, but the flow seemed steady rather than pulsing.

Nae arterial. Good.