Page 68 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Alba's voice came out sharp, cutting through the murmur of voices in the courtyard. She didn't care. The moment she'd heard the commotion, seen the guards rushing toward the gates, she’d felt her stomach drop with a certainty that something was wrong⁠—

She'd run.

And now she stood in the doorway of the healer’s chamber, her heart hammering so hard she could barely breathe, watching James support Lachlann's weight as blood—so much blood—soaked through his shirt.

"Alba," Lachlann straightened immediately, or tried to. His face went white with the effort. "I'm fine, lass. Just a⁠—"

"Dinnae." The word came out fierce. "Dinnae ye dare tell me ye're fine when ye're bleedin' all over the place."

She was across the space before anyone could stop her, her hands hovering over his side, afraid to touch but unable to stay away.

"It's nae as bad as it looks," Lachlann said, his voice strained but steady. "The arrow barely⁠—"

“"That's fer me tae determine, nae ye." Morag, the healer said watching them both as she emerged from the storeroom, her arms full of clean linens.

"Arrow?" Alba's gaze snapped to his face. "Someone shot ye?"

"Aye."

"And ye're standin' here arguin' with me instead of lettin' the healer tend tae it?" Her voice rose. "What if ye had passed out."

"Wouldnae want that," Lachlann managed, though his breathing had gone shallow. "Told ye... I'd come back... safe."

"Ye call this safe?" But her throat was tight, her eyes burning. "Ye're a terrible liar, Lachlann MacNeil."

The healer took one look at Lachlann and immediately dropped the linens she’s been holding on a nearby table. "Get him on the bed. Carefully now."

James and Alba maneuvered Lachlann onto the narrow cot. He hissed in pain as his side made contact with the mattress, his hand automatically going to the wound.

"Let me see." Morag was already pulling his hand away, her weathered fingers surprisingly gentle as she examined the injury. "Arrow wound, aye?"

"Glancin' blow," Lachlann said through gritted teeth. "Didnae go deep."

Morag turned to Alba. "I'll need ye tae step outside, me lady."

"I'm stayin'."

"Me lady, it's nae proper."

"I. Am. Stayin'." Alba moved to Lachlann's other side, reaching for his hand. "He got hurt protectin' this castle. Protectin' me. The least I can dae is stay with him while ye tend the wound."

Morag looked to James, who just shrugged.

"She's as stubborn as he is," James said. "Ye'll have better luck convincin' the tide nae tae come in."

"Fine." Morag turned back to Lachlann, already reaching for shears to cut away his bloody shirt. "But dinnae faint on me, lass. I've enough tae deal with, without two patients."

"I willnae faint."

"Famous last words," Morag muttered, but she was already focused on exposing the wound.

Alba forced herself to look. Forced herself not to flinch at the angry red gash carved into Lachlann's side, the blood still seeping steadily from torn flesh.

"It's nae too deep," Morag said, echoing Lachlann's earlier assessment. "Ye were lucky, me laird. A few inches tae the right and it would have caught yer ribs."

"Told ye," Lachlann said, his fingers tightening around Alba's. "I'm fine."

"Ye will be," Morag corrected, reaching for a clean cloth. "Once I clean this properly and stitch it closed. Which is goin' tae hurt considerably, so I suggest ye bite down on somethin'."