Page 27

“Yer opinion is yer own, and Alisdair has let ye speak yer mind before he made his decision. Now, ye need to respect it, as his braither and his clansman.”

Ewan lifted his head and shot his brother one last look. Alisdair could tell that he was not convinced, only backing down out of duty and honor.

“Ye will regret this,” Ewan warned, before leaving the room.

Alisdair watched him walk out the door, his body still tense.

“Alisdair,” Duncan began.

“Daenae,” Alisdair grunted, and sat back down in his chair.

“These are for Isla,” Lady Moira insisted.

It was later that afternoon, the whole castle still bustling with preparations, and he had spent most of it hiding in his study. But his aunt had never been subtle.

“Then take them to her,” he said, looking at the wooden box.

He barely glanced at the box’s contents. He already knew what was inside—the family heirlooms.

“Ye barely speak to her,” Lady Moira protested. “The least ye can do is to give her the brooch and the jewels for the weddin’ yerself.”

“What does that have to do with anything’, Auntie?”

“Follow the custom, Alisdair MacLeod, or I swear to God⁠—”

“Enough, Auntie.” Alisdair exhaled.

He closed the wooden box and picked it up, then strode out of his study toward the Lady’s quarters, his legs eating up the distance so fast that everyone he passed hurried to get out of his way.

He had thought it best to make the delivery now, assuming Isla would be elsewhere buried in preparations of her own.

He reached the door and knocked. Sure that the room was empty at this hour, he opened the door, not waiting for an answer.

He froze. Isla was there, in the middle of the room, bathed in the warm sunlight.

That would have been enough to knock the air from his lungs, but it was worse. Because she stood with her back to him, wearing her unfinished wedding gown. The fabric shone in the light, but that was not what caught his attention. The whole back of it was unfinished, and she was standing there with her back exposed and her stays unfastened.

Before he could stop himself, his eyes drifted from her delicate shoulders, down the curve of her spine, to the two dimples at the small of her back.

“Alisdair?” She looked over her shoulder at him.

He was at a loss for words, staring at her naked back, her dark hair caressing her skin, the angle of her jaw, the fullness of her parted lips.

He knew that he should look away, should leave the room entirely, but his body seemed perfectly content right where it was, and his eyes had no interest in giving up the view.

“Alisdair!”

Once more, he looked into her eyes. She was clutching the front of her dress to her chest, her cheeks flushed pink, but her eyes were furious. It did nothing to douse the fire flaring inside him.

“Ye are a menace to me self-control, lass,” he growled under his breath, his grip tightening on the wooden box.

“Alisdair, either leave or give me me shawl. Now,” Isla demanded.

Leaving now would have been the prudent choice. Instead, he stepped further into the room, set the wooden box on the bedside table, and reached for the shawl, the same one she had clutched to herself the night he had found her in her nightshift. It was the first time in his life that he hated a piece of fabric.

Isla drew deep breaths and turned to face him. He took a step toward her, his eyes holding hers, and saw her step back just a little. He smirked, seeing her so flustered.

“Give it to me,” she pressed.