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Alisdair stepped closer and stopped right before her. She looked up at him, still clutching the dress to her chest. He lifted the shawl and draped it over her shoulders.

Isla gasped at the brush of his fingers against her skin, and a growl rumbled low in his chest, his hands itching to explore her further.

“Ye shouldnae have entered without permission,” she protested, her voice shaky but firm. “These are me chambers.”

Alisdair chuckled and leaned in closer. He had grown fond of the way her composure slipped every time he closed the distance between them. Most people dreaded being this near him, but whatever caused her mask to slip each time their bodies brushed had nothing to do with fear.

“Ye are in me castle,” he reminded her, his voice dropping to a deceptively low murmur. “Everything in it belongs to me.”

Isla swallowed hard. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

He looked down at those lips, tracing their shape. His eyes found hers again, and he leaned closer, as if testing the bounds of his sanity.

“And when I say everything, Isla,” he purred, “I mean everything.”

Then he turned and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

STONE WALLS

Five days later

Alisdair stood inside the kirk, the air off the loch drifting through its stone walls. The warm sunlight chased the damp from the old stones, and the air hung thick with tallow candles and the rowan branches draped over the timber rafters.

He stood at the altar, Duncan beside him, Ewan leaning against the far wall, pointedly keeping his distance. Alisdair’s hands stayed clenched at his sides, his back straight, and his eyes fixed on the door.

Then he heard it—bagpipes filling the air, voices laughing as they drew closer. Isla was on her way to the kirk, the whole castle trailing behind her.

Alisdair had made this same walk once before, with his parents and brother beside him, and the whole clan following behind as he had gone to marry his first wife. He had had no intention of ever doing it again.

“We should go out and meet yer bride, me Laird,” the minister said.

Alisdair nodded and made his way outside, where a huge crowd had gathered, some cheering and singing, some simply curious, others still refusing to believe that he would actually go through with marrying a Sinclair.

He waited, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her through the crowd. Ever since that day he had walked in on her half-dressed, he had caught only glimpses of her in the Great Hall or buried in wedding preparations. They’d had no moment alone since, and had even gone out of their way to avoid each other.

Then the crowd parted, and there she was.

He drew in a deep breath before he could stop himself. Isla was draped in that deep-red plaid, the color making her eyes look like two orbs of impossible blue. It was cinched snug at her waist, wrapped over her bodice, and fastened in place with a round silver brooch bearing a falcon.

She was the most breathtaking woman he had ever laid eyes on.

Her steps were light and graceful, her smile genuine as his aunt whispered in her ear. The fine braids woven through her loose hair brushed her neck as she walked.

Then she turned and looked at him, her smile still in place, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Their eyes met, and every sound around him seemed to vanish at once. The air itself felt heavier. Her gaze was unreadable, both challenging and afraid all at once, and it pulled him in regardless.

Duncan leaned in close to his ear. “Impressive, is she nae?”

Alisdair said nothing, mostly because he couldn’t concentrate enough to form an answer that wouldn’t hand his best friend fresh ammunition to mock him with. And because ‘impressive’ fell laughably short of what Isla actually was, walking toward him like this.

“Ye cannae take yer eyes off her,” Duncan noted.

“I am observing.”

“I ken,” he drawled. “Ye’re observing Isla, alright.”