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He could ignore it all he wanted, but he knew it was longing. He longed to touch her. Every night when his resolve weakened, he dreamed of her body, naked against his, her moans in his ear as he plunged into her. And every night he jolted awake, his body covered in sweat, his manhood demanding attention, his soul exhausted by fighting his desire.

He ran to the stables and saddled Treun. His horse neighed at the cold air as they rode up the mountain.

“Let’s ride, Treun. Cold air might help, daenae ye think?”

The horse pushed harder against the hard terrain. If Alisdair thought that this would be enough, he was wrong. He couldn’t outrun how Isla made him feel.

He was terrified of her. He chuckled cruelly as he rode up the ridge. He was a feared laird, a hulk of a man who made men cower with one look, and he was scared of his own wife.

It was the truth, though. The way he lost control around her. The way he struggled to keep himself in check every time he saw her. He had never felt this way.

He reached the top of the ridge and pulled Treun to a halt. He looked down at the loch, his castle, the land around it. He frowned as his mind went back to the day his parents had introduced Catherine to him.

She had been as young as he was back then, elegant and graceful, the beloved only child of an ally. Their marriage had been arranged swiftly by their parents. There had been no love between them, but there had been respect.

Catherine had been his wife in name and his friend by choice. They had known each other well and accepted each other. She had been a good wife, and he had striven to be a good husband for her. She had been a delicate lady, pampered and sheltered, and he had longed to keep her safe.

And when they had coupled, it had been with a deep understanding that this was what was expected to keep the clan stable. A duty they had both accepted.

But Isla…

“Yah, Treun!” He nudged his horse into a gallop.

Even the thought of her made him restless, distracted, angry. And damn his dark soul, for he had never felt more alive in his life.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SECRET LETTERS

Isla had been standing in the corridor outside Alisdair’s study for quite a while now. It was the dead of night, but she knew for sure that he was inside. She could see the light from under the closed door and hear the crackling of the fire.

Still, she didn’t step inside. Last time she had been here, she had run after he had kissed her senseless. She still remembered all of it. His searing touch, his ardent lips, his skillful tongue, his heat, his softness, his hardness.

But none of it mattered. They were not just a couple caught in the middle of pain and grief, but also the Laird and Lady of Clan MacLeod. Their duty was to the clan.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Alisdair called, his voice gruff.

She carefully pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. He was standing with his back to her, looking at the maps on the wall, lost in his thoughts.

“Alisdair,” she ventured.

He turned slowly, looking over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and it was as if they were brought back to that night. She could even feel the bite of the wood against her back.

“Is something the matter, Isla?” he asked.

She decided to focus on the task at hand.

She lifted the letter in her hand. “This just came in,” she said. “Mary found a way to send it with a merchant.”

Alisdair turned to face her fully, whatever else he had been feeling dropping away at once. He took the letter and read it in silence, scowling harder with every line. His face became everything he was known to be—cold, focused, dangerous.

“He is gatherin’ forces,” he said, his voice hard.

Isla had read the letter again and again. Mary reported that their uncle had issued a silent call to arms and that he was using the celebration of the local saint as an excuse to gather his allies at Sinclair Castle.

“Aye,” she sighed. “Mary said she cannae prove his intentions. He hadnae declared anything officially, but⁠—”