Page 13 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

One thing was certain: today's fair would serve multiple purposes. His people would see their new lady, Fraser's spies would note Armstrong strength and unity, and Morag would begin to understand exactly what she'd married into.

Whether that last part was wise remained to be seen.

Colin arrived at the stables to find Morag already waiting, dressed in a deep blue riding habit that proclaimed her status as Lady Armstrong. She stood near the entrance, watching him with that careful assessment he'd grown accustomed to over the previous few days.

Christ.

His steps faltered slightly as he took her in. The rich fabric hugged her curves in ways that made his mouth go dry, and the way the morning light caught in her hair made his fingers itch to touch the golden strands.

How is a man supposed tae think clearly when ye look like that?

"I thought we might take Storm fer ye," Colin said, leading a gentle chestnut mare from her stall. "She's steady and has a smooth gait."

Morag approached the horse cautiously, and Colin found himself watching the graceful way she moved, the gentle confidence in her steps.

When she reached up to stroke Storm's muzzle, he caught a whiff of her scent.

It was floral and distinctly feminine in a way that made his pulse quicken despite his efforts to remain composed.

Focus on the horse .

But Colin's eyes kept drifting to the elegant line of Morag's neck as she bent to examine the mare's bridle.

She's yer wife, nae some tavern wench tae be ogled.

Colin moved with practiced ease, running his hands along Storm's neck and speaking to her in low, soothing tones, though he was acutely aware of Morag's proximity.

When she stepped closer to watch his ministrations, her shoulder brushed against his arm, and the brief contact sent an unexpected jolt of heat through him.

The mare nickered softly and leaned into his touch, clearly adoring the attention, but Colin's focus was split between the horse and the woman standing so tantalizingly close.

"Easy, lass," Colin murmured to the horse, his voice gentler than Morag had ever heard it, though he wasn't entirely sure if he was speaking to Storm or trying to calm his own racing thoughts about the bonny woman beside him. "Ye've got a new rider today, so mind yerself."

If only I could mind me own self .

He stole another glance at Morag's profile, feeling his resolve weaken with each passing moment.

Morag watched in fascination as Colin continued his careful ministrations.

He checked the saddle, adjusting the stirrups to her height, all while maintaining that quiet dialogue with the animal.

His movements were sure but tender, and Storm responded to him like a beloved house pet.

There was something almost graceful about the way he seemed to anticipate the horse's needs before she even expressed them.

Morag watched the way his fingers moved with surprising delicacy along the mare's neck.

How can hands that command armies be so gentle? How would it feel tae be touched so tenderly by ye?

"She trusts ye completely," Morag observed, noting how the mare's ears pricked forward whenever Colin spoke.

"Horses are honest creatures," Colin replied, giving Storm's nose an affectionate pat. "They dinnae lie or pretend tae be something they're nae. If ye treat them well, they return it."

"Unlike people?" The words slipped out before Morag could stop them.

Colin looked at her then, and for a moment something almost like humor flickered in his dark eyes. "Perhaps in another life, I would have been a stable boy. Simpler work, simpler expectations."

The unexpected jest caught Morag completely off guard. This was the first time since that night in the kitchen that she'd seen anything approaching lightness from him.

There he is.

She felt a flutter of something dangerously close to affection.

The man hiding beneath all that armor.

"I've never kent a stable boy made of iron," she replied, her own lips quirking slightly. "Usually they're much happier and more fun."

The moment the words left her mouth, Morag knew she'd made a mistake. Colin's expression shuttered completely. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and when he looked at her again, the Iron Laird was firmly back in place.

"We should go," he said curtly, his voice returning to its usual cold formality. "The people are expectin’ us."

He helped her mount with what appeared to be cool efficiency, but Morag couldn't help the way her breath caught as his large hands spanned her waist. She tried to match Colin’s outward calmness, but even through the fabric of her riding habit, she could feel the heat of his palms, the controlled strength in his fingers as he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle.

For a moment, his face was level with hers, so close she could see the dark stubble along his jaw, catch the scent of leather and something uniquely masculine that made her pulse flutter.

If I leaned a mere inch more, I would be able tae touch yer lips with me own. How would it feel tae kiss ye? Tae have those full lips kiss me?

Morag felt flare on her as she noticed the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, and how the morning light caught the dark waves of his hair.

This close, she could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the slight tension in his jaw that suggested he wasn't as unaffected by their proximity as he pretended to be.

When his hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary at her waist, she caught the way his breathing quickened, and how his pupils dilated slightly as his gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.

He feels it too . Whatever this... heat is between us.

He adjusted the stirrups with careful precision, his movements deliberately controlled, but Morag noticed how he shifted his stance, the way he seemed to be fighting some internal battle.

There was something almost predatory in the way he moved around her horse, checking the bridle and reins with more attention than necessary, as if he were using the tasks to maintain his distance.

Then he swung onto his own destrier with fluid grace, the powerful muscles of his thighs flexing as he settled into the saddle.

Morag found herself watching the confident way he controlled the massive warhorse, remembering the gentleness of those same hands on Storm's neck, and on her own waist moments before.

How can the same man be so tender and be so cold all at once? What will lying in the same bed with ye feel like? Will ye let yer tenderness take control or will yer cold side be in charge?

Morag wondered, noting how his posture had gone rigid again, his jaw set in that familiar hard line.

As they rode out of the castle gates, Morag found herself stealing glances at her husband's profile, wondering what nerve she'd struck with her careless reference to his iron nature.

The strong line of his nose, the way his dark hair caught the breeze, the slight furrow between his brows that spoke of deep thought—everything about him seemed designed to fascinate and frustrate her in equal measure.

Just when I think I might be glimpsing the man beneath the laird's mask, he retreats further behind it than ever. But I saw how ye looked at me, Colin Armstrong. Ye're not as immune tae this as ye pretend tae be.

As they made their way toward the village, Morag continued to wonder about her husband. Why did he armor himself so completely? What was he so afraid of letting her see?

When they reached the village, Morag was surprised to see how much work had already been accomplished.

Colorful banners hung between the cottages, long wooden tables were being arranged in the square, and the air was filled with the sounds of preparation—hammering, laughter, and the cheerful bustle of a community coming together.

The moment Colin dismounted, he was surrounded by his men, who immediately began updating him on various tasks.

Morag watched as he shed his formal distance like a discarded cloak, rolling up his sleeves and moving to help carry heavy benches as if he were any other clansman rather than their laird.

"Me lady!" A warm voice called out, and Morag turned to see a group of women approaching with genuine smiles. The eldest, a silver-haired woman with kind eyes, stepped forward. "I'm Mairi Campbell, and we're all so pleased tae finally meet ye properly." She bowed her head and gave a small curtsy.

"Thank ye," Morag replied, dismounting with care. She felt suddenly self-conscious in her fine riding habit among these women in their practical work dresses.

"We could use another pair of hands with the baking, if ye're willing," said a younger woman with red hair and flour-dusted hands.

"I'd be honored," Morag said, meaning it. After days of careful isolation in the castle, the prospect of genuine human interaction was more appealing than she'd expected.

Mairi beamed and put her hand on the small of her back to guide her. "Come then, let's get ye an apron before ye ruin that lovely dress. The men may think they're organizing this fair, but we all ken it's the women who make it work."

As they walked toward the makeshift outdoor kitchen, Morag found herself swept into easy conversation. These women asked about her family, her journey, her impressions of the area—all with genuine interest rather than the careful politeness she'd grown accustomed to at the castle.

"Our laird's a good man," said Isla MacLeod, Duncan's wife, as she handed Morag a wooden spoon to help stir a massive pot of stew. "Stern, aye, but fair. He's carried heavy burdens for our clan."

"Aye," agreed another woman, kneading bread with practiced efficiency. "Lost his dear mother when he was barely more than a lad, and then..." She trailed off, glancing around as if realizing she'd said too much.

"Well," Mairi said quickly, "what matters is that he's found himself a lovely bride. We've been hoping he'd marry fer years now."

Morag stirred the stew, processing this glimpse into Colin's past while trying not to appear too eager for information. "He seems... very dedicated to his duties."

"That he is," Isla said with a knowing look. "Perhaps a good wife will help him remember there's more tae life than duty and responsibility."

As the afternoon wore on, Morag found herself relaxing for the first time since arriving at Armstrong lands. These women accepted her easily, included her in their work and conversations, and seemed genuinely pleased to have her among them.

From across the square, she caught glimpses of her husband working alongside his men, and she was struck again by the contradiction he presented. This was the Iron Laird who could command absolute loyalty, yet who rolled up his sleeves to help arrange tables like any common man.

Morag turned to look toward Colin across the square, and her breath caught slightly.

He'd shed his formal coat and rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms as he helped lift heavy wooden planks for a makeshift stage.

Sweat gleamed on his brow from the physical labor, and his dark hair had fallen across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less forbidding.

Sweet Mary, Morag thought, her mouth going dry as she watched the play of muscles beneath his damp shirt.

The fabric clung to his broad shoulders and chest in ways that made her pulse quicken, and she found herself mesmerized by the effortless strength in his movements as he lifted heavy beams alongside his men.

When he paused to wipe his brow with the back of his hand, she caught sight of the corded muscles in his forearms, and the way his throat worked as he took a drink of water.

The casual, unguarded moment made something flutter deep in her belly—something she had no business feeling for a man who had been keeping her at arm's length.

This is dangerous, she realized, her cheeks warming as she imagined what it might feel like to run her fingers through that tousled hair, to trace the strong line of his jaw.

The thought of those powerful hands that could lift oak beams with such ease touching her with the same gentleness he'd shown Storm made her breath catch.

Her resolve to maintain emotional distance from him wavered dangerously.

How can I reconcile this image with the iron wall he's built between us? How can I pretend I dinnae want tae know what lies beneath all that careful control?

The way the sunlight caught the bronze of his skin, the unconscious grace in his every movement was making it increasingly difficult to remember why she should keep her heart guarded against him.

As the fair progressed, the villagers approached Morag, eager to meet their new lady, and she gladly turned to them, eager to take her mind off her husband.

Old women pressed small tokens into her hands—a carved wooden flower, a piece of heather for luck, a small clay cup painted with Highland symbols.

Young mothers brought their children forward to curtsy and bow, their faces bright with curiosity and welcome.

"Ye're even lovelier than we'd heard, me lady," said one elderly man, bowing deeply despite his crooked back. "May yer marriage bring prosperity tae our lands."

"The blessing of the ancestors upon ye both," added a weathered woman who introduced herself as the village's herb-wife. "May yer union be as strong as Highland stone and as enduring as the mountains themselves."

Each interaction was warm, genuine, filled with the kind of Highland hospitality that made Morag's chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

These people had so little, yet they offered her everything they had, giving their welcome, their hopes, their blessings for a future she wasn't even sure she wanted.

As another woman pressed a small trinket into her hands with whispered prayers of good fortune, Morag found herself scanning the crowd for a familiar dark head.

Where are ye?

She was surprised by how much she wanted Colin beside her at that moment.

She caught sight of him across the square, deep in conversation with a group of farmers, his expression serious as he listened to their concerns. Even at that distance, she was drawn to the commanding presence he carried, the way others looked to him for guidance and reassurance.

I want him here, I want tae share this with moment with him, tae see if he notices how his people's eyes light up when they speak of their hopes fer our marriage.

The thought caught her off guard. when had she began thinking of their union as something real rather than a political arrangement to be endured?