Page 19 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

For the first time since the attack, Colin felt something other than grim determination. Watching his wife— his wife —breathe life back into his people, he felt a dangerous flutter of hope.

"Is there anything I can dae tae help?" Colin asked, approaching her as she ladled stew into wooden bowls.

Morag looked up, surprised to see him offering assistance. "Could ye help with the bread? There's a mountain of it that needs cutting."

Colin moved to the indicated table, taking up a knife with the same efficiency he used for his weapons. "Like this?" he asked, holding up a slice.

"Thinner," Morag said with a smile, moving to stand beside him. "We need tae make it stretch fer everyone." She guided his hand, her fingers covering his as she showed him the proper thickness. "There, that's perfect."

The simple touch sent heat racing up Colin's arm, and he caught her eyes, seeing the same awareness reflected there. Around them, the hall buzzed with activity, but in that moment it felt like they were alone in their own small world.

"I suppose even lairds need instruction," he said dryly, earning a laugh from her.

"Only the ones who spend all their time with swords instead of bread knives," she teased back, bumping his shoulder playfully as she returned to her ladling.

This is what I was missing. Nae just a wife, but a partner. Someone who sees what I cannae, who brings out the best in our people instead of demanding it through strength alone.

They worked in comfortable rhythm, Colin cutting bread while Morag served, occasionally stealing glances at each other. When she reached across him for more bowls, her body brushed against his, and Colin felt his pulse quicken at the innocent contact.

"Watch yerself, lass," he murmured quietly, his voice rough. "Or I might forget we have an audience."

Morag's cheeks flushed pink, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she looked up at him through her lashes with a coy smile that made his blood sing. "Is that a threat or a promise, husband?"

Colin's hands stilled on the bread knife, his eyes darkening. "Careful now. That's dangerous territory ye're wanderin’ intae."

"Is it?" Morag asked innocently, though the way she deliberately leaned closer to reach another bowl was anything but innocent. "I thought I was just servin’ stew."

"Ye ken exactly what ye're daein’," Colin said, his voice dropping lower. "And if ye keep daein’ it, I might just have tae dae somethin’ about it."

"Such as?" The challenge in her voice made his pulse race.

Colin leaned down, his lips nearly brushing her ear. "Such as findin’ a very private place tae show ye exactly what effect ye're having on me."

Morag's breath caught audibly, and she nearly dropped the ladle she was holding. "Colin Armstrong, ye're terrible."

"Aye, I am," he agreed with a wicked grin. "But ye like it."

Before she could respond, a young boy appeared at Colin's elbow with a bowl held hopefully in his small hands. "Please, me laird, could I have just a wee bit more? I'm still powerful hungry."

Colin blinked, suddenly remembering where they were and that half the castle was watching their interaction. He cleared his throat and straightened, though he caught Morag's amused smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Of course, lad," Colin said, his voice returning to its normal tone as he cut another thick slice of bread for the boy. "Growin’ lads need proper feeding."

"Thank ye, me laird!" the boy beamed and scampered away.

"Saved by a hungry child," Morag murmured under her breath, ladling more stew into the pot.

"This time," Colin replied quietly, his eyes promising that their conversation was far from over.

They continued working, but the air between them now crackled with unspoken tension.

Every accidental touch, every shared glance, seemed charged with new meaning.

When Morag laughed at something one of the village women said, Colin found himself watching the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.

When he helped lift a heavy pot, he noticed the way Morag paused to look at him.

"Ye're starin’," Colin said softly when he caught her watching him.

"I'm observin’," Morag corrected primly. "Makin’ sure ye're cuttin’ the bread properly."

"Is that what we're callin’ it?" His lips twitched with amusement.

"Aye. I'm a very thorough teacher."

"I'm beginnin’ tae understand that about ye."

The night wore on, and gradually the hall began to empty as people found their sleeping arrangements. Colin helped carry the last of the heavy pots back to the kitchen while Morag organized tomorrow's meal preparations with the castle's cook.

"The refugees should be able tae return tae their homes within a few days," Colin said as they finally made their way through the quieting corridors toward their chamber. "The men I left behind should have most of the urgent repairs finished by then."

"They'll be grateful tae sleep in their own beds again," Morag replied, though she seemed distracted by something.

"What's troublin’ ye?" Colin asked, noting the small furrow between her brows.

"Naething troubling, exactly. Just... watching ye tonight, with the people."

Colin paused outside their chamber door. "Yes?"

"Yer people respond tae ye with affection as well as respect." Morag turned to face him fully. "I think they see what I've been starting tae see glimpses of. The man beneath the Iron Laird."

Something shifted in Colin's chest at her words. "And what man is that?"

"Someone who cares deeply but daesnae always know how tae show it. Someone who's learned tae lead through strength because he's afraid that kindness might be seen as weakness." Her hand came up to rest against his chest.

Colin covered her hand with his, struck by how clearly she saw him. "Ye give me too much credit, lass."

"I dinnae think I give ye enough."

They stood there in the corridor, the weight of the day settling around them like a comfortable blanket. The castle was finally quiet, the refugees settled, the immediate crisis managed. For the first time in days, Colin felt like he could breathe freely.

"Come," he said finally, opening their chamber door. "It's been a long day."

Later, Colin sat on the edge of their bed and measured out his nightly potion. The familiar ritual calmed his nerves, though he was aware of Morag watching him from the corner of her eye as she brushed her hair.

The chamber felt different—warmer somehow, filled with the echoes of shared laughter and easy conversation. Colin found himself moving more slowly through his evening routine, reluctant to let the day end.

"Ye were wonderful tonight," he said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence.

Morag's hand paused in her hair. "Was I?"

"Aye. Ye turned what could have been a burden intae something... beautiful. I've never seen the hall so full of hope."

"They just needed someone tae see them as people rather than problems," Morag replied, resuming her brushing. "Ye dae the same thing, ye ken. Ye just hide it better."

Colin considered this as he set aside his cup. "I'm not sure I ken how tae be anythin’ other than what I am."

"Ye dinnae need tae be anythin’ other than what ye are," Morag said firmly. "Ye just need tae let people see it.

"Thank ye," he said quietly, setting the empty vial aside. "Fer today. Fer all ye did fer me people."

Morag turned to face him, her expression serious. "They're our people, Colin. And as their lady, I'll dae everything I can tae help them."

Something shifted in Colin's chest at her words, the way she had claimed his clan as her own, the quiet determination in her voice. She meant it, he realized. This wasn't just duty or obligation to her. She genuinely cared about the people of Clan Armstrong.

Colin studied her face in the candlelight. "Aye," he said softly. "Our people."

The word felt different on his tongue now.

For so long, he'd thought of himself as the sole guardian of his clan's welfare, the only one who truly understood the weight of responsibility.

But watching Morag today, seeing how naturally she'd stepped into her role as their lady, he realized he'd been wrong.

"Come here," he said quietly, reaching out to her.

Morag rose from her seat at the dressing table and moved toward him. When she was close enough to touch, Colin took her hands in his, marveling at how small they seemed compared to his own, yet how much strength they contained.

"We should sleep," Colin said finally, though he made no move to release her hands. "Tomorrow will bring fresh challenges."

"Aye," Morag agreed, but she too seemed reluctant to break the moment.

Colin moved first, stepping back to give her space as they finished their nightly preparations. But even as they settled into their respective sleeping spaces—Colin on his makeshift pallet on the floor, Morag beneath the warm covers—the air between them hummed with new understanding.

"Colin?" Morag's voice drifted down from the bed, soft and hesitant.

"Aye?"

"Thank ye. Fer today. Fer trustin’ me tae help."

"Thank ye," he replied quietly, "fer showing me I dinnae have tae dae everything alone."

Silence settled over them, but it was comfortable now, filled with promise rather than uncertainty. For the first time since their wedding, Morag heard Colin’s breathing steady, before it gradually deepened in sleep.

She lay awake a little longer, her hand pressed to her chest where her heart still raced with the memory of Colin's touch.

Something had changed between them—something precious and fragile and full of potential.

As sleep finally claimed her, she found herself looking forward to discovering what the next day might bring.

Morag jolted awake as sweat beaded across her forehead, her nightgown clinging damply to her skin. Something was wrong— terribly wrong. The room spun around her as she tried to focus, her vision blurring at the edges like looking through water.

What's happening tae me? Colin! Colin!

But she soon realized that she was calling her husband in her head only, and no words were coming from her lips. Two dark shapes moved through the doorway, silent as shadows. Men. Strangers with their faces covered, moving toward her in the private chamber.

"Colin!" Morag tried to scream but only a weak, strangled sound escaped her throat.

Why cannae I make noise?

Panic clawed at her chest as she attempted to sit up, but her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if she were moving through thick honey.

Who did this tae me? What did they dae tae me?

As rough hands seized her arms, Morag's flailing hand struck the ceramic vase on the bedside table. It teetered for a heart-stopping moment before crashing to the stone floor with a thunderous crash that echoed through the chamber.

The sound shattered the night's silence like breaking glass.

"Damn," one of the men hissed.

Colin, why aren ' t ye helping me? Why will ye nae wake up?

They grabbed her more roughly now, hauling her upright with bruising force. Morag's legs buckled beneath her as they dragged her toward the door, her feet barely able to support her weight. The castle would wake soon—someone had to have heard that crash—but would it be soon enough?

In the hallway beyond their chamber, Morag could see the night guards on the floor, with dark pools spread beneath their still forms.

Nay, nay, nay ? —

She tried again to cry out, to call for Colin, but her voice came out as barely a whisper. Whatever they had given her, had stolen her strength, her voice, everything. One of the men reached for her, and she fought against the strange lethargy gripping her body.