Page 23 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

As Morag continued her walk through the castle, she understood the transformation she was witnessing.

This was Colin's response to the threat—systematic, thorough, and absolute.

He was ensuring that what happened to her, to all of them, would never happen again.

The price of that security was evident in every extra guard, every suspicious glance, every precaution that now governed daily life.

He's protecting us , protecting me.

The thought warmed her even as she recognized the weight of responsibility her husband now carried.

That evening, Morag made her way to Colin's study, her steps still slightly unsteady but determined. She found him hunched over his desk, papers scattered before him, but his eyes were staring blankly at the wall. Dark circles shadowed his face, and his usually pristine appearance was disheveled.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly, stepping into the room.

Colin's head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting into the familiar mask of controlled authority, but not before she caught a flash of relief at seeing her upright and moving. "Dinnae fret. Ye should be resting."

His voice gentled as he took in her pale complexion. "Ye're still recovering, lass. Ye shouldnae be wandering the halls alone."

But Morag could see through the facade. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his quill, and there was a haunted quality to his eyes that no amount of stern composure could hide.

The papers on his desk were covered in his bold handwriting, but the ink had smeared in places where his hand had shaken.

"Colin—"

"I said it's naething," he cut her off, his voice sharp but tender. "I have work tae dae, lass. And ye need tae be back in bed."

Morag studied his rigid posture, the way he refused to meet her eyes.

She could feel the walls he was building between them, brick by stubborn brick.

His shoulders were hunched with exhaustion, and she noticed the way he gripped his quill too tightly, as if holding onto it could anchor him to something solid.

"Fine! " Her back stiff, Moran turned toward the door.

"Morag. Wait."

She wanted to keep walking, to slam the door at him, but she stopped, keeping her back to him.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet she almost missed them. She turned back to find Colin staring down at his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The quill had fallen from his fingers, and his hands were clenched into fists on the desk.

"Sorry fer what?" she asked gently, moving closer. She could see the tension radiating from him, the way his jaw worked, as if he were fighting some internal battle.

"I failed ye." The admission seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him. "Because of me failure, ye nearly died, and the castle was left defenseless. I'm supposed tae protect ye, protect all of them, and I—" His voice cracked slightly. "I couldnae even keep ye safe in our own bed."

"Colin, it wasn't yer fault?—"

"It was," he said fiercely, finally looking up at her. "I took the damned sleepin’ draught I take every night, and when ye needed me most, I was unconscious. Useless."

Morag's eyes widened, and she stepped closer, her fatigue forgotten. "Ye mean the potion ye drink before bed. What is it fer?"

Colin's face went pale, realizing he'd revealed more than he intended. "It's naethin’. It just helps me sleep."

"Dinnae ye dare dismiss me like that," Morag said sharply, her voice gaining strength. "I nearly died, and ye're tellin’ me it's because of some potion ye take? What kind of sleepin’ draught makes a man so unconscious that he daesnae hear men entering his own room?"

She moved around the desk to face him directly, her blue eyes blazing with hurt and anger. "And how long have ye been takin’ this?"

"Morag, it's complicated?—"

"Then uncomplicate it!" she demanded, leaning forward to brace her hands on his desk. "Ye owe me the truth, Colin. All of it. What is this draught, why dae ye need it, and why did ye nae feel the need tae tell me why ye were takin’ it?"

Colin looked trapped, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for escape. "It's fer nightmares," he said finally, so quietly she had to strain to hear him.

"Nightmares?" Morag's anger softened slightly, replaced by concern. "What nightmares?"

"Every night," Colin continued, his voice hollow. "They come every night if I dinnae take the draught. I can't... I can't function without sleep, Morag. The clan needs me alert, focused."

"What dae ye dream about that's so terrible ye'd rather be unconscious than face it?" she pressed, her voice gentler now but no less determined.

Colin's hands clenched tighter. "Things that happened long ago. Things I couldnae prevent."

"Colin." Morag reached out and covered his fisted hands with her own. "Look at me. What things?"

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then his defenses crumbled completely.

"Me sister," he whispered. "I dream about me sister."

Morag could see how deeply guilt was eating at him from the inside. This proud, strong man who commanded armies and ruled with iron determination was breaking apart with self-recrimination.

"Tell me," she said softly, pulling a chair close to his and sitting down. "Tell me about yer sister, and tell me about these nightmares."

Her words were firm but not unkind, and Colin found himself caught between admiration for her strength and shame at his own weakness.

"Come on, me laird," she continued when he remained silent.

"Ye can face Fraser raiders and clan politics, but ye cannae face one conversation with yer wife?

Let's go tae our chamber. Ye need tae rest, and I need answers.

And the work will wait," Morag said firmly, standing and holding out her hand. "But yer wife willnae. Come. Now."

Colin looked at her determined face and realized he was well and truly caught. But instead of taking her hand, he shook his head stubbornly. "I'll go tae bed later. There's too much tae be done."

Morag's jaw tightened with frustration. She could see the exhaustion weighing on him like a physical burden, but she also recognized the set of his shoulders, the stubborn tilt of his chin that meant he'd dig in his heels no matter how reasonable her arguments.

"Fine," she said quietly. "But ye're a fool if ye think shuttin’ yerself in will keep me out forever."

She hesitated at the doorway, wanting to stay, to somehow ease his torment.

But she could see that he'd retreated behind walls she didn't yet know how to breach.

The man who'd shared his deepest pain with her just moments before had vanished, replaced once again by the Iron Laird who trusted no one with his burdens.

With a heavy heart, she left him alone with his guilt and his ghosts.