Page 6 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

Colin's hands were surprisingly gentle as he applied the healing balm to her injured wrists.

Morag had expected him to be rough, practical—the way he was with everything else.

Instead, his calloused fingers moved with careful precision, as if he were handling something precious rather than simply treating rope burns.

She found herself studying his face as he worked, taking in details she'd been too preoccupied to notice before now.

He was undeniably handsome in a harsh, Highland way—all sharp angles and commanding presence.

His dark hair caught the lamplight, revealing threads of premature silver at his temples that spoke of responsibility shouldered too young.

Those piercing eyes were focused intently on her injuries now, their color a deep brown that reminded her of rich earth after rain.

He was tall, she'd had to crane her neck to look at him even when seated, and broad-shouldered in a way that spoke of years wielding sword and shield.

Everything about him seemed carved from granite, from the strong line of his jaw to the way he held himself with rigid composure even in this moment of unexpected gentleness.

Yet, there was something almost tender in the way he wound the soft linen bandages around her wrists, his dark brows drawn together in concentration as he examined each angry welt.

But beneath that careful attention, Morag sensed something else.

There was a tightly controlled intensity that made her wonder what storms raged behind that composed exterior.

This was a man who'd learned to keep the world at arm's length, she realized. Every gesture calculated, every expression carefully guarded. Even his kindness felt measured, as if he were rationing out pieces of his humanity like a precious resource that might run out.

"There," he said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "That should help with the healing."

Morag flexed her fingers experimentally, surprised by how much better the wrappings felt. The constant sting had eased to a dull ache, and the bandages were secure without being confining.

"Thank ye," she said, meeting his eyes. "I... this was kind of ye."

The moment the words left her lips, she watched him retreat emotionally. The mask of cold control slipped back over his features like a visor falling into place.

"Infected wounds serve nae one," he said, stepping back and putting distance between them.

Morag felt a flash of disappointment, though she wasn't sure why. For just a moment, she'd glimpsed something human beneath his iron exterior—something that made her think there might be more to Colin Armstrong than the cold laird who commanded through fear. But apparently, that moment was over.

"Well," she said, matching his formal tone. "I suppose I should retire for the evening."

"Aye. I will escort ye back tae yer chambers."

As they walked back through the corridors, Morag found herself stealing glances at him, trying to reconcile the man who'd just tended her wounds with such care against the one who'd dismissed his dinner guests like a king dispensing with petitioners.

And more than anything else, she found herself wondering which one was the real Colin Armstrong.

Morag woke up with a start. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the events of the day before came rushing back. Fraser raiders. Colin's rescue. The rushed wedding. Day after tomorrow Colin has said.

Today is already the day before the wedding.

She pushed down the growing dread when her stomach made a small rumble. Her husband to-be had not allowed them to eat much last night.

Noticing a small silver bell on the table beside her bed, she rang it tentatively. Within moments, Sheena appeared with her usual efficient bustle, carrying a pitcher of warm water and fresh linens.

"Good morning, me lady. The laird instructed me tae let ye sleep fer as long as ye needed tae. I trust ye slept well?"

"Good morning, Sheena. I slept well enough," Morag lied, sitting up in bed. The truth was she'd tossed and turned most of the night, her mind churning over Colin's strange contradictions—his cold command at dinner followed by such gentle care of her wounds. "Could I have some breakfast, please?"

"Of course, me lady. But we'll need tae eat quickly this morning." Sheena began laying out a simple gray dress while she talked, from the trunks that had been recovered from the site of the attack. "There's a great deal that needs tae be done before the wedding."

Morag blinked. "What sort of... preparations?"

Sheena paused in her work, clearly surprised by the question. "Well, me lady, there's the dress fitting, fer one thing. The seamstress arrived at dawn with the gown. Oh, ye need tae see it. It belonged tae the laird's maither, God rest her soul, but it'll need altering tae fit ye properly."

His mother's dress. Morag felt something twist in her stomach. She'd be wearing the gown of a woman she'd never met, marrying a man who barely seemed to tolerate her presence.

Sheena continued chattering as she bustled about the room, finally going out and bringing in a tray of oatcakes, honey, and what looked like preserved fruit.

"Then there's the matter of the celebration feast. Cook needs tae know yer preferences fer the menu, though I suspect with so little time.

.." She shook her head. "And of course, there's the matter of the gift fer the townspeople. "

"Gift?" Morag picked at an oatcake, her appetite fleeing as the reality of her situation sank in. Everything was happening so fast, so many decisions being made around her rather than with her.

"Aye, me lady. 'Tis tradition fer the bride and groom tae provide some token tae the clan—usually coins or ale fer the men, perhaps ribbons or small trinkets fer the women and children. Something tae mark the celebration."

Celebration. The word felt hollow. How could she celebrate a marriage that was clearly a business transaction rather than a union of hearts?

"I see," Morag said quietly, forcing herself to take another bite. "And all of this must be decided today?"

"Afraid so, me lady. The laird was quite specific about the timing." Sheena's tone carried a hint of sympathy. "I ken it seems rushed, but?—"

"It is rushed," Morag said, perhaps more sharply than she intended. "Yesterday I was traveling tae meet me betrothed. Today I'm expected tae plan a wedding as if I've been here fer months."

Sheena paused in her folding, her expression gentle. "I ken it's overwhelming, me lady. But once ye're settled, once ye've had time tae adjust..."

Will I ever adjust tae this? Tae being managed and commanded by a man who treats me like a problem tae be solved?

"Come now, me lady," Sheena said, noting her barely touched breakfast. "We'd best hurry. The seamstress is waiting in the solar, and after that, we'll need tae get tae the kitchens tae speak with Cook about the feast preparations."