Page 15 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"— a nd she practically leaped behind a pillar when she saw me comin' down the corridor yesterday," Lachlan said, setting down his ale with more force than necessary. "Like I was carryin' the bloody plague."

Frederick leaned back in his chair, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Och, the mighty Laird Kinnaird, terrifyin' his own wife with his fearsome presence."

"This isnae amusin', Frederick."

"Isnae it?" Frederick's grin widened. "Because from where I'm sittin', it's bloody hilarious. Do ye remember all those lasses who used to chase ye around? Battin' their eyelashes, findin' excuses to bump into ye in the corridors?"

Lachlan's jaw tightened. "That was different."

"Aye, it was. Because then ye were the one doin' the avoidin'. Now look at ye—mopin' about because yer own wife willnae give ye the time of day."

"I'm nae mopin'."

"Ye've been stalkin' around here like a wounded bear for days. The servants are startin' to whisper."

"Let them whisper." Lachlan stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked the courtyard. "I thought after the kiss... I thought she was ready to be a proper wife."

"And when she wasnae, ye decided to punish her by disappearin'?"

"I'm nae punishin' anyone. I'm givin' her space, like she clearly wants."

Frederick snorted. "Space? Ye're practically livin' in the stables. When was the last time ye even spoke to the lass?"

Lachlan didn't answer because they both knew it had been days. He'd been leaving their chambers before dawn and returning long after she'd retired, taking his meals in his study or the barracks. Anything to avoid seeing that look of panic in her eyes when he came too close.

"This is rich," Frederick continued, clearly enjoying himself. "Remember Lady Margaret? Followed ye around for months until ye finally told her outright ye had nay interest?"

"That's nae the same thin'."

"Or what about that redhead from Clan MacGregor? What was her name... Fiona? She practically threw herself at ye durin' the harvest festival, and ye couldnae get away fast enough."

"Frederick—"

"Now here ye are, chasin’ after a lass who's runnin’ from ye just as hard. How does it feel to be on the other side of it?"

Lachlan spun around, his eyes flashing with anger. "She's me wife. It's nae the same thin' at all."

"Isnae it? Seems to me ye're both doin' the same thin'—runnin' from somethin' that scares ye."

"I'm nae scared of anythin'."

"Nay? Then why are ye hidin' in here instead of talkin' to her?"

Lachlan's expression darkened further. "The council's been breathin' down me neck about an heir. Again."

"What did they say this time?"

"Same thing they always say. That I need to secure the line, that the clan needs stability." Lachlan ran a hand through his hair. "But there's somethin' more urgent in their tone lately."

Frederick's amusement faded. "More urgent how?"

"They keep mentionin' Duncan. How he's been... helpful durin’ clan meetings. How he's shown such interest in clan affairs."

"Helpful." Frederick's voice was flat with disgust. "Is that what they're callin' it?"

"Ye've noticed it too?"

"Hard nae to. The way he hovers around whenever there's a decision to be made, insertin' himself into conversations where he doesnae belong." Frederick leaned forward. "And the way he talks to the servants when he thinks nay one's watchin'."

"What do ye mean?"

"Dismissive. Cruel, even. Caught him beratin' one of the kitchen lasses last week for spillin' water. Made her near to tears over nothin'."

Lachlan's jaw clenched. "And ye dinnae see it fit to tell me any of this? This is nae somethin' ye keep away from yer laird."

Frederick's face immediately changed. "I beg yer pardon, laird.

I assumed I could handle it. But he gets more confident everyday it's nae.

" Frederick's expression grew serious. "The council may nae see it, but the servants do.

They're startin' to worry about what would happen if somethin' happened to ye. "

"Nothin's goin' to happen to me."

"We all ken that, but it doesnae stop the whisperin'. And Duncan... he's been feedin' into it. Droppin' hints about how unprepared the clan would be without a direct heir."

Lachlan stared out the window, watching his men train in the courtyard below. "The council's not wrong about needin' an heir. But I don't understand why they're pushin' so hard for it to happen now. I'm not sick, I'm not in any danger of dyin' anytime soon."

"Because they don't trust Duncan either," Frederick said bluntly. "But they're scared of what happens if ye die without issue. Better to pressure ye into producin' an heir than risk him takin' control."

"Then what am I supposed to do? The council wants an heir, she won't let me near her, and Duncan's circlin' like a vulture."

"—so I told him if he wanted to complain about the new rotation schedule, he could take it up with ye directly," Frederick was saying as they walked down the corridor toward the main hall.

Lachlan wasn't really listening. His mind was still churning over their conversation about Duncan, about the council's pressure, about the impossible situation with his wife. The sound of soft footsteps ahead made him look up.

Erica was walking toward them, clearly lost in thought. She wore one of the gowns he'd had made for her—the deep blue that brought out her eyes—and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

"M'lady," Frederick said warmly as she approached, offering a respectful bow.

She looked up, startled, and Lachlan saw the exact moment she realized he was there. Her entire body went tense, but she managed a polite smile.

"Frederick," she replied, then turned toward Lachlan. "Husband."

Her voice was carefully neutral, but she kept her eyes fixed somewhere around his chest, never meeting his gaze. The formal distance in that single word— husband —hit him hard in the guts.

"Wife," he said stiffly.

An awkward silence stretched between them. Frederick glanced back and forth, clearly trying to decide whether to interrupt or flee.

"I was just... I should..." Erica gestured vaguely down the corridor. "Excuse me."

She hurried past them, her skirts rustling against the stone floor. Lachlan caught a faint whiff of lavender as she passed, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Frederick waited until her footsteps faded before letting out a low whistle. "Well, that was painful to watch."

"Shut up," Lachlan growled, turning sharply toward the main entrance.

"Where are ye goin'?"

"I have important clan business to attend to."

Frederick's eyebrows shot up, and Lachlan could hear the barely suppressed laughter in his voice. "Wait now—clan business? What clan business?"

"Business that doesnae concern ye."

"Me laird." Frederick's tone grew more serious as he hurried to catch up. "What clan business could ye possibly have that doesnae involve yer man-at-arms?"

"The type that is above yer level as me man-at-arms."

Lachlan's stride lengthened as he headed for the stables. He needed to get out of this castle, away from the suffocating tension and his own frustrated thoughts. He needed to do something, anything, that made him feel like he had control over some aspect of his life.

"Lachlan, wait?—"

But Lachlan was already calling for his horse to be saddled, his jaw set in a hard line that Frederick knew better than to argue with.

Twenty minutes later, Lachlan was riding hard toward the village, the wind whipping through his hair and doing nothing to cool his temper. He'd left Frederick behind at the castle gates, ignoring the man's protests about riding out alone.

The village of Kinnaird sat nestled in the valley below the castle, a collection of stone cottages and shops that had thrived under his leadership.

Smoke rose from chimneys, and he could see people moving about their daily business—merchants setting up stalls, children playing in the streets, women hanging washing on lines.

It should have been a peaceful sight. Instead, it only reminded him of everything he stood to lose if he couldn't get his marriage—and his heir situation—sorted.

He slowed his horse as he entered the village proper, nodding to the people who called out greetings. But as he rounded the corner toward the market square, he heard voices that made him pause.

"—still nay word that they've consummated the marriage though, is there?" one voice was saying.

"Nay, and it's been over a week since the weddin'," replied another.

Lachlan pulled his horse to a stop behind a row of stalls, dismounting quietly. Through the gaps between the wooden structures, he could see a small group of villagers gathered near the blacksmith's forge.

"Me wife heard from her cousin who works at the castle," the blacksmith was saying, his voice carrying clearly across the square. "Says the new lady spends most of her time talkin' about her own clan, about goin' back to rule there proper-like."

"Going back?" asked a woman with obvious concern. "But she's Lady Kinnaird now."

"Aye, but she's still Lady McLaren too, isn't she? Word is she never intended to stay here permanently. Just wanted the alliance."

Lachlan's jaw tightened. Where were they getting this nonsense?

"What about the succession then?" pressed another villager. "If she goes back to her clan and there's nay heir..."

"Well," the blacksmith lowered his voice, "Duncan Morris is still next in line, isn't he? Blood relation to the old laird."

"Duncan?" The woman's voice held distaste. "That one gives me the shivers. Always has."

"Shivers or nae, he's family. And if our laird doesnae get an heir soon..."

Lachlan had heard enough. He stepped out from behind the stalls, his presence immediately commanding the attention of everyone in the square.

The villagers scrambled to their feet, bowing hastily as they recognized their laird.

"M'laird!" the blacksmith stammered. "We dinnae hear ye approach."

"Obviously," Lachlan said, his voice deadly calm. "What is all this talk?"

The group shifted uncomfortably, looking at each other as if hoping someone else would speak first.

"We... we were just..." the blacksmith began.

"Just spreadin' gossip about yer laird's marriage?" Lachlan's tone could have frozen fire. "How... productive."

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'laird," one of the women said, stepping forward with more courage than the others. "But we hear that despite yer marriage, yer wife is a lady who wants to return to her clan to rule there. People are... concerned."

"I see." Lachlan's expression revealed nothing. "And where does this talk come from?"

The villagers exchanged glances again before the woman answered. "From the castle, m'laird. Servants talk, and word spreads."

"Does it?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "And what exactly are me servants saying?"

"Just... just that the lady asks many questions about travel between the castles. About how often she might visit her own lands." The woman's voice grew smaller under his stare. "And that she seems... distant. Like she's nae planning to stay."

Lachlan studied their faces, seeing genuine concern beneath the fear. These people depended on strong leadership, on the certainty of succession. Gossip about his marriage created exactly the kind of instability his enemies could exploit.

"I assure ye, if me wife seems distant, it is because she is doin' exactly the opposite of what yer rumors say. Now I suggest," he said quietly, "that ye all return to yer work and leave the affairs of yer betters to those who understand them. Gossip serves nay one well."

"Aye, m'laird," they chorused, scattering quickly back to their tasks.

But as Lachlan mounted his horse and rode back toward the castle, his mind was churning. How had rumors started that Erica was planning to leave? Who in his household was spreading such talk?

More importantly, how long before those rumors reached ears that could use them against him?

Duncan might not be actively scheming yet, but if word spread that Lachlan's marriage was failing, that there would be no heir... it wouldn't take long for his cousin to see an opportunity.

Lachlan's jaw set with grim determination. He needed to secure his line, and he needed to do it quickly. Before gossip became fact, and uncertainty became a weapon in the wrong hands.

The problem was getting Erica to trust him enough to create that child.

But patience, he was beginning to realize, was a luxury he could no longer afford.