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She pressed her forehead against the mare’s, and Luath nickered.

She felt both a warmth and a sadness wash over her, realizing that she was so different from the girl she had once been.

She was no longer the girl she had been the day her father brought Luath to her. She remembered it still. Her parents had looked at her with such love and pride, the hope of their clan, the apple of their eye. And she had been so happy, smiling, laughing, riding Luath, thinking with the innocence of a child that this would last forever.

“We are safe,” she muttered. “Maither, Faither, I am safe.”

Isla looked down at her silk emerald-green arisaid, the one Lady Moira had gifted to her. She had pinned it with the same silver brooch bearing a falcon. She still had to get used to wearing such fine clothes daily.

Truth be told, her uncle had never dressed her this well, even as a way to degrade her. He could hardly have afforded fabric this fine just for an ordinary dinner. He had been after more than the MacLeods’ land and power. Their wealth mattered just as much.

She decided not to stall anymore and made her way to the door. It would be strange for the Laird and his new wife to take dinner separately, especially on their first day as a married couple. At least the meal was served in the smaller, more intimate dining hall near the study, the one kept for immediate family.

Isla dreaded having to spend the night between Alisdair’s indecipherable mood and Ewan’s animosity. She could only hope that Lady Moira was not too tired to join them.

It came as a surprise to find herself the only one there, aside from the servants, when she entered the room. She sat down, and a few moments later, Alisdair came in and took his place across from her. Her throat went dry, her heart galloping in her chest, but she kept her fists clenched in her lap.

“Good evenin’,” he greeted, barely looking at her.

“Good evenin’.”

The table was not big, but it felt as if they sat worlds apart.

“Ye may serve the first course,” Alisdair told the servants. “Me aunt is tired, and Ewan…” he trailed off.

Isla said nothing. She knew well that Ewan would rather choke than share a table with her.

“I hope that Aunt Moira hasnae taken ill?” she asked with genuine concern.

Alisdair’s head snapped up.

Isla regretted the slip. She had been calling Lady Moira that all day, and somehow the word had simply felt right. But she doubted Alisdair would accept it quite so easily.

“She is simply tired,” he replied. “I understand ye made the rounds of the castle.”

“We did,” she confirmed, looking down. “It was indeed a long day.”

“I was told ye visited the stables.”

Her hands stilled. She tightened her fingers around her fork and knife. Would he ask her to give Luath up?

“I did,” she said.

“Ye have a fine horse.” That was all he said.

Isla let out a slow breath and glanced back up. He was avoiding her eyes, and she knew exactly why. The kiss. The momentary slip of his control. He must have hated himself for it.

She hated herself a little too, for how impossible it was to stop thinking about how he had felt against her.

Alisdair set down his fork and grabbed his cup of ale, taking a slow sip. Isla had noticed that he drank far more moderately than the other men she had seen. Not even ale, then, could take the blame for his pinning her against that wall the night before.

“We need to talk, Isla.”

“I suppose we should.”

Alisdair looked at her, perhaps expecting her to speak further. But she merely set down her fork and held his gaze.

It was a grave mistake that they hadn’t had this conversation earlier.