Page 37 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
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.
