She tried to keep her chin high, but her stomach twisted. She had told herself she would face this moment with calm, yet the echo of hooves in the courtyard made her throat go dry.
“Stand straight,” Aaron murmured beside her, “And ye’ll greet him with courtesy. This alliance is too important to falter on niceties.”
Scarlett arched a brow. “Aye, brother, I’ll be the very picture of obedience. Maybe ye should have me carved in stone to save ye the trouble.”
Aaron’s eyes narrowed, a silent warning, but he said nothing.
The doors opened wide, and the procession swept in.
Boots rang against stone as the McLaren riders strode through the doors, their dark plaids heavy across broad shoulders, and their steel glinting at their sides. At their head walked a man who drew every eye the moment he crossed the threshold.
He was taller than any man she’d seen, his frame broad and cut like it had been forged in battle. Black hair, trimmed close, only sharpened the stark lines of his face. His jaw was square, his mouth stern, and his storm-gray eyes swept across the hall with a command that needed no words.
Scarlett’s pulse stuttered. She had expected someone older, perhaps softened by age or indulgence. Instead, this man looked as though he had been carved from stone, every line of his face speaking of discipline and control.
Aaron stepped forward, “Laird McLaren. Welcome to Hallow Castle.”
Robert McLaren inclined his head. “Laird Gallaway.” His voice was deep yet smooth. “I thank ye for yer hospitality.”
The two lairds clasped forearms; the gesture was strong and formal.
Scarlett remained still though her gaze lingered longer than it should have. He was not smiling, not even looking her way yet, and still something in her chest gave a sharp tug.
Aaron motioned toward her. “Me sister, Lady Scarlett.” At last, Robert’s eyes turned.
Scarlett’s breath hitched under the weight of that storm-gray gaze. It swept over her quickly and unreadable then lingered upon her hands. She glanced down, realizing with horror that faint smudges of charcoal still darkened her fingers, impossible to scrub away. She curled them into her skirts, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Robert had prepared himself to find a meek lass waiting. A Gallaway pawn and a woman quiet enough to accept terms and play her part.
Instead, his eyes landed on a figure that unsettled him at once.
She was tall for a woman, her frame lush and curving in a way that made his throat tighten. Her black curls spilled loose from their pins, and ribbons barely taming the wildness, and her eyes... green as spring leaves met his with unflinching strength.
She’s bonnie. Too bonnie. And bold enough to look straight at me when most men would lower their gaze.
He noted her hands, fingers stained dark, most likely from charcoal. His brow flicked the slightest inch. An artist, then. Not what he had expected from a laird’s sister.
Aaron’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Shall we sit, Laird McLaren? We’ve much to discuss.”
Robert gave a curt nod. “Aye.”
He kept his features as unreadable as stone though inside, unease stirred. He had not expected desire, not so swiftly, not so sharply.
Control yerself. She’s a duty, nothing more.
A wife. A function. Nothing she does with her eyes changes that.
They moved to the table at the center of the hall where wine was poured and the men of both clans stood in quiet anticipation. Scarlett remained beside her brother, her chin high though her hands betrayed her nerves.
Aaron spoke first, “Clan Gallaway seeks peace and strength as does Clan McLaren. This marriage ensures both.”
Robert inclined his head. “Peace and loyalty. I’ve nay interest in fleeting pacts.”
Aaron’s mouth twitched. “Nor do I. Me sister is prepared to fulfill her duty. She will bring nay protest.”
Scarlett’s eyes flicked to her brother, a flash of some annoyance in them, but she said nothing.
Robert caught it. He admired the fire there though he did not let it show.
