Page 15

“Lady Isla,” Alisdair began.

Her face went pale, and she clasped her hands in front of her.

“Ye came here with a proposal.” He looked at her, stern and yet encouraging.

If she had regretted her decision, he would let her go with provisions and protection.

“Are ye certain of what ye asked of me?”

“I am, me Laird.”

“Once I say the words,” he continued, giving her a way out one last time, “there is no changin’ them.”

“I understand, me Laird.”

She held herself remarkably well, chin high, apparently immune to the hushed accusations trailing her every word and movement.

“Then it is decided.” Alisdair turned to the crowd. “Lady Isla Murray will become me wife.”

Absolute silence reigned for one long moment, the kind that might fool anyone passing outside into thinking the room was empty. And then chaos erupted.

“Ye cannae do this!” an older clansman snapped.

After that, it was like a wildfire catching in the room.

“This is madness!”

“She cannae be trusted!”

“She is a Sinclair!”

“The clan will never accept her.”

Alisdair looked at Isla. She stood tall and unmoving, but he could tell that each accusation hit her like a blow. Her jaw was set, and her hands trembled no matter how tightly she clenched them. Then she turned to him.

Her face had gone pale, her blue eyes swimming with tears.

This strong, unshaken woman was on the verge of weeping. The look she gave him was pure, desperate pleading. She really believed that his clan’s rejection would sway his mind and that he would send her away after all.

He turned back to the hall, his eyes blazing. He told himself that it was only because his clan dared to question his decision that he wanted to teach them their place, not because of her teary blue eyes.

“Enough!” His voice thundered through the hall.

Everyone stopped talking and turned to him.

He took one commanding step forward. A few clansmen stepped back. Even most weathered warriors looked away. He had fought beside them; they knew exactly what he was capable of.

“Isla will be me wife,” he declared, his voice low and dangerous, “and she will be the lady of the clan.”

“Me Laird—” an old advisor tried.

“I didnae ask for yer opinion!” Alisdair barked.

His gaze swept across the room, meeting every pair of eyes in turn, daring anyone to challenge him further. Most men looked down, their jaws clenched, but they looked down all the same.

“I am yer Laird. I have made a decision. If ye have a problem with it, ye can take it up with me.”

No one spoke, no one so much as breathed too loudly. Provoking him in this state was dangerous, and everyone knew it.