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When his aunt was called away, he nearly regretted losing the safety of her presence as cover. But Isla stayed behind, and now they were alone in the room. A strange joy gripped his heart as he crept further into the shadows to watch her move among the bloody history of his clan.

His breath came heavier as he watched her move through the room with quiet reverence. He told himself he was only watching to see the real her, whether her face would twist at the sight of weapons that had brought down Sinclairs before her.

But he knew the real reason was simpler and far more dangerous than that—he couldn’t look away. He watched her fingers brush along the blades with nothing but simple curiosity, no hatred, no malice. She was not afraid of the history surrounding her at all.

Then she stopped.

Alisdair stilled in the shadows too.

Isla had come to a halt in front of an heirloom sword, passed down through generations of MacLeods. It was one of the most important weapons in the room, and she had found it as if by instinct.

Then she pulled it off its stand. Alisdair moved before logic had time to catch up with him, closing the distance and wrapping himself around her, one hand catching her wrist, the other steadying the hilt before the blade could fall.

For a few long moments, they simply stood there, close together in the silence.

Alisdair felt her back brush his chest, small against his frame. Her scent filled his senses, and her hair tickled his neck.

Isla gasped and looked up, half-braced to flee, and then settled the moment she saw him. His heart soared at that. She was not scared of him.

“That sword weighs more than ye,” he said, his voice deceitfully steady. He eased the sword from her trembling hands and stepped past her to return it to its stand.

“I merely wanted to see it.”

“Ye did more than that, did ye nae?” He turned to her, smirking. “Are ye always this curious, lass?”

“What are ye doin’ here?” she demanded, instead of answering.

She took a step back and felt her legs hit a low cabinet. Her breathing quickened.

Alisdair found himself intrigued.

“Did ye just ask the laird of this castle what his business is in his own armory?”

Isla swallowed, glanced away for one moment, then met his eyes again. “I just didnae hear ye come.”

“Ye were busy touching me things.”

“I wasnae!”

“I just caught ye almost getting killed by me sword.”

Isla looked at the massive sword on the wall, her eyes widening. “That is yer sword?”

“Aye. Imagine if people heard that me bride was hurt by me sword before the weddin’.”

She lifted her chin. “As I said, I merely wanted to see it.”

Alisdair smirked and closed the gap between them. He told himself that it was meant to intimidate her, to frighten her out of doing anything so reckless again. But the truth was, there was no rational reason behind it. He watched her pulse jump in her throat, her fingers curl into her skirts, and found he couldn’t resist.

“Ye ken that curiosity gets people killed, Isla.”

That seemed to stir something inside her. She had come to him begging for protection, but there was fire underneath that plea. He had already known that. What she had just done was reckless and brave in equal measure, spy or not.

She squinted her pretty blue eyes and folded her arms under her breasts. “Curiosity gets people killed? What a ridiculous thing to say,” she scoffed.

“Is that so, Isla?” Alisdair leaned in, and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Doesnae curiosity kill?”

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But most of the time it teaches something worth kennin’.”