Page 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Keep yer hands off me,” Sheona snapped, twisting her shoulder away as the guard’s leather-gloved fingers clamped onto her sleeve.

“Then keep yer feet movin’, lass,” the warrior grunted, shoving the heavy oak door open with the heel of his boot.

Sheona smoothed the front of her skirt, her knuckles whitening against the wool as she stepped into the bustling corridor of Hallow Castle. Servants darted past, carrying silver trenchers heaped with roasted meats, pitchers of sweet mead, and garlands of withered heather—the messy, triumphant wreckage of Laird Aaron Gallaway’s wedding celebration. The air hummed with the thick scents of roasted boar, wood smoke, and spilled ale.

Her wrists were free of the coarse rope they'd bound her with at MacFaris Keep, but the four broad-shouldered Gallaway guards surrounding her made that freedom meaningless.

She understood, with cold clarity, how she had come to be here: her father had launched his attack on Clan Gallaway in the middle of Laird Aaron's own binding celebration — a brash, bloody miscalculation that had cost Duncan MacFaris his life before the torches were even doused.

His men had broken and fled, and the Gallaway warriors had followed them all the way back to MacFaris's land, sweeping through the gates before she could reach the passage Andrew had shown her. They hadn't harmed her. Instead, they'd brought her here on Aaron's direct order to stand before whatever judgment the Highlands saw fit to pass. She lifted her chin higher, fixing her eyes on the heavy, iron-studded doors at the end of the hall. She refused to give any man in this fortress the satisfaction of seeing Duncan MacFaris's daughter flinch.

The guards flanked her as they reached the great hall, the heavy oak doors swinging wide with a low groan.

The room fell quiet. Dozens of Highland lairds sat along the trestle tables, their heavy iron goblets held mid-air as eyes locked onto her. At the head of the chamber sat Laird Aaron Gallaway, his arm resting comfortably on the carved wood of his chair, flanked by Caelan and Robert McLaren.

Before Sheona could part her lips to demand why she had been hauled across two glens like livestock, a towering warrior stepped out from the shadows near the hearth.

He was broad-shouldered enough to block the heat from the fire behind him, clad in dark MacKinley plaid, with thick, ink-black curls falling over a jaw carved from rough granite. Dark, piercing eyes pinned her to the spot.

“So this is the prize of the MacFaris line,” the giant murmured, his voice a low rasp that cut through the cavernous hall. He took three slow, deliberate strides toward her, his iron sword-hilt clinking against his belt buckles. “We should be in the meadow finishin’ the weddin’ ale, yet here we stand, cleanin’ up the bloody mess yer father and brother left behind.”

Sheona didn’t step back. A cold shiver ran down her spine under his relentless gaze, but she squared her shoulders and met it head-on. “I daenae even ken yer name, sir, yet ye speak as if I laid siege to this hall meself.”

“I am Laird Brodie MacKinley,” he said evenly, stopping two paces away. The sheer height of him forced her to tilt her head back. “And I have little patience for the brood of a tyrant.”

Sheona’s hands curled into tight fists at her sides. “Where are they? Where is me father? Where is me brother?”

Before Brodie could answer, a lean, gray-haired man in formal wool stepped forward from the Council of Elders. Sir Thomas Morrison adjusted his parchment rolls, his dark eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction.

“Duncan MacFaris and his heir paid for their ambition with their lives, Lady Sheona. The MacFaris name is finished, and yer lands ought to be stripped and placed under the Council’s authority to pay for the blood spilled.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Sheona’s feet.

Andrew is dead?

Her throat closed up, a suffocating weight pressing against her chest, but she clamped her teeth together, forcing her jaw to remain rigid. She wouldn’t weep before these men. She couldn’t.

“Enough, Morrison,” Aaron Gallaway said, rising from his chair at the head of the dais. His voice was calm, entirely devoid of malice, carrying effortless authority. He looked down at Sheona with a steady, solemn gaze. “Laird MacFaris is dead, lass. The keep has been secured, but I have nay desire to claim yer home through conquest or bloodshed. Until the Council reaches a final verdict on the estate, MacFaris Keep will remain guarded under me authority. I hold the keys, but I daenae hold the deed — the title of the land remains in yer name until the Council rules otherwise. Ye willnae be harmed. Ye are to return to yer lands and wait until judgment is passed.”

“Returned to me lands?” Sheona’s voice cut through the quiet hall, sharp and unbelieving. She took an imperative step toward the dais. “Ye leave me alone in a seized keep? Every ambitious laird in these Highlands will want me dead or forced into his bed! I am the last survivin’ bloodline, a woman who can bear an heir to me father’s soil. Leavin’ me there unguarded is nay different from tyin’ me to a post for the wolves!”

“Ye will hold yer tongue, Lady Sheona,” Brodie MacKinley barked, his heavy hand coming down on the hilt of his broadsword with a sharp clack. His dark eyes burned down at her. “Laird Gallaway has granted ye mercy where yer father offered none. Ye will show obedience before this hall, or ye will find how quickly mercy burns out.”

Sheona locked eyes with Brodie, her chest heaving as she swallowed the bitter protest surging up her throat. She held his stare until the giant Laird tilted his head, motioning toward the guards.

“Escort her to the guest quarters,” Aaron ordered gently. “Brodie will guard ye.”

As two warriors stepped up beside her, Sheona turned her body sharply back toward Brodie MacKinley. “If I am to be marched away, Laird MacKinley, may I ask one thing of ye?”

Brodie paused, his thick brows pulling together as he studied her defiant face. “One request, lass. Choose it wisely.”

“I’ll nae waste me breath beggin’ for me father,” Sheona said, her chin lifted high, though a tiny tremor betrayed her lower lip. “He was a traitor, and the clans have passed their judgment. But me brother was an honorable man. I wish to bury him accordin’ to Highland custom. Give me his body.”

Brodie stared at her for a long moment, the harshness in his dark eyes flickering slightly before turning cold once more. Without a word, he jerked his head toward the exit and stepped into the corridor beside her, dismissing the guards with a wave of his hand.

He walked beside her in heavy silence, his long strides forcing her to keep a quick, determined pace through the quiet stone passageways.