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All three lost their balance.

With a thunderous, wet crash, the mighty Laird MacKinley plunged headlong into the center of the pit, hitting the sludge squarely between them. A colossal wave of black, brackish water erupted into the air, soaking Brodie’s plaid, plastering his dark hair to his skull, and dripping heavy globs of mud from his chin.

Angus threw his head back and let out a deep, genuine belly laugh that echoed off the high stone walls of the keep. Seeing the pure, boundless joy shining in the boy’s eyes, Sheona couldn’t help but join in, her own musical laugh spilling out as she reached up and tried to wipe a splash of mud from Brodie’s cheek.

Her fingers barely grazed his jaw.

Brodie went absolutely still. The laughter around him continued, but he didn't hear it. He felt the cold mud soaking through his plaid, felt his son's small hand gripping his sleeve, felt her fingertips against his face — and something locked tight in his chest, hard and sudden as a portcullis dropping.

He pulled back.

The joy lasted only a moment. Her smile completely disappeared.

Brodie rose to his feet in a single, terrifyingly fluid motion. He towered above them, dark mud dripping steadily from his tartan onto his leather boots. His face was set in cold, furious stone. He fixed Angus with a firm, uncompromising look that instantly silenced the boy’s giggles. Then he turned his dark, piercing gaze squarely onto Sheona.

“This isnae fittin’ conduct for the future Lady of MacKinley,” Brodie said, his voice dropping into a harsh, authoritative rumble that cut through the chilly air. “Ye should protect him, nae encourage him into gettin’ hurt.”

Sheona froze, the cold sludge soaking through her gown suddenly feeling like ice against her skin.

“Me son is a boy,” Brodie continued, stepping out of the mud pit with heavy, splashing strides. “Ye should ken better.”

Without waiting for an answer or offering a hand to help her up, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the keep.

Sheona watched Brodie disappear through the heavy timber archway. She sat frozen in the mud, her jaw trembling—not from the cold, but from a sudden, blinding rush of sheer fury. She couldn’t believe he had spoken to her like that. She couldn’t believe he had addressed her as if she were a foolish, irresponsible girl who knew nothing of care or duty.

“Lady Sheona?” Angus whispered, all the excitement drained from his pale face as he looked at her with wide, remorseful eyes. “I am sorry… I pushed him.”

“It was nae yer fault, Angus,” Sheona said, forcing her voice to remain steady as she scrambled to her feet.

She brushed the thickest layers of mud from her heavy woolen skirts, wringing out the hem as best she could. Gathering her dignity, she took Angus by the hand and led him out of the pit toward the side entrance, where two anxious kitchen maids were already hurrying toward them with warm towels.

“Take him upstairs, Jenny,” Sheona instructed, handing Angus over to the maid with a gentle pat on the boy’s head. “See that he has a hot bath and warm clothes immediately.”

“Aye, me Lady,” Jenny said nervously, casting a timid look toward the main hall. “And ye?”

“I have business to attend to,” Sheona spat through clenched teeth.

She did not stop to change her clothes. She did not pause to wash the dried mud from her face or to untangle the damp, messy curls clinging to her neck. Leaving a trail of wet, silty footprints across the clean stone flagstones of the great hall, she marched straight up the stairwell and down the long corridor toward Brodie’s study, more furious than she had ever been.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The heavy oak door of the study didn’t just open; it slammed against the stone wall with a crack that echoed off the high timber beams.

Brodie snapped his head toward the threshold, his muscles coiling in immediate, instinctual defense. He was stripped to the waist, having just hauled the heavy, mud-soaked linen tunic over his head. It lay in a dark, sodden heap beside the iron washbasin on his desk. Droplets of cold water glistened across the dense, dark hair covering his chest, tracing the thick line of a pale scar that ran down his ribs to his waistband.

Sheona stood framed in the doorway, her chest heaving beneath her ruin of a gray gown. Dark, wet sludge coated her skirts from thigh to hem. Her dark hair had slipped entirely from its bindings, falling in wild, damp ringlets over her shoulders, and streaks of brown earth dried against the high, porcelain curve of her cheekbones. Her clear blue eyes blazed with a raw, blinding fury that lit her whole face from within.

Then her gaze hit his bare chest.

She froze mid-stride, her mouth parting on an unspoken demand. The fierce momentum that had carried her through the keep stalled in a single, suspended breath. Her eyes flicked down the hard plane of his chest, tracing the rise and fall of his ribs, then snapped back to his eyes. A dark, delicate flush crept up her throat, blooming beneath the dried mud on her skin.

Brodie didn’t reach for his dry shirt. He stood his ground, towering beside the massive oak desk, and let his jaw set into a hard, unyielding line.

“Bargin’ into me private study without invitation hardly improves yer case, Lady Sheona,” Brodie rumbled, his voice gravelly and low. He reached for a linen drying cloth, wiping the dampness from his forearms with slow, deliberate care. “Unless ye came up these stairs specifically to earn yerself another lecture on proper decorum.”

“I came up these stairs because I willnae be spoken to as if I were a mindless child!” Sheona fired back, stepping into the room and letting the heavy door swing shut behind her.

The flush on her cheeks deepened, but she didn’t back down an inch. Her chin rose, her small fists clenching in the folds of her wet skirts. “I have listened to yer orders and endured yer glares, Laird MacKinley, but I refuse to apologize for makin’ a lonely little boy laugh!”