Page 17

Brodie dropped the linen cloth onto the desk, the heavy thud cutting through her words. He took two slow, menacing strides toward her, his bare boots silent against the stone floor.

“Ye are nae merely Lady Sheona MacFaris anymore,” Brodie said, his rasp dropping an octave, heavy with the weight of authority. “Ye are betrothed to this clan. Ye walk these halls as the future Lady of MacKinley, and while ye reside beneath me roof, ye are under me command.”

She opened her mouth to cut him down, but Brodie stepped straight into her path, his shadow falling over her small frame.

“Ye can make the boy laugh,” Brodie growled softly, leaning down until his dark eyes locked onto hers with absolute intensity. “Makin’ Angus laugh is the reason ye are allowed the freedom of this keep. It is the reason I havenae locked ye in the solar until the Elders arrive. But hear me well, Sheona, ye will never put me son in danger ever again. Nae for a game, nae for a laugh, nae for anythin’.”

“He was nae in danger!” Sheona countered, her breath hitching as she met his stern glare without flinching. “It was mud, Brodie! Simple, harmless mud! He is a nine-year-old lad who needed to run and play, nae sit in a dark corner worryin’ over land titles and bloody contracts! If ye spent half as much time playin’ with him as ye do scowlin’ at the horizon, ye would ken that!”

“I keep him alive!” Brodie barked, his chest expanding as he took another half-step closer. “I keep a roof over his head and a blade between him and the men who would see him dead for me name! I daenae have the luxury of soft games!”

“And so ye strip every ounce of joy from his life out of fear?” she whispered, her voice slicing through his anger with sharp, lethal precision. “Is that yer protection?”

Brodie’s jaw ground tight, a muscle leaping along his jawline. The air between them stretched taut, hot and thick with the friction of two unyielding wills. He opened his mouth to deliver a harsh, final reprimand, but the words withered in his throat.

His gaze shifted.

A single damp, dark curl had escaped the wild braid pinned behind her ear. It clung softly to the delicate, pale curve of her neck, coiling just above her collarbone. Where her linen shift had loosened during the fall in the mud, the pale skin of her throat lay exposed, smooth and vulnerable, marred only by a faint, dried streak of brown mud that ran down toward her collarbone.

The sight was unannounced.

That contrast—the soft, pristine porcelain of her skin against the rough, dark earth of his keep—drew his focus with a sudden, agonizing pull. His blood ran hot, a heavy, thick pulse thrumming in his ears. The memory of her musical laughter echoing in the courtyard, her breathless smile from the mud pit, and the sheer heat radiating off her small body swept through him, burning away every shred of stern logic.

He wanted to touch her. The urge was raw, primitive, and completely overwhelming. Without thinking, without granting his mind time to forbid it, Brodie lifted his right hand.

His large, calloused thumb reached out and brushed against the base of her throat, tracing the faint streak of dried mud.

Sheona gasped, a sharp, tiny intake of air lifting her chest against his broad shadow. She didn’t pull away. She stood entirely still, her blue eyes widening in sudden shock, fixed on his face as his thumb moved slowly, deliberately across her skin.

The contrast was staggering—his rough, battle-scarred hand against the velvety softness of her neck. The rough pad of his thumb scraped gently over her collarbone, flaking the dried mud away, feeling the rapid, fluttering leap of her pulse beneath her skin. The delicate scent of dried savory, fresh lavender, and damp rain rose off her hair, filling his senses, driving out every lingering thought of duty, honor, and council contracts.

His hand lingered. His thumb stroked upward, tracing the delicate line of her jawline until his palm rested flat against the side of her neck, his fingers tangling into the soft, damp curls at the nape of her head.

Sheona’s breath caught again, her dark lashes fluttering, a tiny shudder running through her frame.

Brodie’s gaze dropped to her lips. They were parted, flushed rose-red, and trembling slightly from her anger and the sudden, electric shift in the room.

He lost the battle. Brodie gave in.

His hand slid fully behind her neck, his long fingers cupping the base of her skull with possessive strength, drawing her upward and toward him. He bent his head, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that shattered every rule he had built to protect himself.

It was firm, hungry, and searing.

His lips parted hers with an authoritative heat, taking what he had craved since the moment she stepped into his great hall. He tasted the faint, sweet salt of her skin and the cool mountain rain on her lips. For a fraction of a second, he felt her hands rise, her fingers clutching instinctively at the hard, bare muscles of his waist, her body leaning into his broad chest as if drawn by the same desperate gravity.

The heat burned straight to his bones.

The moment their lips parted, the sudden realization of what he had done struck Brodie like a physical blow.

He released her instantly. Brodie shoved himself backward, his boots sliding against the stone, taking three rapid, clumsy steps away from her until the massive oak desk once again stood as a barrier between them.

His chest heaved in deep, ragged gulps of air, the broad muscles of his back and shoulders glistening in the dim candlelight. He stared at her, his dark eyes wide and wild with a fierce mixture of lingering desire and sudden, gut-wrenching fury at his own weakness.

“God’s teeth,” Brodie rasped, his voice rough, broken, and thick with self-loathing as he buried a heavy hand in his dark hair. “Curse me… curse me for a fool.”

Sheona stood rooted to the spot where he had left her. Her lips were flushed, swollen, and glistening, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. She touched her fingers to her mouth, staring at him across the desk with an unreadable gaze.

Brodie gripped the edge of the oak desk so hard the dark wood groaned under his weight.