Page 20

Then he saw her.

Sheona was crouched near a cluster of sharp gray rocks at the garden’s wild edge, her dark green cloak pooled around her knees in the dirt. Her dark hair was escaping its pins, whipping across her face in the rising gale. She was holding a small iron harvesting blade, her fingers reaching blindly into a cluster of dark, serrated leaves.

Brodie’s eyes narrowed, his military instinct instantly identifying the pale, red-flecked stems before his brain could even process the danger.

“Stop!”

The command tore from his throat before he could stop it. In three long, surging strides, Brodie crossed the damp grass, reaching down to catch her delicate wrist in an iron grip just as the iron blade hovered a bare inch above the plant.

Sheona gasped sharply, flinching so violently at the sudden intrusion that the harvesting knife slipped from her fingers and clattered uselessly onto a flat stone.

The immediate, rabbit-fast leap of her pulse beneath his fingers stung him like a stray ember. Brodie instantly released her wrist, taking a quick, rigid step backward to put space between them. His hands clenched into heavy fists at his sides, his chest expanding as he drew in a rough breath of the cold mountain air.

“Ye are about to cut water hemlock, Lady Sheona,” Brodie grunted, his gravelly voice tight with a fierce, sudden anger he couldn’t entirely mask. “At this early stage, before the flower blooms, the root and stem are utterly lethal. A single drop of its sap in Elspeth’s dryin’ baskets could taint every bundle of sweet thyme in the pantries.”

Sheona remained on her knees for a heartbeat, her small hand clutching her chest where her heart hammered beneath her wool mantle. She looked up at him through her damp, dark lashes, her pale face flushed with the sudden startle. Slowly, with deliberate grace, she gathered her skirts and rose to her feet, her blue eyes flashing with that familiar, stubborn pride.

“I am well aware of what hemlock looks like, Laird MacKinley,” she replied, her voice remarkably steady despite the rise and fall of her breath. “And if ye had bothered to observe before grabbin’ me like a stray thief, ye would ken I was aiming for the wild marjoram beside it. Mistress Elspeth specifically requested the early shoot, as its medicinal properties are far more concentrated before the stalk fully matures.”

As she spoke, she raised her hand to push a stray lock of windblown dark hair behind her ear, accidentally smearing a streak of dark, wet soil across the soft curve of her high cheekbone.

The contrast—the dark dirt against her pale, porcelain skin—tore through Brodie’s defenses with terrifying speed. Before his disciplined mind could forbid it, his body acted on pure, raw impulse.

He stepped forward. His heavy hand rose, his broad thumb reaching out to brush the damp earth from her cheek. His skin grazed hers for a fraction of a second, a touch far too soft for a man built for war. The sheer velvet warmth of her flesh sent a jolt of fire straight up his arm, echoing the exact, searing heat of the kiss they had shared in his study.

Sheona froze completely. Her breath caught in her throat with a tiny, audible gasp, her dark blue eyes widening as she stared up into his face.

The heat between them flared like dry kindling in a gale.

Brodie snatched his hand back as if he had touched a hot brand. A deep, bitter flush rose beneath his dark beard, and his jaw set in a line of absolute, icy granite. He could not do this. He was a laird with a clan to protect and a binding contract that pressed closer with every passing day. He had given his word that she would be safe under his roof, and he would not be undone by his own base weakness.

“Ye daenae need to stand there lookin’ as if ye expect me to strike ye,” Brodie said bluntly, forcing his voice into a harsh, emotionless growl. “Or worse. What happened in me study was an error. A lapse in restraint that will never happen again. Ye are here out of grim necessity, Lady Sheona, to secure an alliance me people desperately require. That is all.”

The words were meant to establish a boundary, to reforge the iron wall between them. But as Brodie watched her, he saw the subtle shift in her posture.

Sheona did not bow her head. She did not look away. Instead, her chin tilted up, her eyes burning with a cold, terrifying clarity that caught him entirely unprepared.

“Do ye truly think I need ye to remind me of me place, Brodie?” she asked softly, her voice slicing through the gathering wind like a honed blade. “I ken precisely what I am in this keep. I am yer captive. I am yer burden. I am the price ye must pay to keep yer lands from fallin’ into ruin.”

Brodie opened his mouth, but she took a step toward him, refusing to let him speak.

“Whether I was forced upon ye or brought here by the pity of yer own young son, I amnae blind,” Sheona continued, a sharp, tragic humor lacing her tone. “I ken ye daenae want me here. I ken ye are merely toleratin’ me presence until the council arrives to hand me over!”

Brodie’s temper, already strained to its limit by the lingering heat in his blood and the crushing weight of his duties, snapped. He was a man of steel and action, completely inept at the delicate verbal sparring of women, and her words struck too close to the raw guilt he carried.

“Toleratin’ ye?” Brodie stepped directly into her space, his towering frame casting a massive shadow over her small form as his dark eyes flared with sudden fury. “Ye speak as though ye are a victim of MacKinley cruelty! Ye should be on yer knees thankin’ God ye are breathin’ in this meadow at all! Me men spared ye after yer father’s bloodthirsty clan launched an unprovoked ambush against me people!”

Sheona flinched as if struck, the color draining instantly from her face.

“Yer brother himself drew a blade against me on me own borders,” Brodie spat, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly roar that vibrated in his chest. “Andrew fought like a rabid beast to strike me down while me men were tryin’ to shield innocent guests and townfolk! Daenae stand there and lecture me on honor or burdens, girl, when it was yer family’s dark madness that brought us both to this edge!”

Sheona stood entirely frozen. The air seemed to leave her lungs all at once, her blue eyes turning as cold and empty as winter ice.

“Ye have nay right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rising wind, yet carrying a lethal, deadly edge that made Brodie’s chest tighten. “Ye have nay right to speak his name. Ye ken nothin’ of me brother, or the agony he suffered tryin’ to protect me from me father’s madness.”

She stepped back, pulling her green cloak tightly around her trembling frame, locking her gaze on his with absolute, unyielding hatred.

“I forgot me place for a moment, Laird MacKinley,” she said quietly. “I assure ye… I will never forget again why I am in yer keep.”