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A sharp, hot sting pricked behind her eyes, but she forced her chin up, hardening her jaw until her teeth ached.

Why should I care? She thought fiercely, her fingers digging so tightly into her leather skirts that the seams strained. Let him have a dozen lovers. Let him laugh until the roof beams fall in.

She was a MacFaris. She was here because her father was dead, her home was burned, and her bloodline made her a prized piece of land to be bargained over. Brodie had made it abundantly clear in his study: she was a duty. A cold, iron obligation to a dead man’s contract. Nothing more.

The kiss in his study—that brief, terrifying explosion of heat and dark passion—had been a mistake born of fury and storm. A momentary lapse in a man’s control. He did not want her. He did not care for her sharp tongue or her ruined name. He wanted a quiet life, his clan’s safety, and, evidently, golden-haired women who brought lemon sweetmeats and made him laugh.

“Sheona?” Angus’s voice broke through the dark spiraling of her thoughts. He was watching her, his small brow furrowed in concern, his wooden horse held loosely in his lap. “Does yer chest hurt again?”

Sheona forced a breath into her lungs, smoothing her expression into a cool, impassive mask as she turned back to the boy.

“Nay, Angus,” she said softly, her voice steady and hollow as a dry well. “Me chest does nae hurt at all. Tell me more about yer horse. Did ye fix the bridle?”

Angus’s face lit up instantly, completely reassured, and he launched back into his endless, cheerful chatter.

Sheona leaned her head back against the chair’s carved wood, listening to the boy’s voice as the shadows lengthened across the solar floor. The fever had left her blood, but a new, quiet coldness had taken its place, a wall she vowed never to let Brodie MacKinley breach again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Brodie stepped into the solar, his tall frame instantly filling the stone archway. He had shed his heavy travel plaid for a dark wool tunic, its sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the thick, corded muscle and faint, pale scars of a man who lived by the sword. His dark hair was damp, pushed back from his broad forehead, and his jaw was shadowed with fresh stubble.

Angus scrambled down from the stone window seat with a loud clatter of his leather shoes, clutching his wooden horse tightly against his chest. His face split into a wide, triumphant grin.

“Father!” the boy piped up, standing as tall as his small frame would allow. “If ye allow it, it is time for me to take me arms lesson!”

Brodie’s dark eyes softened—a subtle, barely noticeable shift in the hard lines around his mouth that made Sheona’s pulse leap in a strange, erratic rhythm. He looked down at his son, stepped forward, and clapped the boy’s small hand in his own broad, calloused palm. He gave it a firm, serious shake.

“Aye, lad,” Brodie rumbled softly, his gravelly voice echoing in the quiet solar. “Off ye go. Mind ye keep a sharp eye on the tree line, and daenae sit on the cold stone.”

“Aye, me Laird!” Angus beamed, turning on his heel and darting out of the solar with a flurry of quick, eager footsteps that quickly faded down the stone corridor.

The sudden silence in the room stretched between them, thick and heavy. Sheona sat up straighter in the cushioned high-backed chair, her fingers resting lightly on the carved oak armrests. She glanced around the vast, empty hall. The usual hum of the keep was absent; no maids were scrubbing the hearths, no pages were hauling firewood, and the usual clatter of spit-jacks from the kitchens below was entirely muted.

“Where is everyone?” she asked, her voice still carrying a faint, raspy edge from the lingering sickness.

Brodie walked slowly toward the high window, looking out over the inner courtyard before turning back to face her. “The servants are below stairs, busy preparin’ for the village festival,” he explained, resting one heavy hand on his belt. “And Douglas, along with the rest of the guards, remains at his post securing the perimeter. Especially now, with the gatherin’ drawin’ near.”

He took a slow step toward her chair, his dark gaze locking onto hers with a quiet, unyielding focus. “I am keepin’ me promise, Sheona. Ye are safe within these walls. I intend for ye to enjoy the feast.” He paused, a subtle shift in his voice making her skin prickle. “After all, once our bindin’ is complete, ye will be the one organizin’ the festival as the Lady of these lands.”

Sheona heard almost nothing he said after that. The words Lady of these lands and binding slid past her ears. Her mind was entirely consumed by a single, burning question that had festered in her thoughts ever since Angus had spoken the name.

Who is Claire?

She smoothed her skirts with meticulous care, trying to project a cool, distant composure she did not feel. She tilted her chin up, aiming for a tone of polite, casual indifference.

“It seems the keep was lively while I was confined to me bed,” she began softly, circling the subject with deliberate care. “I gather ye had a visitor despite the storm?”

Brodie leaned his hip against the edge of the heavy oak table, crossing his broad arms over his chest. “Aye. She sought shelter before the roads flooded.”

“I see,” Sheona murmured, tracing a grain in the polished wood of her chair. “I suppose the guest kept ye occupied?”

“Aye.”

Her jaw tightened slightly at his frustratingly short reply. She pressed on, her voice tightening with disguised irritation. “I caught only a fleetin’ glimpse of a woman before the fever took me. Perhaps she visited me chamber while I slept? Either way… she was remarkably beautiful.”

She waited, expecting him to offer a stoic nod or a flat confirmation. Instead, the corner of Brodie’s mouth twitched. Slowly, deliberately, his lips curved upward, and a quiet, low laugh rumbled deep within his broad chest.

Sheona froze. The breath caught completely in her throat.