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Angus came marching into the room, his small leather shoes stomping purposefully across the rushes. Right behind him, dragged along by the sleeve of his dark tunic, was the giant form of the Laird himself.

“See, Father!” Angus announced loudly, his small face flushed with absolute triumph as he pushed Brodie right up to the side of the bed. “I told ye! Sheona didnae need Elspeth at all! It is the miracle of life! The bairn comes out all wet and screamin’, and then ye wrap it up so it does nae catch the chill!”

Brodie stopped dead in his tracks. The tall, formidable warlord, who could command three hundred men in the fury of battle without blinking, looked entirely out of place in the small, dim birthing room.

Sheona glanced up from the bed, her face glowing from the heat of the hearth, a few dark curls clinging to her temples, her hands cradling the small, squirming bundle against her chest.

The Laird was staring down at her, his dark eyes wide, his hard, unyielding jaw slackening by a fraction. The cold, unreadable armor he always wore had vanished, replaced by a look Sheona had never seen on his face. It was a look of raw, profound awe—a deep, stunned reverence that seemed to strip away the Laird, the war, and the heavy burden of his keep, leaving only the man looking at a woman holding new life.

Sheona felt a sudden, fierce heat rush up into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the hearth fire. Her heart took a strange, heavy tumble in her chest.

Flustered by the intensity of his stare, Sheona quickly tore her eyes away, turning back toward the bed to hide the warmth spreading across her face.

“Here is yer son, Mairi,” Sheona whispered softly, leaning down to lay the warm, crying bundle gently into the young mother’s arms.

Mairi wept openly, kissing the babe’s tiny forehead, while the kitchen maids let out quiet gasps of delight.

Sheona pushed herself up from the bedside, wiping her hands on a damp towel. She kept her chin lifted, stepping past Brodie and Angus toward the door, her heart still hammering wild and loud against her ribs long after she left the quiet room behind.

The thick, rich scent of toasted barley, roasted honey, and melted pork fat blanketed the lower kitchens of MacKinley Keep. Heat radiated from the cavernous stone hearths in waves, so intense that the heavy oak pillars supporting the low-ceilinged room seemed to sweat.

Sheona wiped a sheen of perspiration from her brow with the back of her forearm, leaving a streak of pale white flour across her forehead. She was standing at a massive trestle table, her sleeves pinned securely above her elbows, her fingers buried deep in a heavy wooden trough of oat dough. Beside her, Cook was rolling out flatbreads with a heavy wooden pin, her flour-dusted face set in a stern, critical expression.

“Nae so hard with the palms, Lady Sheona,” Cook grumbled, though her gray eyes glinted with rare approval. “Ye’re kneadin’ oatcakes for the village feast, nae tryin’ to break a horse’s ribs.”

Sheona let out a soft laugh, shifting her weight to lighten the pressure of her hands against the warm, dense dough. “Me mother always said if the dough does nae fight ye back, the hearth fire will chew it to ash.”

“Yer mother was a MacFaris,” Cook chuckled, slapping another thick circle of dough onto a hot iron bannock girdle over the coals. “They always did treat their grain like an invadin’ army. But ye’ve got a good wrist for it, lass. I’ll grant ye that.”

A loud, wet thwack echoed from the far end of the long table.

Sheona turned her head just in time to see Angus slap a lump of dough so hard against the flour-dusted oak that a white cloud erupted into the air. The boy gasped as the dust settled on his face, powdering his dark hair, eyelashes, and small nose until he looked like a tiny, soot-stained ghost.

“I am makin’ a horse,” Angus announced proudly, wiping his floury nose with his sleeve, which only smeared the paste across his cheeks. “A giant warhorse for the festival. It has six legs, so it can run faster than Father’s stallion.”

A young scullery maid standing nearby with a wooden bucket of water, let out a loud snort of laughter. “Six legs, young master? It looks more like a flattened toad that’s been stepped on by a bull.”

“It is nae a toad!” Angus protested indignantly, picking up a handful of dry flour and tossing it toward the maid.

The maid squealed, ducking behind a timber post as the white powder showered over her dark apron. Two other kitchen girls burst into giggles, ducking behind the wooden bread crates to avoid the crossfire.

“Angus!” Sheona called out, though she couldn’t suppress the grin spreading across her face. She reached out, catching the boy by the waist as he reached into the flour bin for a second missile. “If ye waste Cook’s fine meal, she will have ye scrubbin’ the grease traps until the winter solstice.”

Angus paused, looking up at Sheona with wide, white-lashed eyes. “Would ye really, Cook?”

“Aye,” Cook said solemnly, though her lips twitched beneath her floury mustache. “And I’d make ye use the small brush.”

Angus shuddered, instantly dropping the handful of flour back into the trough. He leaned his head against Sheona’s side, leaving a broad white patch on the hip of her dark wool skirt. “Lady Sheona, can we bake the horse now? The first batch of honey cakes is already comin’ off the stones.”

“Aye,” Sheona murmured, her heart warming at the boy’s easy, affectionate weight against her side. She picked up a small wooden paddle, sliding three golden-brown, honey-glazed oatcakes off the hot iron girdle and onto a clean wooden board. “Let them cool a moment, Angus, or ye’ll burn the tongue right out of yer mouth.”

The kitchen hummed with a light, easy energy—a stark, welcome contrast to the cold stone hallways and the lingering shadows of her past weeks. For the first time since her father’s keep had fallen, the suffocating knot in Sheona’s chest felt loose enough to let her draw a full, deep breath.

Then, the heavy timber door at the head of the kitchen stairs swung open. The laughter died instantly. The scullery maids straightened their skirts in a hurry, frantically brushing flour from their apron, and Cook wiped her hands on her towel with a sharp, respectful rustle.

Brodie stood in the doorway. He had to stoop slightly to clear the low stone beam, his massive frame casting a long, imposing shadow across the flour-dusted flagstones. He was dressed in his heavy leather brigandine, his broadsword strapped to his hip, looking every bit the fierce, unyielding laird who had spent the morning inspecting the perimeter guards.

His dark eyes swept over the room, instantly taking in the scene: the flour-covered floor, the giggling maids, the warm, golden light of the hearth, and finally, Sheona. She stood in the center of the chaos, her hair tumbling out of its pins, a streak of white flour accentuating the cheekbone he had touched just days before, her lips parted in surprise.