Page 51

“Enough, lass,” MacIntyre barked, waving a dismissive, heavy hand through the air as if sweeping away a fly. “The men are discussin’ politics. Sit back and hold yer tongue.”

A violent, sickening silence dropped over the chamber.

Sheona froze, the blood rushing to her ears with a deafening roar. Her fingers curled into tight fists against the table, her throat locking tight as she fought back the sudden, furious sting in her eyes.

Beside her, a low, guttural growl vibrated deep in Brodie’s chest.

Before MacIntyre could draw another breath, Brodie slammed both palms flat onto the table. The heavy oak board rattled violently, jumping an inch off its stone supports. Pewter inkwells slopped dark ink across the ledgers, and the two guards at the door immediately reached for the hilts of their claymores.

Brodie didn’t draw a blade. He shifted his eyes toward MacIntyre. His dark amber gaze was so cold, so brimming with pure, unadulterated menace, that the Elder’s jaw snapped shut mid-breath. MacIntyre shrank back against the high wooden carving of his chair, his face draining of all color.

Sir Thomas Morrison raised two hands, his voice sharp with authority. “Peace! Order in this chamber! We willnae have brawlin’ beneath the MacKinley roof!”

Sheona swallowed hard, forcing her shoulders back down. She looked directly at Sir Thomas, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.

“I am the last lawful heir of the MacFaris lineage, Sir Thomas. If this Council intends to strip me house of its ancestral seat, ye will state the legal grounds, and ye will allow me to address every charge brought against me blood.”

“The grounds are simple,” Colquhoun sneered, regaining his nerve as he pointed a trembling finger at her. “Ye are a landless maiden with nay garrison, nay coin, and nay authority to enforce the King’s peace! Ye cannae hold those glens!”

“This landless maiden is answerin’ ye!” Sheona declared, leaning forward to force Colquhoun to meet her gaze. “If ye would listen to the terms of the treaty instead of twisting every word I utter⁠—”

“The Council has seen enough treaties broken by yer line!” MacIntyre interjected again, his voice rising to drown her out. “We daenae need to listen to the empty promises of a girl who⁠—”

Brodie rose from his chair.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t shout. The sheer size of him seemed to blot out the light from the tall stone windows behind them as he stood to his full, towering height. His broad chest heaved with slow, deliberate breaths, his hand resting casually on the iron pommel of the broadsword at his hip.

His dark eyes never left the Elder who had spoken.

“Ye asked a question,” Brodie said, his voice dropping into a deep, rocky rumble that rattled the iron sconces on the stone walls. “Show some respect. Allow her to answer it.”

The chamber went dead silent. Even Aaron Gallaway straightened his posture, his dark hand dropping away from his chest as he watched Brodie with quiet intensity.

Elder Colquhoun stiffened, his yellowing beard twitching as he forced a hollow scoff. “This is a formal hearin’ of the Council of Elders, Laird MacKinley. The Council will determine what is appropriate in this chamber, nae ye.”

Brodie took a single, heavy step forward. His iron-shod boot struck the stone flagstones.

“Nay.” The single word hung in the damp air, absolute and unyielding, echoing off the high timber rafters.

Brodie took another step, rounding the end of the long table, his tall frame looming over the seated Elders like a storm cloud over the crags.

“Ye are guests beneath me roof,” Brodie rumbled, his voice low, sharp, and lethal.

He stopped directly behind Sheona’s chair. He didn’t look at the Elders now. Slowly, deliberately, his dark gaze shifted downward, landing on Sheona. The hard, furious edge in his amber eyes softened for a fraction of a second—a quiet, unspoken promise passing between them in the cold tallow light—before he turned his head back to face the Council.

“And come tomorrow…” Brodie said, his deep rasp carrying to every corner of the silent room. “…she becomes Lady MacKinley.”

He reached down. His broad, calloused hand came to rest flat against the tall, carved back of Sheona’s wooden chair, his long fingers curling slightly over the top, physically anchoring himself to her side.

“That technically means MacFaris land is me land,” Brodie stated flatly. “And if ye wish to take it from her, ye can try takin’ it from me.”

The room stilled completely. Not a single breath was drawn. Sir Thomas Morrison slowly lowered his hands to the table, his eyes wide with quiet shock. Aaron Gallaway let out a low, breathy exhale, a faint, approving smirk touching the corner of his mouth.

Sheona sat frozen, her pulse hammering wildly against her ribs, her heart soaring so fast it made her lightheaded. She looked up at the broad, immovable wall of the man standing over her chair, his broad hand resting warm against the wood just inches from her shoulder.

Elder Colquhoun opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. The threat was clear and backed by five hundred MacKinley broadswords waiting outside the gates.

The MacFaris land was no longer a helpless prize for old men to divide over parchment. It was protected by the fierce, unyielding shadow of the Laird himself.