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Sheona didn’t look at them. She turned her head slowly, looking up into the dark, shadowed face of the man standing beside her.

Brodie was already looking down at her. His dark amber eyes were quiet, searching her face for any trace of the fear that had plagued her since dawn. His hand remained firm against the small of her back, the heat of his skin seeping straight through her clothes, filling her with a steady, fierce warmth that made her head swim.

“Ye spoke well, lass,” Brodie murmured, his voice so low that only she could hear it over the noise of the clearing chamber.

A tiny, breathless smile touched Sheona’s lips, her blue eyes bright as she looked up into his hardened features.

“I had a formidable man standing behind me,” she whispered back, her voice trembling slightly with the relief washing through her veins.

Brodie’s mouth twitched, a faint, rare trace of a smile softening the hard line of his jaw. He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he tucked her arm securely against his side, his large hand folding over hers as he turned to lead her out of the Council chamber and into the bright morning sun waiting in the courtyard beyond.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Brodie walked down the narrow stone corridor toward the great hall, his long strides echoing against the granite walls, with Aaron Gallaway matching him step for step at his right shoulder.

The sharp tension that had held Brodie’s chest tight all morning was finally beginning to loosen, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache in his knuckles where he had slammed them down on the oak table.

Aaron let out a sudden, loud bark of laughter that bounced off the vaulted stone ceiling. He shook his dark head, clapping an iron-hard hand onto the back of Brodie’s shoulder.

“By the Saints, Brodie,” Aaron said, his voice rich with an amusement he hadn’t dared show in front of Morrison. “In all the years I have known ye, through three border wars and a dozen land disputes, I have never seen Brodie MacKinley move like that for a woman.”

Brodie kept his eyes fixed straight ahead on the sunlight streaming through the great hall archway, his jaw setting tight. “The Elders were turnin’ the hearin’ into a circus. Colquhoun needed to be reminded whose hall he was sittin’ in.”

“Colquhoun looked as if he were about to wet his tartan,” Aaron replied smoothly, stepping around a pair of servant girls carrying armfuls of fresh rushes. He slowed his pace, turning his dark eyes toward Brodie with a sharp, calculating gaze. “It was nae just about yer hall, and ye ken it.”

Brodie didn’t answer. He reached for the iron latch of the inner hall door, his fingers tightening around the cold metal.

“Tell me somethin’, Brodie,” Aaron murmured, stopping in the shadow of the doorway. “Was that yer son’s desire ye were defendin’ in there, or was it yers?”

The question hung heavy in the narrow passageway, thick as the tallow smoke from the wall sconces. Brodie’s throat worked as he swallowed, his chest expanding in a long, quiet breath.

For days he had told himself, and every man who asked, that keeping the lass safe was for Angus. That bringing her into his keep was a debt owed to a small boy who needed a mother’s gentle touch, a boy who had dragged a half-frozen MacFaris girl through the gates like a lost pup.

But standing behind her chair today, feeling the heat of her spine straight and proud beneath his hand as she faced down six armed lairds…

“I should let go, shouldnae I?” Brodie rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried across the flagstones. “A man who clings to the dead brings a shadow over the livin’.”

Aaron’s face softened, the mocking light in his eyes vanishing entirely. He reached out, his broad hand coming to rest firm against Brodie’s chest, right over the heavy linen of his tunic.

“It is time, Brodie,” Aaron said quietly, his voice ringing with a deep, uncompromising truth. “Ye have carried yer dead around yer neck like an iron chain for five long years. Ye think ye’re cursed. Ye think any person ye love is bound for the grave. But curses only work if ye give them power, man.”

He gave Brodie’s shoulder a hard, solid shake. “Give the dead their peace. And take the life standin’ right in front of ye.”

Before Brodie could answer, the bright, melodious sound of women’s laughter drifted through the open archway of the great hall, cutting through the heavy silence between them.

They stepped through the doorway into a swell of warmth and light. The long trestle tables had been pushed back against the timber walls to make room for a dozen women from the lower village. They sat in a wide circle near the massive hearth, their laps overflowing with sprigs of purple heather, white ribbon, and woven willow branches, twisting them into garlands for the binding ceremony tomorrow.

At the center of them sat Sheona.

She had shed her heavy wool cloak, her dark hair falling in soft, unbound waves over her shoulders. A faint, golden light from the hearth fire touched her cheekbones, and for the first time since she had entered the gates, the tight, terrified shadow in her blue eyes was completely gone. She was laughing at something Mairi was saying, her slender fingers working a knot of wild ivy into a loop of wicker.

Brodie’s heart gave a strange, violent thud against his ribs.

A sudden swirl of bright tartan blocked his view as a figure darted across the floor.

“Brodie!”

Before Brodie could brace himself, Claire threw her arms around his neck, wrapping him in a fierce, breathless hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him.