Page 54

“Ye massive brute,” Claire laughed, pulling back to plant a hard, affectionate kiss on his cheek before slapping his arm. “Douglas told me ye nearly broke the Council table in two! I expected nay less!”

“Mind yer manners, Claire,” Brodie grunted, though a small, familiar warmth settled in his chest at the sight of his cousin. “Ye’re makin’ a spectacle.”

“Oh, hush,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. She spun around, her yellow skirts swirling around her boots as she spotted Sheona standing near the hearth.

Claire didn’t hesitate. She marched straight across the flagstones, throwing her arms around Sheona in the same warm, unceremonious embrace. Sheona gasped softly in surprise, her hands hovering in the air for a fraction of a second before she smiled and hugged the woman back.

“Look at ye!” Claire declared, stepping back to hold Sheona at arm’s length, her eyes sweeping over her face with genuine, overflowing joy. “Healthy, whole, and color back in yer cheeks! When Brodie brought word ye were fever-ridden days ago, I feared the worst. But look at ye now, fittin’ for a lady of this keep!”

From the far side of the hall, small boots pounded against the stone floor. Angus came skittering out from the pantry corridor, a half-eaten apple clutched in his sticky fist.

“Aunt Claire!” the boy shouted, throwing himself at her knees.

“There’s me little fox!” Claire laughed, scooping Angus up into her arms with practiced ease, tickling his ribs until the boy shrieked with laughter. “Come along, little man. Ye’re goin’ to help me check the horses in the lower stables before yer father finds another chore for ye.”

She swept out of the hall toward the side doors, her loud, cheerful chatter echoing behind her as Angus giggled, leaving a sudden, quiet stillness in their wake.

Brodie turned his head back toward the hearth.

Sheona was standing near the table, her cheeks burning a bright, dusty pink as she stared down at a bundle of purple heather in her hands. She shifted her feet awkwardly, biting the inside of her lower lip as she realized the room had gone quiet.

Brodie could not resist. He folded his arms across his broad chest and took three slow, deliberate strides toward her until his shadow fell over her hands.

“Ye look flustered, Lady Sheona,” he rumbled, leaning down slightly so his voice carried only to her ears. “Is it the garlands, or are ye still embarrassed about mistakin’ me own cousin for me lover when she rode through the gate?”

Sheona’s head snapped up. Her blue eyes flashed with instant, fiery life, her delicate jaw setting into a tight line as she glared up at him.

“I did nay such a thing,” she lied smoothly, her chin lifting in sharp defiance even as the flush on her neck deepened. “I merely thought Laird MacKinley had remarkably poor taste in companions.”

A low, deep sound rumbled out of Brodie’s chest, a rare, genuine laugh that echoed off the stone mantelpiece. The women weaving garlands near the fire turned their heads in astonishment, but he didn’t care.

Sheona watched him, a small, triumphant smile curving the corners of her lips. It wasn’t the guarded, polite smile she gave the Elders, nor the tight, nervous grin she wore when she was afraid. It was bright, genuine, and entirely her own.

Brodie stared down at her face, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. He couldn’t get enough of that smile. He couldn’t get enough of the way her eyes caught the firelight, or the way her chin tilted when she was gearing up to fight him, or the quiet, fierce grace she carried into every room she entered. He couldn’t get enough of her.

Aaron’s words echoed in Brodie’s mind, clear and sharp as a kirk bell on a winter morning: Curses only work if ye give them power.

Brodie looked at the girl standing before him—the daughter of his enemy, the woman who had conquered his hall, his son, and the hard, frozen stone of his own chest without ever lifting a sword.

He let go.

He let go of the guilt. He let go of the dark, cold fear that had kept him locked in the dark for five long years. He let the ghost of Isabel rest beneath the cold mountain turf where she belonged, and he stepped fully into the light of the woman standing right in front of him.

Brodie reached out, his broad, calloused fingers closing gently around hers, untangling the sprig of heather from her hands.

“Come tomorrow, Lady Sheona,” he murmured, his voice thick and low with a promise that needed no Council parchment to bind it, “ye willnae have to worry about me taste ever again.”

The twilight over the high crags had turned the sky to a bruised shade of plum, casting long, cool shadows across the inner courtyard. Tomorrow, the priest would tie the linen cord around their wrists. Tomorrow, the MacFaris name would merge with MacKinley, bound by iron, oath, and soil.

Sheona’s fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed the front of her kirtle, but beneath the nervous flutter in her throat, there was a strange, quiet stillness—a peace she hadn’t known since the fires at her father’s keep had burned out.

She slipped past the iron-studded doors of the great hall and made her way down the winding stone stairs to the kitchens.

The heat hit her first, thick and heavy with the scent of roasting venison, crushed rosemary, and fresh, crusty barley bread. The cavernous room was a frenzy of motion. Roaring fires crackled in the three great hearths, turning the lime-washed walls a warm, flickering orange. Kitchen wenches darted back and forth with armfuls of turnip roots, while the spit-boys turned heavy iron cranks, sweating in their thin linen shirts.

Mairi stood at the central timber table, her hands elbow-deep in a massive wooden trough of dough, her hair escaping her linen cap in damp wisps.

“Out of the way, me Lady, or ye’ll be dusted in flour!” Mairi called out, though a fond, weary smile creased her face as Sheona stepped into the room.