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“Let me help, Mairi,” Sheona said, rolling her sleeves past her elbows as she stepped up to the table beside her. “I cannae sit up in the solar doin’ nothin’ while the whole keep works.”

Mairi let out a soft huff, but she nudged a pile of risen dough toward her without another word. “Aye, well, a nervous bride is better off workin’ her hands than pacin’ a floor until she wears a hole in the stone.”

Sheona took the dough, pressing her palms into the warm, yielding mass, folding it over and stretching it against the flour-dusted oak. The heavy, repetitive motion anchored her. She listened to the rhythmic thump of knives chopping leeks, the spit sizzle over the coals, and the quiet, easy banter among the cooks.

Weeks ago, she had entered this keep as a captive—a ghost from a hated line, stepping over stone where every eye looked upon her with suspicion. Now, as she helped shape the loaves that would feed three hundred guests tomorrow, the cooks smiled at her, bowing their heads with whispers of “Lady Sheona”.

When the last tray of loaves was set near the brick oven to rise, Sheona washed the white flour from her forearms in a basin of cold spring water.

She left the roaring heat of the kitchens and climbed the back stairwell, her leather boots making faint, rhythmic taps against the steps. The corridors above were filled with the rustle of dry rushes as servants laid fresh, fragrant mats along the passageways. Banners of dark green plaid had been hung high on the stone walls, freshly brushed and free of ash.

As she passed the upper armory archway, a small, dark head poked out from behind a stack of empty grain sacks.

“Sheona!” Angus came barreling out, his small leather shoes slapping loudly against the flagstones. He was clutching a wooden toy horse whose tail had snapped off, his nose smudged with dark soot.

“Angus,” Sheona said, kneeling on the cold floor so she was at eye level with him. “What are ye doin’ lurkin’ near the grain sacks at this hour? Yer father will be lookin’ for ye.”

“I was hidin’ from Douglas,” he whispered loudly, his dark eyes wide as he looked back over his shoulder. “He wants me to put on the fine velvet tunic with the scratchy collar for tomorrow. I hate the scratchy collar.”

A soft laugh escaped her. She reached out, using the corner of her apron to gently wipe the black smudge off his cheek. “It is only for the ceremony, little fox. Once the oaths are spoken and the feastin’ starts, I am sure we can persuade yer father to let ye wear yer wool tunic again.”

Angus looked down at his broken toy, his small thumb tracing the splintered wood where the horse’s tail used to be. “It broke when I dropped it off the wall walk,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a quiet, mournful murmur.

“Let me see,” Sheona murmured.

She took the wooden horse from his hands. From the small pouch tied to her girdle, she pulled out a length of sturdy waxed thread she had used earlier that afternoon to stitch linen. Sitting right there on the corridor floor, with their backs pressed against the cool granite wall, she wound the thread tightly around the wooden joint, binding the tail back onto the toy with careful, double-knotted loops.

Angus leaned his heavy little shoulder against hers, watching her fingers with concentration, his warm breath fanning across her arm.

“There,” she said, trimming the knot with her small shears and handing it back to him. “Good as new. Strong enough to ride into battle again.”

Angus held the wooden horse up to the torchlight, a bright, radiant grin splitting his face. He turned suddenly, wrapping his small, thin arms tight around her neck, burying his face into the wool of her bodice.

“I’m glad ye’re stayin’,” he whispered against her collarbone. “I’m glad ye’re goin’ to be me mother.”

The words hit her, so warm and sweet that a sudden sting pricked the back of her eyes. Sheona closed her arms around his small frame, holding him tight, resting her cheek against his soft, messy dark hair.

“I am stayin’, Angus,” she promised softly, her voice thick with emotion. “I amnae goin’ anywhere.”

A heavy step echoed at the end of the corridor, and Douglas appeared, holding the offending red velvet tunic over his arm. Angus let out a tiny squeal, gave her cheek a quick, sticky kiss, and bolted down the hall toward the solar, laughing as Douglas groaned and trotted after him.

Sheona stood up slowly, smoothing down her skirts, her heart feeling lighter than it had in years.

She walked out onto the high ramparts, where the night wind swept cold and clean off the northern mountains. Below her, the courtyard was a quiet hive of preparation. Torches flickered in the iron sconces, illuminating timber tables being set up under the open sky and barrels of ale being rolled out from the cellars.

She wrapped her cloak tight around her shoulders, looking out over the dark, jagged horizon. Tomorrow, everything would change. Tomorrow, she would stand before the priest, before the Council, before the dead of both their houses, and take her place as Lady MacKinley.

Her pulse fluttered—a nervous, restless leap of anxiety at the sheer weight of what was to come. But as she placed her hand over her heart, feeling its steady, strong beat, the fear didn’t consume her. She was no longer a captive waiting for the stroke of an axe. She was no longer a girl clinging to the ruins of a broken past.

Sheona looked up at the vast, star-littered canopy above the keep, drew in a long, deep breath of the freezing Highland air, and smiled. She was ready.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The first pale ribbons of gold broke over the eastern crags, burning through the thick mountain mist clinging to the high stone walls of the keep. The morning air was sharp and cool, scented with wet earth, crushed pine, and wild thyme.

In the secluded shelter of the lower garden, enclosed by ancient moss-covered stone walls, Sheona stood enveloped in warmth. Brodie held her tight against his chest, his thick woolen plaid draped around her shoulders to keep out the dawn chill. His broad arms were anchored firmly around her waist, his chin resting lightly against the crown of her head as they stood together in the quiet sanctuary of the garden.

Sheona leaned back into his solid frame, her eyelids fluttering shut as she listened to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek. For months, her life had been a tempest of war, exile, and fear. But standing here, held fast in the arms of the Laird of MacKinley, she felt the world narrow to the heat of his skin and the gentle press of his thumbs against her hip.