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“A noble duty,” Sheona said softly, kneeling on the flagstones despite her heavy silk skirts so she could look the boy in the eye. She reached out, gently straightening the dark green MacKinley tartan pinned across his little shoulder. “And have ye found any trouble, brave sentinel?”

Angus shook his head fiercely. “Nay, Lady Sheona! Everyone is eatin’ and happy! But I must go back, Douglas said. A watchman needs to be vigilant at all times!”

With another quick, dramatic bow, the boy spun on his heel and darted back into the crowd, his wooden sword raised high as he wove through the legs of dancing villagers, his joyful shouts lost in the swell of the bagpipes.

Sheona stood up slowly, her gaze following the boy until he vanished into the golden light near the main gates.

A broad, warm hand settled gently against the small of her back. Brodie stepped up flush beside her, his tall, massive frame shielding her from the cool night breeze that was beginning to descend from the mountains.

Sheona turned into his space, resting her hands against his broad chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath her palms. Around them, the music raged on—the laughter of her people, the clinking of tankards, the stomping of boots on ancient stone, and the bright, flickering light of a hundred torches casting out the dark.

“It is everythin’ I ever dreamed the Highlands could be,” Sheona whispered, looking up into his dark, handsome face. “Peace and a home.”

Brodie leaned down, his warm lips brushing softly against hers in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sweet wine and pure promise.

“It is yer home now, Lady MacKinley,” Brodie rumbled softly against her lips, his fingers tightening gently around her waist. “Always.”

Sheona let her eyes close, losing herself in the warmth of his arms and the roar of the celebration around them. For a fleeting moment, the dark years of blood and fear felt entirely washed away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The wind howling off the northern peaks carried the heavy, acrid bite of burning pine, cutting through the sweet smell of roasted meat and ale. High above the courtyard, torchlight flickered against the ancient granite walls, casting long, frantic shadows across the flagstones.

Sheona stood near the edge of the timber dais, her fingers trailing over the smooth silver brooch pinned at her collar. The sacred linen cord Father Colm had knotted around their wrists had been unbound, yet the skin beneath her linen sleeve still felt warm from Brodie’s broad hand.

Around her, the feast raged on. Edith was still twirling Sir Thomas in a dizzying reel, her loud, breathless laughter carrying over the drone of the bagpipes, while Aaron Gallaway spun Scarlett across the open stones with a smooth, unexpected grace.

Yet the quiet stillness Sheona had felt during the vows was slipping away, replaced by a sudden, prickling heat along the back of her neck.

During the weeks leading up to the hand-binding, Angus had trailed her like a shadow through the upper solar and the larder, his bright dark eyes fixed on every bundle of dried rowan and braided willow she prepared. He had peppered her with a hundred endless questions—why the linen had to be bleached in spring water, why the white heather was picked before the frost, and what the three knots in the cord meant for a laird.

She had smoothed his dark, messy hair and promised him, with a quiet smile, that once the vows were spoken and the feast was underway, she would sit with him by the hearth and tell him the full story of the old Highland rituals.

Sheona smoothed down the front of her cream wool gown, her gaze sweeping over the crowd of dancing villagers, guards, and visiting elders.

He wasn’t near the bonfire where the roast venison was being carved. He wasn’t at the low timber table where Claire sat laughing over a cup of spiced mead.

Sheona stepped off the dais, her leather boots moving quietly over the rush-covered stones. She wove past a group of MacKinley warriors clinking heavy pewter tankards, her blue eyes searching the edges of the light.

Near the shadow of the outer armory archway, a small, familiar figure darted past a stack of grain sacks. Angus was moving fast, holding his small wooden sword firmly under his arm, his shoulders squared as he trailed two paces behind one of Douglas’s broad-shouldered watchmen. The guard was striding with long, urgent steps, his hand resting heavily on the pommel of his broadsword, completely oblivious to the small boy mimicking his exact, rigid posture behind him.

Angus hitched up his small green tartan, puffed out his chest, and stretched his legs to match the man’s gait, his small chin set in grim focus.

A soft, genuine laugh bubbled up in Sheona’s throat, clearing the sudden knot in her chest.

“Angus!” she called out, stepping around a pair of cooks hauling a fresh trencher of barley bread.

The boy didn’t turn. The roar of the pipes and the heavy thud of the guard’s iron-shod boots swallowed her voice entirely. The watchman turned a sharp corner into the dark mouth of the eastern corridor, and Angus ducked right after him, his little red plaid fluttering behind him like a banner.

Sheona pulled her dark woolen shawl tight around her shoulders and quickened her pace. Leaving the heat and torchlight of the courtyard behind, she stepped into the cool, quiet shadows of the lower passageway. The air here grew instantly colder, damp with the smell of wet river stone and old lime mortar. The thunderous cheer of the feast faded into a low, rhythmic thrumming that echoed through the masonry walls.

“Angus, stop a moment,” Sheona called again, her voice echoing softly off the high stone vaulting. “I have the story I promised ye.”

Ahead, the guard’s heavy footfalls echoed up the narrow stairs leading to the upper ramparts, but Angus had lagged. The boy stood at the base of the winding spiral staircase that cut deep into the ancient north wall—the dark, narrow ascent leading straight toward the old watchtower.

Torchlight from a high iron sconce washed over his small frame, painting his dark curls in flickering gold. His small hands held the carved wooden sword tight across his chest, his boots planted wide on the smooth, worn granite step.

At the sound of her boots against the flags, Angus turned his head. His face was flushed, a line of sweat glinting along his forehead, but there was no childish playfulness in his dark eyes. His mouth was pressed into a tight, hard line that looked so remarkably like Brodie’s when a storm was brewing that Sheona’s breath caught in her throat.