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“Four weeks,” Brodie said, ignoring her outburst entirely. “Ye will come to MacKinley Keep, and ye will remain beneath me roof for four weeks. Four weeks for me son to discover whether his admiration survives the reality of yer presence. And four weeks for me to determine whether the daughter of Duncan MacFaris carries her father’s poison beneath her skin.”

He paused.

“If ye do — if at the end of those four weeks me son has seen enough, or I have — I return ye to Laird Gallaway's custody and the Council passes whatever judgment it sees fit. That is the alternative I am savin' ye from. So choose carefully.”

“And if I refuse?” she demanded, her voice tight, straining against the physical weight of his proximity. “If I tell Laird Gallaway that I willnae step foot on yer land?”

A small, dark, completely humorless smile touched the corner of Brodie’s mouth.

“If ye believe Aaron Gallaway’s mercy has restored yer freedom, ye understand neither these Highlands nor the men who rule them,” Brodie purred, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Ye said it yerself in the hall, Lady Sheona. Ye are in deadly peril. The Elders can strip ye of every stone and stick of timber yer father ever touched. They can grant MacFaris Keep to the highest bidder before the month is out. They can hand ye over in marriage to whichever ruthless old laird best serves the peace of the border, and nae a single man in that hall will ask whether ye wish it.”

He leaned down half an inch closer, his chest almost touching hers, his gaze holding her captive in the shadow of his broad shoulders.

“And those are the best possibilities waitin’ for ye,” Brodie whispered, his tone as cold and sharp as winter ice. “I’m the only man offerin’ ye a choice, Lady Sheona.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Iunderstand this is nae a matter of choice,” Sheona said, her voice dropping into a whisper. She lifted her chin, her clear blue eyes holding his without a single flicker of fear. “So the only thing I need to ken is when do we leave?”

Ach, lassie, Brodie thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. I shall teach that mouth of yers some manners.

“At dawn,” he growled, stepping back to let the air rush between them once more. “Have yer cloak wrapped tight. I daenae wait for anyone.”

The morning sun had barely crested the jagged eastern ridges when the small procession passed through the iron gates of Hallow Castle. The air was crisp, heavy with the cold scents of damp pine needles, morning mist, and turned earth.

Brodie rode ten paces ahead on his heavy iron-gray stallion, his broad shoulders squared against the mountain breeze, his hand resting casually near the hilt of his broadsword. His dark eyes swept the tree line, reading the movement of the bracken and the rustle of the oak canopy, watching for any sign of a stray MacFaris loyalist or border raider.

Yet despite his outward focus on the trail, his ears were dialed entirely to the two horses walking in his wake.

Sheona rode a small bay mare, her dark hair braided tightly over one shoulder, wrapped in a coarse wool cloak. Beside her, mounted on his small highland pony, Angus bounced in the saddle, his eyes wide as he took in the heather-draped hills.

“Lady Sheona?” Angus called out, leaning over his pony’s neck. “Why do those hawks circle three times before they dive? Is it because they’re lookin’ for mice, or are they waitin’ for the wind to carry them higher?”

Brodie braced himself, his fingers tightening on his leather reins. He waited for the inevitable, the quiet sigh of impatience—the sharp, dismissive edge every adult eventually turned on his son after five miles of relentless probing. Instead, Sheona slowed her mare, matching the pony’s easy gait.

“I reckon it’s a bit of both, Angus,” Sheona replied, her voice soft, carrying easily across the morning air. “Look at how the red one keeps its wings stiff while the gray one flaps. What do ye think the red one sees that the gray one doesnae?”

Angus squinted up at the gray sky, his brow furrowing. “The red one is higher! He’s catchin’ the warm breeze comin’ off the glen!”

“Aye,” Sheona murmured, a faint, genuine warmth in her tone. “He lets the wind do the work, so he doesnae waste his strength.”

Brodie’s jaw worked silently as he stared straight ahead between his stallion’s ears.

As the hours crept by and the trail narrowed along the bank of a rushing burn, Angus’s stream of questions never faltered. He pointed at the yellow gorse clinging to the rock face, asking why the tiny flowers bloomed in the cold, why the river curled tightly around the dark granite rather than cutting straight through the meadow, and why the ancient, moss-covered oaks near the ridge all bent toward the morning light.

“Why do they lean like that?” Angus asked, pointing a small, leather-gloved finger at a gnarled oak perched on the crag. “Are they reachin’ for the sun, or did a great gale push them over when they were saplings?”

Sheona paused, pulling her horse up to stare at the twisted bark. She tilted her head, studying the curve of the trunk. “To tell ye the truth, Angus, I daenae ken.”

Angus stopped his pony dead on the path. His small mouth parted slightly, his dark eyes wide with utter astonishment. “Ye daenae ken?”

“Nae a bit,” she said freely, turning to him with a slight shrug, completely unbothered by her own ignorance. “Could be the winter storms beat them down when they were young. Or perhaps they prefer the mornin’ heat on their leaves. What do ye reckon?”

Angus stared at her as if she had just performed magic. No grown person had ever admitted to not knowing an answer before; every elder, nurse, and captain in MacKinley Keep always offered a rigid, hasty declaration to silence him.

Up ahead, a sharp, bitter pang twisted beneath Brodie’s ribs, settling cold and heavy in his stomach.

He felt a deep, quiet disappointment in himself. For nine years, he had protected his son, trained him, built a stronghold for him, and loved him with every breath he drew, yet Angus had never chattered to him with such wild, uninhibited enthusiasm. With Brodie, the boy was respectful. A dutiful heir standing in the heavy shadow of a laird. But with this strange woman, the daughter of his enemy, the lad sparkled like a fresh spring stream.