Page 60

It was just as she had thought. The watchmen, likely amused by the boy’s relentless shadow, had indulged his frantic questions about the guards and the sweaty horse in the yard, letting him believe there was a grand mystery to solve. Angus had taken the guards’ idle chatter and built a war around it. Brodie would no doubt give the boy a stern lecture on military discipline, though she knew her new husband’s dark eyes would gleam with quiet pride behind his impassive mask.

“Is anyone here?” she called softly.

No answer came.

She turned back toward the stairs.

A floorboard creaked behind her. Sheona froze. Her fingers remained resting on the windowsill, the rough oak biting into her palm.

The sound hadn’t come from the stone threshold by the spiral stairs. It had come from the far corner of the room, near the disused grain chute—where the flooring was made of thick, aged larch planks rather than masonry.

She didn’t turn right away. She let her gaze shift slowly across the chamber. To her right, the wall hung heavy with shadows where the stone curved toward the upper parapet door. A long, dark shadow stretched across the floorboards—one that didn’t belong to the table or the bench. It was wide, high-shouldered, and entirely still.

The air in the room suddenly felt heavier, thick with the scent of wet wool, horse sweat, and unwashed leather. Her heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs. She let her hand fall slowly from the window latch, her fingers curling into her palm.

“Geordie?” she asked, keeping her tone light, the same easy cadence she had used with Angus. “If ye’re tryin’ to startle me into droppin’ me basket, ye’ll find I brought nothin’ up the stairs to spill.”

No reply came. Only the slow, deliberate, raspy drag of air through someone’s nostrils.

She turned her body an inch at a time, keeping her weight balanced over her back foot.

The shadow moved. A man stepped out from the recess beside the door. He was broad-chested, wrapped in a faded mantle caked with dried mud at the hem. A thick strip of linen was bound tightly around his upper arm, dark red seeping through the dirty weave. He didn’t wear the crest of her father’s clan. The iron buckle at his shoulder was plain, scratched, and rusted at the edges.

His right hand rested on the pommel of a bare dirk.

Sheona took a step back, her heel striking the base of the stone wall beneath the window. The cold stone bit through her bodice.

The man took a step forward. The wood groaned again under his boot. He didn’t speak. His face was dark with soot and road grime, his eyes pale and fixed on her throat. He lifted his left hand, pressing two fingers over his lips in a sharp, harsh warning — and even in the dim torchlight, the dark stain of ink along his right forefinger was unmistakable.

Sheona’s throat tightened, but she kept her chin level. Her hand slid backward along the wall behind her, her fingers searching the rough mortar, hunting for the heavy iron peg she had just wedged into the window latch. Her fingers brushed the cold metal.

The man saw the movement. He lunged forward, the leather of his boots scraping hard against the oak boards.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The roar of the great hall was a deafening wall of sound—the skirl of bagpipes, the thump of heavy boots against stone, and the booming laughter of men who had drunk far too much heather ale.

Brodie stood near the foot of the high table, his broad shoulders leaning against the timber paneling, a wooden tankard held loosely in his right hand.

For the first time in years, the crushing weight between his shoulder blades had eased. The sacred linen cord Father Colm had unwrapped from their wrists was tucked safely into his belt, its crisp weave still carrying the faint scent of dried white heather and Sheona’s skin. Across the yard, the firelight had caught the gleaming silver brooch at her collar, illuminating her fine profile as she navigated through the crowd of well-wishers. Every time his eyes found hers, an unaccustomed, stubborn heat tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He turned again but did not see her in the hall. Just as he was about to go find her, Douglas stepped up beside him, his massive arms crossed over his chest, carrying two heavy horn mugs. The older warrior took a long draft, his gray-streaked beard dripping with foam, before slanting a sideways glance at his Laird.

“Ye look ridiculous, Brodie,” Douglas grunted, his deep voice cutting through the din of the reels. “Like a man who’s swallowed a feather and cannae spit it back out.”

Brodie rubbed a heavy palm over his jaw, feeling the tight, unfamiliar pull of his own muscles. “Me damn face hurts, Douglas. I daenae think it was built for this much smilin’.”

Douglas let out a dry, wheezing bark of laughter, shaking his head as he watched a guard attempt an energetic step-dance near the hearth. “Of course it is raised against it. Ye’ve spent nine years scowlin’ at sheep and border reivers like a wounded bull. Yer skin has forgotten the shape of joy, lad. Give it a day or two; it will settle.”

Before Brodie could offer a sharp retort, a small, frantic motion near the edge of the timber dais caught his attention.

Angus was barreling through the sea of guests. The boy ducked under the arm of a laughing MacKinley guardsman, dodged a stray hound begging for mutton scraps, and sprinted straight down the aisle toward the high table. He was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed bright crimson, his small leather shoes slapping wildly against the rush-covered flags. In his right hand, he clutched his small, carved wooden sword so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Brodie’s chest swelled with a quiet, fierce fondness. He set his tankard down on the trestle table and stepped forward, dropping into a low crouch as the boy skidded to a halt in front of him, gasping for air.

“Steady, lad,” Brodie said, his voice softening into that low, grounded rumble he reserved only for his son. He reached out, his thick hand cupping Angus’s small, hot shoulder. “What is it? Has a rogue haggis escaped the kitchen?”

Douglas chuckled into his horn of ale, but Angus did not join in. The boy’s face was set in a look of deadly gravity, a mirror image of Brodie’s own stone mask when trouble was afoot. He puffed out his small chest, planted his boots wide, and lifted the wooden blade, pointing it straight toward the dark archway of the eastern hall.