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She lifted the latch with practiced care, easing the thick oak door open just wide enough to slip through before pulling it closed until the iron latch settled into place with a faint, muffled click.

The outer corridor was long, narrow, and bathed in the dim, flickering orange light of the wall sconces. The stone walls here were thick enough to mute the howling gale outside into a low, distant hum.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Brodie was waiting for her.

He stood, his broad back against the cold granite wall opposite the doorway, arms casually crossed over his chest. His heavy kilt hung in thick, dark folds around his knees, and the white linen bandage wrapped around his left palm stood out starkly against the dark leather of his sporran. Even at rest, he cut an imposing silhouette in the narrow passageway, his towering shoulder blocking half the torchlight behind him. His dark, impenetrable eyes were fixed on the door, watching her the exact moment she stepped into the hall.

Sheona took two soft steps toward him, the faint scent of heather and wood smoke drifting off his clothes as she closed the distance between them. The exhaustion was visible in the faint, tight lines around his eyes and the hard, rigid set of his jaw, yet his gaze remained pinned entirely on her face, scanning her cheek and throat with unyielding intensity.

“Is the lad asleep?” Brodie asked, his deep voice a low, gravelly rumble that barely carried across the stone floor.

“Before his head even hit the feather pillow,” Sheona answered softly, placing a hand gently over her throat as she spoke to ease the dry scrape in her voice. “He refused to let go of the toy sword, even in his dreams.”

A faint, fleeting trace of warmth softened the hard line of Brodie’s mouth, though it faded almost as quickly as it came.

Sheona stepped closer still, stopping just within arm’s reach of him. She looked up into his dark face, the quiet hum of the keep around them prompting the question that had been weighing on her mind ever since they left the healer’s hearth.

“Brodie,” she began, her tone measured and low. “Has everyone been told what happened up in the tower?”

Brodie shook his head slowly, a single, deliberate movement of his chin.

“Nay,” he said flatly. “There is nay need to set the whole keep on fire over the bones of a madman.”

He uncrossed his arms, shifting his weight off the stone wall. He reached out, his uninjured right hand coming up to rest lightly against the small of her back, his broad palm warm through the thick wool of her bodice as he guided her to walk slowly alongside him down the quiet corridor.

“I have spoken with Douglas at length,” Brodie continued, his voice dropping an octave as they passed an open archway. “We went over the tower, his quarters, and the papers Morrison carried in his saddlebags. He acted entirely alone, Sheona. There was nay plot within these walls, nay traitor among the guard, and nay second dagger waitin’ in the shadows. It was a dead man’s debt, carried by a ghost who lost his mind to old poison.”

“And the guests?” Sheona asked, her eyes searching his profile as they walked. “The chieftains in the lower hall? The clansmen?”

“They ken nothin’,” Brodie replied, his fingers pressing reassuringly into her back. “When Morrison vanished from the high table, the elders assumed he had retired early to his chambers, weighed down by the King’s business and too much wine. None saw him slip up the watchtower stairs. None saw him fall.”

They turned the corner into the wider gallery overlooking the main courtyard, where the high windows were dark against the night.

“Douglas and two trusted men are already down on the rocks at the base of the north wall,” Brodie explained, his tone completely flat. “They are retrievin’ the body under the cover of the storm and seein’ to it quietly. They will scour the perimeter wall to wall, securin’ every postern gate and sentry post for any surprises. By dawn, the rocks will be clean, and Morrison’s horse will be led back toward the southern road as if he departed in the dead of night.”

Sheona let out a long, quiet breath, feeling a knot of tension in her chest slowly uncoil. The idea of the clansmen erupting into panic, of suspicion tearing through the newly forged alliances, and of her father’s bitter ghost being dragged back into the light of the Great Hall had filled her with a cold dread.

“Then the celebration continues?” she murmured.

“It does,” Brodie said firmly, stopping near the edge of a deep stone window alcove. He turned to face her fully, his hand sliding from her back up to her shoulder, his thumb gently brushing the edge of her collarbone. “Our people came here to celebrate a hand-bindin’, Sheona. They came to see the MacKinley clan made whole and to drink to the future. There is nay reason to alarm our guests, nor is there any reason to cast a dark shadow over our weddin’ night because a coward tried to drag his bitterness into our home.”

Sheona looked up at him, meeting the fierce promise burning in his dark eyes. The quiet strength radiating from him wrapped around her like a shield, far more comforting than any stone walls or armed guardsmen.

She lifted her hand, placing her soft palm over his bandage, feeling the warm, steady pulse beating beneath his skin.

“Then let the shadow die in the dark below,” Sheona whispered softly, leaning into his touch. “And let the hall have its peace.”

Brodie’s jaw relaxed, his fingers curling gently around her shoulder as he pulled her an inch closer into the shadow of the alcove, leaving the terrors of the night far behind them in the dark.

“Are ye truly all right, Sheona?”

More softly now, Brodie leaned down, his broad shoulder blocking out the chill of the stone alcove.

The faint, amber glow of the torchlight caught the hard planes of Brodie’s face, softening slightly as he looked down at her. The heavy silence of the gallery settled over them, thick and quiet, broken only by the low, muffled echo of laughter drifting up from the great hall far below.

Sheona lowered her eyes, her gaze fixing on the dark plaid of his tartan, unable to hold the intense, piercing heat of his look. She traced the rough weave of the wool with a trembling fingertip, her chest tightening as the raw truth rose in her throat, aching to be spoken.