Page 70

“I have never truly ken fear until that moment,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper that barely rustled the quiet air. The memory flashed unbidden behind her eyelids—the slick edge of the stone, the terrifying void beneath her heels, and the cold, unyielding grip of Morrison’s hands. “Nae when the keep fell, nae when the fires burned… never like that.”

She paused, drawing a slow, shuddering breath. A deep, bitter shame welled up inside her, heavy and poisonous.

“But as I was standin’ there, suspended over the rocks, another thought crossed me mind,” she continued, the words coming harder now, strained with a self-loathing she could no longer hide. “A thought I hate meself for ever entertainin’.”

Brodie stood motionless, a steady, immovable anchor in the dim passageway, listening, every line of his body taut and attentive.

“A part of me wondered whether Morrison had been right,” Sheona confessed, her knuckles turning white where her fingers clutched at his tartan. “A part of me wondered whether the MacFaris blood had brought nothin’ but suffering to the Highlands… and whether perhaps it should have ended with me.”

Brodie’s hand moved slowly, with painstaking gentleness. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers cupping the side of her jaw, avoiding the purple shadow blooming across her skin, and gently lifted her face until her eyes were forced to meet his. His gaze was fierce, ablaze with a burning conviction that scorched through the lingering cold in her veins.

“Curses hold only the power people choose to give them, Sheona,” he said, his deep voice thick with a quiet, fierce authority that left no room for doubt. “Yer father was the curse upon these lands—his greed, his cruelty, his madness. Nae his strong, extraordinary daughter.”

His thumb smoothed softly over her cheekbone, warm and steady.

“If this is the MacFaris blood that lives through ye,” Brodie continued, his dark eyes searching hers, locking her into place, “then I will do everythin’ in me power to protect it. I will bleed for it, I will fight for it, and I will cherish every drop of it that runs through yer veins.”

A shudder passed through Sheona’s shoulders, the tight knot of despair in her chest finally beginning to break apart under the weight of his words. She leaned her face further into his broad palm, drinking in his strength, before letting out a soft, aching sigh.

“There is more,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to lay bare the small, foolish secret she had guarded in the darkest corners of her heart for months. “Every time we found another symbol carved into the boundary stones… every time there was another set of footprints in the mud outside the gates… another sign that someone had been watching me from the tree line…”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and vulnerable.

“A small, foolish part of me secretly hoped it was Andrew,” she confessed softly. “I imagined that somehow me brother had survived the battle… that he had been followin’ us from a distance, keepin’ watch over me just as he always did when we were children. I held onto that ghost, Brodie. I nursed that little spark of hope in the dark.”

Her breath caught in her throat, a faint, sad smile touching her lips before fading completely.

“It was only when Morrison stepped out from the shadows of the watchtower, his eyes full of hate, that I realized how impossible and silly that hope had been,” she said quietly. “Andrew is gone. There was nay brother watching over me. Only a dead man hunting me.”

Brodie was quiet for a moment. His thumb moved slowly against her hair.

"The symbol in the hut," he said. "Douglas found a blade in Morrison's saddlebag. Same width as the cut in the wood. He carved it himself, the MacFaris crest, to keep ye unsettled. To make ye feel watched and hunted so ye'd be easier to separate from the keep." His jaw tightened. "Every track. Every mark in the glen. It was him."

Sheona closed her eyes.

"He kent what I would hope," she said after a moment. "He used Andrew against me, and Andrew wasnae even there."

"Aye," Brodie said quietly. "He was a careful man."

Brodie said nothing more. Instead, he lifted his other hand, his rough fingers tenderly brushing a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, leaning in until his breath warmed her forehead.

“I love every part of ye, Sheona,” he murmured against her skin, his voice deep, rich, and raw with emotion. “I love yer brave spirit, I love yer stubborn heart, and I love even yer impossible hopes.”

Before she could draw another breath, Brodie gathered her into his arms. He pulled her body flush against his broad chest, closing every inch of space between them. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her thick, dark hair, and his lips found hers.

The kiss was slow, deep, and fiercely possessive—a sudden, hungry fire that swept away the lingering shadows of the watchtower and the chill of the gallery. It was a promise made without words, claiming her, anchoring her, reminding her with every passing second that she was alive, that she was safe, and that she belonged right here in his embrace.

Sheona sank into him, her arms sliding up over his broad shoulders, her fingers gripping the thick wool of his plaid as she returned the kiss with a quiet, desperate passion of her own. The world outside narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the fierce, steady thud of his heart against her ribs.

When they finally parted, their breaths came fast and mingled in the cool night air. Brodie rested his forehead against hers, his eyes dark and heavy with a burning heat, his chest heaving as he fought for control.

Sheona looked up at him; the heavy shadow in her heart lifted, replaced by a sudden, brilliant warmth. A faint, playful smile broke across her lips, lighting up her eyes despite the dark bruise along her jaw.

“I have just realized somethin’, Laird MacKinley,” she whispered, her voice laced with light, affectionate mischief.

Brodie raised a dark eyebrow, his thumb resting lightly near the corner of her smiling mouth. “And what is that, me Lady?”

“Ye keep breakin’ yer vow,” she murmured, leaning up on her tiptoes until her breath brushed his lips again. “Yer solemn, stern vow of never touchin’ me.”