Page 8

The only thing the circling man left behind on the ridge was a scrap of folded parchment, half-buried in the mud where his horse had stood. Brodie turned it over. Blank, save for a dark smear along one edge — ink, not blood.

“They’re nae MacFaris men,” Brodie growled, his jaw working as he kicked the wounded man’s fallen sword into the brush. “And they’re nae common brigands either. Common thieves go for the saddlebags and the horses, nae the lass.”

He stood up, his tall frame looming over the bloody scene, his eyes dark and restless. The timing was far too convenient. They had barely cleared Gallaway’s valley before an ambush was laid in a narrow pass.

Sheona slowly pushed herself up from the damp earth, helping Angus to his feet. She brushed the pine needles from the boy’s knees, her hands shaking so violently she could barely smooth his tartan.

“Why would anyone attack us?” she asked, her voice tight, a tremor laced through every word. “Why would anyone care about me? I have nay army. I have nay gold. I am nothin’… I am only a woman.”

Brodie turned slowly to face her, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood.

“A woman can bear a son,” Brodie said softly, his low rasp cutting through the quiet forest. “A son and an heir to MacFaris lands. Lands that are about to be seized, and many will try to claim them.”

Sheona felt the blood drain entirely from her face. She stumbled back a step, her hand flying to her chest. She was trembling now, a deep, bone-chilling shiver overtaking her frame. The terrifying truth settled in like an iron weight. Her father’s death had solved nothing. Andrew’s sacrifice had bought her no safety. Whatever poison, greed, and blood-soaked danger had followed Duncan MacFaris had not died with him under the cliffs; it was hunting her. She was a walking target, a vessel for a dead tyrant’s legacy.

Panic clawed at her throat, her chest heaving as the trees seemed to lean in closer around her.

Before the hysteria could consume her completely, Brodie stepped over the fallen log, reached down, and placed his broad hands on Angus’s shoulders. He ran his large, calloused palms down the boy’s arms, checking his ribs, turning his head to ensure the child hadn’t suffered a single scratch or bruise.

“Ye all right, lad?” Brodie asked quietly.

“Aye, Father,” Angus whispered, his small fingers holding onto his father’s leather sleeve. “Lady Sheona kept me covered.”

Brodie nodded once, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. He stood up straight and turned to Sheona. Without a word, he took two long steps, closing the distance between them. He reached out, gathered her into his massive arms, and pulled her firmly against his broad chest.

Sheona gasped, her hands instinctively rising to press against the hard iron of his breastplate. Brodie tightened his grip, wrapping his thick woolen plaid around her shoulders, anchoring her to his towering frame. He held her so securely that she could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heart beneath the armor, the solid heat radiating from his body completely cutting off the damp chill of the gorge.

“Enough,” he murmured into her hair, his voice low, calm, and absolute.

Sheona buried her face against his neck, her fingers clutching the leather straps of his mantle as a quiet shudder ran through her.

“Nay one will lay a hand on ye,” Brodie whispered, his tone as solid as the granite cliffs above them. “I promise, as long as ye’re mine to protect… nay man will dare touch ye.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The heavy iron portcullis rose with a groaning screech, releasing the horses into the lower courtyard of MacKinley Castle.

Sheona reined in her bay mare, her breath catching as she looked around. The fortress was vast, yet it bore none of the grim, suffocating shadow of MacFaris Keep, nor the rigid, militaristic order of Hallow Castle. It was bursting with raw, unbridled life.

Three young children dodged past the horses’ hooves, squealing with laughter as they chased a squawking hound across the flagstones. Washerwomen carried wicker baskets heaped with steaming linens toward the laundry tubs, while half a dozen off-duty warriors laughed over a tankard of ale off to the side, raising their fists in greeting as Brodie rode past. Smoke curled lazily from half a dozen stone chimneys, carrying the mouthwatering scent of roasting mutton, fresh barley bread, and sweet wood fire.

It was bright and warm—the absolute opposite of the stern, silent giant riding at her side.

“Angus!” a sharp, frantic voice cried out across the yard.

“Miss Maria,” Angus replied.

An elderly woman in a neat linen cap and a thick woolen mantle bustled out the lower kitchen door, her apron hem tucked into her belt. She hurried straight to the boy’s pony, her face etched with deep worry until she caught the child under his arms and hauled him into a fierce, suffocating hug.

“Ye little scamp,” Maria scolded gently, pressing a kiss to the boy’s dark curls before turning her sharp eyes directly onto Sheona.

Sheona tensed in the saddle, bracing herself for the cold suspicion she had grown accustomed to receiving from strangers. Instead, Maria stepped right up to the mare’s flank, her hands resting on her hips as she looked Sheona up and down with an unblinking, maternal gaze. She did not ask for a name. She did not ask why the daughter of a traitor was riding beside her Laird.

“Look at ye,” Maria fussed, reaching up to gently pat Sheona’s cold boot. “Paler than a tallow candle and frozen right through to the marrow! Have ye eaten a bite of hot food since yesterday? Nay, I can see it in yer eyes. Come down off that beast this instant, lass. I’ll have hot mutton broth and fresh crusty bread before ye can take yer wet cloak off.”

Sheona blinked, completely disarmed, her lips parting in quiet shock. “I… thank ye, but⁠—”

“Maria!” Angus burst out proudly, puffing his chest out as he stood beside his father’s boots. He pointed a small finger toward Sheona. “Lady Sheona has come to be me new mother!”