Page 54 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

“When this is finished.”

“And me people answer tae nae MacNicol council.”

“They will answer only tae their own chief.”

Alasdair withdrew his hand. “Then I will bring eight.”

It was enough. Cormac felt satisfaction settle through him, cold and clean. The King believed old names could be bound together by wax and marriage. Roy believed strength and patience would win Donaldina’s trust. Donaldina believed her wishes could alter the designs of men and monarchs.

They were all mistaken.

Cormac extended his hand across the stone. Tormod clasped it first. Alasdair followed.

“Before the marriage,” Cormac said.

“Before the marriage,” Tormod agreed.

Alasdair’s grip remained firm. “And nae witnesses.”

Cormac looked past them toward the ruined wall and the darkness beyond. Once, his clan had watched the coast from that tower. Men carried the Gunn name with fear and respect. No MacNicol ordered them where to graze, whom to serve, or how deeply to bow.

Stone could fall. Power could be taken. And Donaldina, whatever she believed, remained the key to restoring both.

“Nae witnesses,” Cormac echoed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Donaldina woke to footsteps beyond her chamber door. At first, she thought the sound belonged to the remnants of a dream. Then, the footsteps came again.

She opened her eyes. The fire had burned low, leaving a faint red glow beneath the ashes. Moonlight peeked through a gap in the curtains, casting a pale line on the floor. Mairi was asleep in the next room. There were no guards calling out or alarm bells ringing. However, after Cormac, silence no longer meant safety.

Donaldina pushed back the blankets and reached for the dagger beside her bed. The weapon had been Roy’s suggestion after their first lesson. She objected that keeping steel beneath her pillow seemed an excessive response to poor sleep. He replied that Cormac possessed an excessive devotion to returning where he was unwanted.

She pulled a wool robe over her nightgown and stepped into the corridor. Cold stone met her bare feet through the thin soles of her slippers. The passage was dark except for the torches burning at either end, their flames bending whenever the wind pressed through the arrow slits.

The footsteps sounded below, so she followed.

She descended the narrow stair with one hand upon the wall and the dagger concealed within the folds of her robe. At the lower landing, she saw a dark figure cross the far end of the corridor.

Her heart struck once, hard. Then the man passed beneath the torchlight.

Roy.

He wore no cloak and carried no sword, though a dagger remained at his belt. His shirt hung loose at the throat, and his hair had not been tied back. He moved through the castle as though he knew every shadow, though he had lived within Dun Ard scarcely long enough to learn which doors stuck in damp weather.

She paused, sensing an unease in his stiff shoulders. While she saw no threat or anger, she detected fatigue instead. He didn't seem to notice her as he moved across the hall and lifted the bar from the small courtyard door. Cold night air poured in, carrying a salty, damp mineral scent of stone. He then stepped outside.

Donaldina should have returned to her chamber. After all, a man was entitled to solitude. Roy more than most, perhaps. He guarded his silences as fiercely as other men guarded land. Yet, she followed.

The courtyard lay silver beneath the moon. Rain had passed, leaving the stones slick and shining. The clouds had broken apart above the sea, exposing stars in scattered clusters. Roy crossed beneath the gate and took the path toward the cliffs. Donaldina knew where he was going even before he turned.

Lachlan’s cairn was situated beyond the burial path, soaring above the water where many MacNicols had been laid to rest beneath stone. The wind was stronger there, capturing her robe and pulling it around her legs as she kept her distance.

Roy did not look back. He reached the cairn and stopped.

Lachlan’s resting place was still new enough that the stones appeared pale among the older graves. Heather had not yet begun growing between them. The plaid laid there after the burial had been removed before the last storm, but a small carved piece of wood remained near the base. It was a child’s offering, shaped roughly like a boat.

Roy stood with his head bowed.