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He looked at her with pure malice. She could tell that winning him over was not going to be easy.
She could only hope that Alisdair would not let his brother’s hatred sway him.
“Ye daenae need clothes,” Ewan snarled. “All Sinclairs are snakes, so ye will shed yer skin soon.”
Laughter rippled through the hall. Lady Moira pinned him with a stern look.
Isla felt her anger rising but forced it back down.
“I am nae a Sinclair,” she stated. “Me faither was Laird Murray.”
“Ye are Gordon Sinclair’s blood! Raised by him.”
“Blood doesnae define a person. Actions do.” She held his gaze. “I have done nothin’ to harm anyone in this castle.”
“Nae yet,” he hissed.
“Ewan!” Lady Moira scolded. “Show some respect. Isla is yer braither’s intended and the future Lady MacLeod. Ye willnae speak to her in such a manner.”
Ewan shot up from his chair, sending it screeching back across the stone. He stood there, breathing hard, eyeing Isla like a mortal enemy. In his eyes, that was exactly what she was.
“She willnae be me Lady! Never!”
Isla felt her breath catch in her throat, her eyes stinging. Still, she forced herself to stay calm.
“Yer braither announced—” she tried.
“Me braither has made a mistake that will destroy us all. For too long the Sinclairs shed MacLeod blood, and now ye are askin’ me to forget all about it?”
“I am askin’ ye,” she said, her voice cracking, “to respect the Laird’s decision.”
“Listen here, ye—”
The doors to the Great Hall opened, and Alisdair stepped inside. His sharp eyes took in the scene—the tense silence, Ewan’s glare, the overturned chair, the flush high on her cheeks.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Silence. No one dared to even look him in the eyes.
“I asked ye a question,” he growled.
Isla felt the weight of his presence fill the hall, but unlike her uncle’s, it didn’t press down on her. It let her breathe.
“I was just saying that she”—Ewan pointed at her—“willnae be me Lady.”
Alisdair said nothing. He crossed the hall like an avalanche coming down a hillside. Unstoppable, Magnificent. Dangerous. He came to the head of the table and stood there, arms loose at his sides. His grey gaze swept across the hall. No one dared meet it.
“I will say it once,” he said, his voice calm but formidable. “Isla is me intended. She will be yer Lady. Questionin’ her place in this castle is the same as questioning me authority, and I willnae tolerate it.”
Isla looked down. She felt steadier now that he was there, but she hated that he had to fight this battle for her. It wouldn’t be enough, not forever. His authority could only carry her so far. She had to do the rest on her own.
“Alisdair,” Ewan protested, “ye need to—”
“Ye are in no place to tell me what I need or neednae do, Ewan.”
Ewan shut his mouth and backed down, though not before throwing Isla a last dark look. His jaw tightened with frustration as he righted his chair and sat back down.
“All of ye!” Alisdair ordered.
