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Brodie stood by the high hearth, a heavy iron ring of keys resting in his palm as he watched Thomas Morrison step through the threshold of the great hall.

Thomas Morrison, the emissary appointed by the Council of Elders, stood near the high hearth, the same lean, gray-haired man who had spoken so coldly in the hall at Hallow Castle, though nothing about him today suggested the cold satisfaction he had worn then.

Clad in fine, unblemished gray wool with a heavy leather satchel slung across his chest, he carried himself with the cool, measured step of a diplomat — a man who preferred contracts, ink, and leverage to bloodied steel in a muddy gorge.

At Brodie’s summons, Sheona had entered the hall a moment prior, wiping a trace of flour from her forearm. She stood near the edge of the dais, her slate-gray gown neat, her blue eyes bright with curious attention.

“Laird MacKinley,” Morrison said, bowing respectfully before holding out a sealed scroll. “The message from the Council of Elders is that they have set their arrival for a fortnight hence to review the borders and oversee the bindin’.”

Brodie took the parchment, breaking the red wax seal with a flick of his thumb, but his eyes barely skimmed the ink. His attention was pinned entirely on the courier.

Morrison turned toward Sheona. Instead of offering the guarded, calculating stare most men gave a MacFaris, he offered her a warm, genuine smile, bowing his head toward her with smooth courtesy.

“Lady Sheona,” Morrison said, his voice soft and pleasantly clear as he bowed his head toward her. “It is a relief to see ye again, me lady, and under far better circumstances than our last meetin’.”

Sheona blinked, surprised by the gentle tone, before returning a small, graceful dip of her chin. “Thank ye, Sir Thomas.”

“The news from the south has been dark, to be sure,” Morrison continued, stepping a fraction closer to her, his gaze lingering on her face with open, earnest interest. “All the Highlands suffered under yer father’s heavy hand, me lady… but the shadow is passin’. It is time for the glens to move forward, and I, for one, am glad to see ye safe in MacKinley keep.”

Brodie’s jaw ground tight.

A sudden, sharp heat flared behind his ribs—a thick, prickling irritation that tightened his grip on the parchment until the stiff sheepskin buckled in his fist. There was nothing sinister in the courier’s words, no hidden venom or suspicious intent. The man was merely being polite. He looked at her as if she were a precious flower blooming in a winter thaw.

And Brodie found he despised the sight of it.

He didn’t want Morrison looking at the soft curve of her throat. He didn’t want Morrison to offer her sweet, empty comfort. The lass belonged under MacKinley’s protection, within his walls, bound to his name.

“If the parchment is delivered, Morrison,” Brodie barked, his low rasp cutting through the exchange, “ye’ll find hot ale in the lower guardroom before yer ride back.”

Morrison started slightly, missing the dark, possessive glint in the Laird’s eyes, and bowed quickly. “Me thanks, Laird MacKinley, Lady Sheona.”

With a final, lingering smile toward Sheona, the messenger turned and walked out of the hall.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving an immediate, heavy quiet in the vast room.

Brodie slowly tossed the parchment onto the high table, stepping down from the dais. He closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate strides, his boots thudding against the stone flagstones until he towered over her.

“A soft tongue costs a low-country clerk nothin’, Lady Sheona,” Brodie said softly, his voice gravelly and low, his jaw set as he stepped off the dais. “Daenae let sweet manners blind ye to where ye stand.”

Sheona didn’t back away. She tilted her head up, meeting his stern gaze with a spark of bold challenge in her clear blue eyes.

“Sir Thomas treated me with more kindness in two minutes than some people in this keep have since I arrived,” she countered, her lips curving into a slight, mocking tilt. “While ye, Laird MacKinley, have done little but question, judge, and glower at me as if I were a thief caught in yer pantry.”

“I daenae glower,” Brodie grunted, his brows drawing down tightly.

“Ye do,” she insisted, taking a half-step closer to him, her chin rising. “Ye glower when I speak, ye glower when I silence Angus, and ye certainly glowered at poor Sir Thomas for simply wishin’ me well. Is it a crime in yer glens for a man to speak pleasantly to a woman?”

Brodie’s chest rose in a heavy breath. He wasn’t angry with her for arguing; she had proven from the first moment in the solar that she would not be trampled like a frightened deer. But the sheer irritation of watching her place trust in another man’s soft words made his blood run hot.

He leaned down slightly, stepping into her personal space until the faint, sweet scent of dried savory and fresh lavender drifted from her clothes.

“I judge what is dangerous to me keep and me family,” Brodie growled softly, his dark eyes dropping for a fraction of a second to her flushed lips before snapping back to her eyes. “And a lad who flatters ye with easy promises is far more dangerous than a man who tells ye the brutal truth to yer face.”

“Perhaps,” Sheona murmured, her breath catching as she felt the sheer heat radiating off his massive chest. She held his gaze, refusing to yield an inch, though a delicate pink wash rushed up her neck. “Or perhaps ye simply cannae abide when someone else shows a bit of manners. Does it bother ye, Brodie? That someone sees me as somethin’ other than a bargainin’ chip?”

The sound of his name on her lips hit him like a physical blow.

Brodie took one more inch, his tall frame pinning her against the edge of the high table. He was so close he could see the tiny gold specks in her blue irises and hear the rapid, fluttering rhythm of her pulse in her pale throat. The air between them stretched taut, thick with a sudden, charged electricity that had nothing to do with feuds or land titles.