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“I see ye plenty clearly, Sheona,” Brodie whispered, his rasp dropping so low it vibrated against her collarbone. “And I daenae need low-country couriers to tell me what ye are.”

Her lips parted, a sharp intake of air lifting her chest against his broad shadow. For a long, suspended heartbeat, neither moved. The argument melted into the background, swallowed whole by the raw, unspoken pull drawing them together. Brodie’s hand twitched at his side, an overwhelming urge to reach out and cup the back of her neck taking root.

“Father! Lady Sheona!”

The sudden, thundering sound of small boots pounding across the stone floor shattered the moment.

Angus came racing down the center aisle of the hall, his woolen plaid trailing behind him like a runaway cape.

Brodie instantly straightened, stepping back a pace as Sheona hurriedly smoothed down her skirts, her cheeks burning crimson.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Angus skidded to a halt on the smooth flagstones, his small face flushed crimson and his dark eyes wide with unbridled excitement. He clutched Sheona’s hand in a tight grip, tugging hard on her fingers before she could even catch her breath after the lingering heat of Brodie’s presence.

“Ye have to come!” Angus gasped, his chest heaving under his small wool plaid. “I’ve discovered the grandest game ever invented in the whole of the Highlands, and it requires another player! Father is far too heavy and slow for it, but ye’re small enough to make it across!”

Sheona shot a swift, breathless glance back at Brodie. He still stood framed against the high oak table, towering and shadow-draped, his dark eyes fixed on her with that same unyielding intensity. Her pulse was still hammering against her ribs, her skin tingling where his shadow had just enveloped her. Escaping the suffocating tension of the great hall felt less like a choice and more like a desperate necessity.

“A game, is it?” Sheona asked, her voice carrying a light, melodic lilt as she let Angus pull her toward the side entrance. “And what sort of grand trial requires me presence so urgently?”

“Come on and see!” Angus cheered, bursting through the heavy timber door into the crisp mountain air.

Sheona followed him down the winding stone path, past the bustling kitchen gardens and beyond the main stables, where the scent of dry hay gave way to the sharp, rich smell of damp earth and wood smoke. Tucked behind the hay store and the wheelwright’s shed lay a forgotten patch of ground, shielded from the wind by high stone walls.

There, the stable boys had constructed a wild, chaotic obstacle course. Old oak beer casks lay stacked on their sides, heavy pine logs spanned across patches of slick moss, overturned handcarts served as bridges, and rotting fence posts formed a precarious balance beam over a broad, dark hollow filled with rainwater and thick, brown mud.

“The rules are simple,” Angus announced proudly, climbing atop the first overturned barrel and raising his arms to keep his balance. “Ye must cross from the hay shed all the way to the old stone wall without a single boot-sole touching the ground. Ye must leap from barrel to log, scale the cart, and walk the narrow beam. Whoever slips into the mud is a fallen warrior and loses all their honor!”

Sheona looked at the slick logs, the trembling barrels, and the mud pooling below, a genuine, dazzling smile breaking across her face. It was absurd, childish, and entirely chaotic—and her heart leaped at the sight. For years, under her father’s rigid, iron rule, a lady was expected to walk with measured, silent steps, her hands folded, her laughter stifled.

“Angus,” a heavy, thunderous rasp boomed behind them.

Brodie had followed them from the hall, his massive frame filling the alleyway between the sheds. He stood with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, his dark brows pulled down into a sharp, formidable line as he surveyed the mud pit and the rickety barrels.

“Ye’ll break yer neck, boy,” Brodie grunted, his tone flat and unyielding. “And Lady Sheona is nae goin’ to ruin her gown playin’ in the mire like a stray piglet. Inside. Both of ye.”

Angus’s face fell instantly, his lower lip pushing out in a dramatic pout.

Sheona turned slowly to face the Laird. The lingering flush on her cheeks deepened, but her blue eyes sparkled with mischievous defiance. She caught Angus’s hand in hers, squeezing his fingers reassuringly before Brodie could step forward to intervene.

“We will be exceptionally careful, Laird MacKinley,” Sheona said, tilting her head up with a daring, playful smile that sent a sudden spike of annoyance right through Brodie’s chest. “Or are ye afraid a MacFaris has better balance than a MacKinley?”

Before Brodie could bark another order, Sheona hoisted her wool skirts above her ankles, stepped onto the first wooden cask, and leaped lightly onto a slick pine log.

“Follow me, young warrior!” she called back to Angus.

Angus let out a triumphant wild yell, forgetting his father entirely as he scrambled after her onto the barrels.

What followed was a glorious, utterly ridiculous contest of agility, nerve, and laughter. Angus, despite his small stature, proved unexpectedly competitive. He darted across the overturned handcart with the nimble speed of a mountain goat, laughing as he used a hanging leather strap to swing his boots over a patch of wet gravel.

“Ye’ll nae beat me!” Angus crowed, balancing precariously on the rim of a tall ale barrel. “I’ve practiced this every afternoon while Father was away!”

“Is that so?” Sheona teased, hopping gracefully from one log to the next, her leather shoes finding footing on the bark with surprising ease. Her dark hair slipped completely free of its leather lace, tumbling down her back in wild, loose waves as her cheeks burned a healthy, vibrant rose. “Then ye’d best hurry, sir, because I am fast approachin’ the finish!”

She stepped onto a long, narrow oak trunk that bridged the widest, deepest puddle of black, oozy mud. She held her arms out wide, her ankles swaying as she took careful, deliberate steps across the slippery bark.

Determined not to let a woman claim victory on his home turf, Angus made a desperate, reckless leap. He abandoned his barrel, airborne for a glorious second, aiming straight for the middle of the fallen trunk. His boots hit the damp bark with a hard thud and instantly lost all traction.