Page 19

“Lady Sheona, why did Father scowl so hard at his breakfast this morning? He broke a wooden spoon in half just by pickin’ it up.”

Sheona’s breath hitched sharply. The quill slipped, leaving a long, jagged streak of black ink across the clean parchment.

Because he is a stubborn, arrogant fool who regrets kissin’ me. Because he cannot abide that I saw him stripped of his armor, even for a second.

“Yer father is simply busy with clan business, Angus,” she managed to say aloud, forcing a faint, polite smile as she blotted the spilled ink with a piece of felt.

Despite slowing her down at every turn—knocking over a bundle of dried herbs, dropping a ring of keys into a sack of flour, and constantly tugging on her skirts—she didn’t have the heart to send the boy away. He was starved for affection, starved for something light and gentle in a keep dominated by grim warriors and dark memories.

Yet as the hours dragged into the late afternoon, the suffocating weight of her own thoughts became unbearable. Every time a heavy door slammed in the courtyard, her heart leaped into her throat, expecting Brodie to walk in. Every time she caught the scent of wood smoke and damp wool, her skin flushed hot, remembering how his bare chest had hovered inches from hers, the hard muscles vibrating with every gravelly word he spoke.

She was losing her mind. She needed space. She needed cold, biting mountain air to scrub his memory from her blood.

The salvation she sought arrived in the form of Moira, the clan’s elderly healer. She shuffled into the warm, bustling kitchen, a wicker basket tucked under her arm, her lined face pinched with concern as she looked out the high, narrow windows toward the darkening sky.

“The wind is turning from the west,” Moira announced to Maria, wiping her dry hands on her apron. “There is a heavy rain comin’ over the crags before nightfall. If I daenae gather the last of the wild thyme, yarrow, and coltsfoot from the lower meadow now, the frost and rain will rot the leaves before the week is out. Me knees are too swollen to make the climb today.”

“I will go,” Sheona blurted out instantly, stepping forward before Maria could even answer.

Maria turned to her, her sharp gray eyes assessing. “It is a long walk to the lower meadow, Lady Sheona, and the path is steep.”

“I amnae made of glass, Maria,” Sheona insisted, a note of genuine pleading slipping into her voice. “I would be glad for the walk. Show me what herbs ye need, and I shall fill yer basket before the first drop falls.”

Angus immediately brightened, taking an energetic leap forward. “I will come too! I can carry the basket! I can spot the thyme faster than anyone!”

Sheona turned to the boy and crouched so she was eye-to-eye with him. As much as she cared for his company, she desperately needed to be alone. She needed to stand in the open glen without an audience, without a MacKinley watching her every move, so she could scream into the wind if she had to.

“Nae this time, sweet lad,” Sheona said softly, her voice dropping into a tender, velvet tone that stopped his protests before they could start. “The rain is comin’ fast, and the rocks along the lower meadow are slick. I need ye to stay indoors and help Maria count the tallow candles for the hall. Can ye do that grand task for me?”

Angus looked into her eyes, his lower lip quivering for a fraction of a second as he weighed his disappointment. But under the quiet, firm warmth of her gaze, he nodded slowly, stepping back toward Maria.

“Aye, Lady Sheona,” he murmured dutifully. “I will guard the candles.”

“Good boy,” Sheona whispered, giving his cheek an affectionate pat.

Taking the wicker basket and a small iron harvesting knife from Moira, Sheona pulled a heavy, dark green wool cloak over her shoulders, pinning it tightly at her throat.

Without so much as a glance back toward the main keep or the upper study, where she knew Brodie was undoubtedly brooding over his maps, she stepped out through the side postern gate into the cool, crisp mountain air.

The sky above the glen was bruised a deep, stormy violet, heavy clouds rolling over the jagged peaks like dark smoke. The wind blew sharp and cold, whipping her hair around her face as she descended the steep, rocky path leading down toward the meadow.

She filled her lungs with the damp, earthy scent of moss, heather, and pine, letting the chill bite into her skin.

Here, she told herself, digging her boots into the soil as she walked toward the sea of purple heather below. Here, I am just Sheona. Nae a bargainin’ chip, nae a MacFaris ghost, and nae the woman Laird MacKinley kissed out of sheer, foolish impulse.

She bent down near a cluster of gray rocks, searching for the delicate green leaves of wild thyme. But as she reached out to slice the stems, the cool wind brushed against the side of her neck, and a shudder ran straight down her spine.

She closed her eyes, letting out a shaky, frustrated breath into the gathering storm.

It was no use. The brute of a laird had invaded her thoughts, and no amount of fresh air seemed capable of washing him out.

CHAPTER NINE

The bitter wind swept down from the western crags, carrying the sharp, iron scent of an impending storm. Brodie pulled his thick woolen mantle tighter around his broad shoulders as he rounded the timber fence of the lower gardens, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the damp soil.

He had spent the last two hours inspecting the drainage dykes along the lower rye fields, verifying that the crop wouldn’t drown when the clouds overhead inevitably burst.

He had taken the perimeter track back toward the keep intentionally, or so he had told himself. In truth, had he known she was out here in the open meadow, he would have taken the longer path through the armory courtyard. He had spent the last twenty-four hours attempting to scrub the ghost of her lips from his mouth and the memory of her pulse hammering beneath his calloused thumb from his mind.