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He gave her a swift, subtle nod toward the dark rain outside.

Sheona swallowed the lump of panic in her throat, pulling her damp green hood low over her face as she stepped out into the pouring rain behind him.

They were not alone in these woods.

CHAPTER TEN

The heavy oak doors of MacKinley Keep slammed shut against the howling gale behind them, sealing out the blinding torrents of cold mountain rain. Warm, amber torchlight flickered across the damp stone walls of the entrance hall, yet the chill settling into Sheona’s bones had nothing to do with the storm outside.

Water streamed continuously from the hem of her heavy woolen skirts, pooling around her boots on the flagstones. Beside her, Brodie handed Angus—still swaddled tightly in his father’s dry wool plaid—to Maria, who had rushed down the main stairwell, her anxious gasps a flurry.

“Get the boy dried by the hearth in me solar,” Brodie commanded the housekeeper, his gravelly voice tight and commanding. “See that he drinks warm ale and broth immediately.”

“Aye, me Laird,” Maria murmured, cradling the exhausted child in her arms.

As Maria turned to carry Angus up the stairs, Sheona stepped directly into Brodie’s path, blocking his stride before he could move toward the great hall. Her teeth were chattering violently, her wet hair plastered to her scalp and neck, but she held her chin high.

“I need to speak with ye,” she said, her voice trembling slightly from the bitter cold, yet firm enough to cut through the quiet hall. “Right now, Brodie. About what was carved into that door frame.”

Brodie’s dark eyes swept over her wild, pale face. He didn’t argue. He didn’t lecture her on her soaked clothes or the wet trail she was leaving across his clean floorboards. He gave a single, rigid nod of his head.

“Me study,” he grunted softly. “Now.”

He escorted her up the winding stone stairwell and down the long, shadow-draped corridor. He pushed open the heavy timber door to his private study, stepped aside to let her pass, then immediately dismissed the two armed sentries standing guard outside the room. With a heavy, echoing thud, Brodie shut the thick door and threw the iron latch into place.

Silence fell over the room, save for the crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy patter of rain against the high, narrow leaded windows.

Sheona wrapped her soaked green cloak tighter around her trembling frame, crossing her arms over her chest as she turned to face him. “That was the MacFaris border-mark,” she blurted out, the words tumbling past her numb lips. “The cut was fresh, Brodie. The sap was still bleedin’ from the timber. Someone from me father’s keep carved that symbol into that shepherd’s hut today.”

Brodie slowly unclasped his sword belt, laying the heavy leather scabbard across the dark oak desk. He stood tall, towering over the hearth, the firelight catching the sharp, harsh angles of his jaw and the dark, wet ringlets of hair clinging to his broad forehead.

“Aye,” Brodie said, his voice dropping into a low, somber rumble that confirmed the darkest terror gnawing at her chest. “It was fresh.”

“How?” she breathed, taking a small, unsteady step toward the desk. “Me father is dead. Me brother is buried in the glen. Who could be trackin’ me onto MacKinley land?”

Brodie leaned his heavy palms against the edge of the oak table, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an unyielding, dangerous intensity.

“The attack on the road when ye were brought here,” Brodie began slowly, measuring every word with grim precision. “The strange crests spotted by me scouts near the eastern ridgeline. And now that fresh mark carved a bare mile from me keep. It is too much to dismiss as mere coincidence, Sheona. Someone is indeed after ye.”

A cold, sharp knot tightened violently in the pit of Sheona’s stomach.

“Remember what I told ye after the ambush in the gorge,” Brodie continued, his gravelly rasp slicing through the quiet room. “Ye are nae just a grievin’ woman seekin’ shelter. Ye are the last survivin’ child of Duncan MacFaris. Ye carry the bloodline to the vastest, richest valley in these Highlands, lands capable of feedin’ three clans through the worst of winter. Ye are a woman capable of bearin’ an heir to a legacy that dozens of powerful, ruthless men would gladly kill to possess.”

He took a slow step around the desk, his massive frame cutting off the light from the hearth.

“Yer father made a hundred bitter enemies during his lifetime,” Brodie said, his chest expanding with a deep, heavy breath. “He broke treaties, seized cattle, and burned manors. And now that he and Andrew are gone, those very enemies are circling what remains of his estate like starvin’ wolves. If anyone believes ye stand between them and the legal claim to MacFaris soil, they will come for ye.”

He stopped bare inches from where she stood. Sheona had to tilt her head up to meet his dark, piercing glare.

“But ye are beneath me roof now,” Brodie added, his voice dropping into a hard, inflexible vow that rattled the very stones beneath her boots. “Ye are betrothed to me house. Protectin’ ye from those wolves is me duty.”

Duty.

The word exploded inside Sheona’s mind like a crack of thunder, echoing off the walls of her skull with a brutal, sickening resonance.

Duty.

Of course it was. It was always duty. It was duty that brought her to this cold fortress. It was duty that forced him to tolerate her presence. It was duty that drove him to pull her from the mud, and duty that bound him to stand between her and her father’s murderous ghost. Never desire. Never genuine care. Just a cold, iron obligation to a contract and a piece of land.