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“The secret, Lady Sheona, is patience,” Cook explained, oblivious to Sheona’s wandering thoughts as she stirred the warm water into the trough. “Ye cannae rush the rise, nay matter how cold the kitchen gets.”

Patience.

Sheona smoothed down her apron as her pulse gave a soft, familiar flutter. "Aye," she said quietly. "I'm beginning to understand that."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The heavy oak door of Sheona’s chamber shuddered under two sharp, deliberate thuds.

It was barely dawn. Pale gray light crept through the narrow arrow-slit windows, washing the room in a cold shadow. Sheona stirred, pulling the thick woolen blankets to her chin as the iron latch clicked open.

Brodie stood in the doorway, framed by the dark stone corridor. He was fully clad in his riding leathers, a heavy plaid draped over his broad shoulder, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light.

“Get dressed,” he commanded, his voice a low rasp that cut straight through the quiet morning. “Warm layers. We leave before the keep wakes.”

Sheona sat up, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she searched his face for answers. “Brodie? What is happenin’? Is somethin’ wrong?”

He did not explain. He held her gaze for a long, silent beat before turning on his heel, his heavy boots echoing down the stone stairs.

With a furrowed brow, Sheona swung her legs out of bed. The stone floor was ice cold beneath her bare feet. The hand-binding ceremony was only seven days away. She sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, her bare feet on the cold stone, staring at nothing in particular.

Seven days.

She waited for the familiar dread to surface — the quiet suffocation she had felt the morning she left MacFaris Keep, the hollow obedience of a woman with no other options. It did not come. What came instead was something she had no name for, something that sat warm and unsteady in the center of her chest. She pressed her hands flat against her knees, stood up, and reached for her wool skirt.

She pulled on her thickest wool skirt, a tight-laced leather bodice, and her heavy cloak, pinning the MacFaris brooch tight against her shoulder.

As she stepped into the lower courtyard, the cool morning mist hung low over the cobblestones. Brodie was already waiting near the stable archway. Two horses—his massive black stallion and a gentle bay mare—stood saddled, snorting soft white clouds of steam into the crisp autumn air.

As Sheona approached, the bay mare tossed its dark head, nickering softly in recognition. Sheona slowed her stride, her gaze softening as her eyes swept over the horse’s familiar blazed forehead and sturdy frame. It was the very same mare she had ridden weeks ago—exhausted, terrified, and bound as a captive when Brodie brought her through the keep’s heavy timber gates.

She reached out, resting her palm against the mare’s velvet nose. The horse leaned into her touch, blowing warm air against her knuckles.

“I see ye remember yer horse,” Brodie murmured behind her, stepping up to adjust the leather girth strap.

“I do,” Sheona said softly, a quiet, nostalgic smile touching her lips as she smoothed her fingers over the horse’s neck. “Though the last time I sat in this saddle, I thought I was riding toward me execution.”

Brodie paused, his hands resting on the leather stirrup as he looked up at her, his dark eyes warm with a quiet, fierce affection. “And today ye ride beside me as Lady MacKinley.”

Without another word, Brodie offered his hand. Sheona hesitated for a second, looking at his broad, calloused palm. She placed her small hand in his, feeling the surge of familiar heat that always hummed between them. Brodie lifted her into the saddle as if she weighed nothing at all, his touch firm and steady before he released her and swung up onto his own mount.

He turned his stallion toward the rear postern gate, leading the way out of the castle walls in complete silence.

They rode away from the village, climbing a narrow, treacherous trail that wound upward into the high ridges. The path snaked along the edge of towering cliffs, bordered by ancient, towering pines whose dark needles caught the morning frost. Below them, the valley floor was shrouded in a sea of thick white fog, making it feel as if they were riding through the clouds at the edge of the world. The only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of hooves on frozen earth and the whistling of the wind through the pines.

Sheona kept her eyes on Brodie’s broad back. Questions burned in her throat, but the stern, unyielding set of his shoulders kept her silent.

After nearly an hour of climbing, the cliff path opened into a hidden mountain meadow.

The sight took the breath straight from Sheona’s chest. It was a vast, untouched sanctuary cradled between two towering peaks, sheltered completely from the wild Highland winds. The meadow was ablaze with color—a sea of golden-yellow charlock blossoms swayed gently in the sun, their sweet, honeyed fragrance heavy in the morning air.

Brodie brought his horse to a halt at the edge of the meadow, dismounting with a heavy, deliberate grace. He stepped to her side, reaching up to help her down. As her boots touched the soft, flower-dusted grass, she realized he was looking not at her, but toward the center of the field.

Sheona followed his gaze. Resting in the middle of the charlocks was a magnificent, polished block of dark Highland granite. It sat firm and eternal against the earth, freshly set into the soil.

Sheona stepped forward, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Her leather boots cut a path through the yellow blossoms as she approached the stone. The sun broke through the clouds above, catching the intricate carvings etched deep into the face of the granite.

It was the crest of Clan MacFaris—the wild boar and the crossed broadswords, surrounded by delicate knotwork carved by a master hand. Beneath it, etched deep into the dark rock, was a single name.