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Opposite him, Sheona leaned back in her chair, her boots kicked out beneath the table. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink, a small, half-empty glass of peat-smoked whisky resting loosely between her fingers.

She swirled the amber liquid, the glass catching the candlelight. “I overheard Cook telling Mairi that three men broke their teeth on the batch I pulled from the hearth.”

Brodie didn’t lift his head. “They were hard enough to shoe a pony.”

A sudden, clear sound broke the quiet of the hall, a bright, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the stone rafters above.

Brodie’s jaw tightened. He shifted in his seat, his hand tightening around his horn cup until his knuckles turned white. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the grain of the oak table, refusing to look at her.

“The bottom was black as the chimney sweep’s apron,” Sheona said, her voice rich with amusement as she set the glass down. “I tried to hide two of them under a stack of dried rushes, but Angus found them. He spent twenty minutes tryin’ to use one as a whetstone for his wooden dagger.”

Brodie grunted, taking a short, sharp swallow of his drink. The spirit burned down his throat, but it did nothing to dull the persistent, irritating hum in his chest.

"He laughs every day now," Brodie rumbled, the admission slipping past his teeth before he could stop it. He kept his eyes locked on his cup. "Every single day. He didnae do that before ye came."

From the corner of his vision, he saw her tilt her head. A small, knowing grin curved her lips.

“Well,” Sheona said, resting her chin in her hand as she leaned across the table toward him. “Perhaps it isnae the winter fever that keeps the hall so quiet. Perhaps ye are simply the one bringin’ everyone’s spirits down.”

Brodie snapped his head up, his dark eyes narrowing at her. “Is that so?”

“Aye,” she met his glare without flinching, her blue eyes bright with a sharp, teasing light. “Ye stride through the yard lookin’ as though ye’ve swallowed a mouthful of nails, growlin’ at the blacksmith and scarin’ the scullery maids into the butter churns.”

A sudden, involuntary twitch touched the corner of Brodie’s mouth. Before he could pull his features back into a hard line, a low, quiet smile broke across his face.

He looked away immediately, staring at the dying embers in the hearth, but the damage was done. The sharp, prickly irritation that usually guarded his chest had vanished completely.

The realization hit him. Being alone with her in the dark quiet of the hall was no longer irritating him. It was terrifying.

She sat three feet away, unbothered by his broad shoulders or his dark reputation, watching him as if he were merely a man—not a captor, not a warlord, not the laird whose name the glen spoke in low voices by the fire. Her gaze remained fixed on his face, steady, clear, and utterly unguarded.

Brodie’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. The air in the great hall felt suddenly suffocating, thick with the scent of wood smoke, old wool, and her presence.

He shoved his chair back. The heavy oak legs scraped loudly against the flagstones, the sharp sound shattering the quiet room. Brodie stood up in one fluid, abrupt motion, his large frame towering over the table as he turned his back on her.

He didn’t speak. He took long, rapid strides toward the heavy timber door leading to the upper stairs, his boots thudding against the stone. He gripped the iron ring of the latch, his knuckles white, ready to pull it open and step into the cold darkness of the corridor.

“Me Laird.”

Brodie froze, his hand locked around the cold iron latch. He did not turn around. He stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders braced as if expecting a physical blow.

“Thank ye,” Sheona said gently from across the empty hall. “For me brother.”

Brodie’s shoulders tensed, taut beneath his leather brigandine. The silence stretched between them, heavy, save for the crackle of a dying log on the hearth.

He gave a single, rigid nod, lifted the iron latch, and pulled the heavy oak door open. He stepped through into the dark hall and let the wood slam shut behind him without another word.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The gray light of dawn was still an hour away, but the narrow stone corridor outside the study echoed with the sound of bare feet on the flags.

Brodie sat behind his heavy pine desk, his hands clasped so tightly over a stack of untasted parchment that his knuckles were stark white. He had not slept. The silence of his bedchamber had felt like a wet wool blanket pinned over his face, thick and suffocating, driving him out into his cold study long before the cook had even stirred the embers in the kitchen hearth.

A loud, exaggerated swoosh sounded just beyond the heavy oak door, followed by a soft grunt.

Brodie rubbed the bridge of his nose, the coarse stubble on his jaw scraping against his palm as he stood up. He pulled open the door.

Angus was leapfrogging over an imaginary foe, his linen nightshirt twisted around his knees, a short wooden branch held high above his head. He froze mid-stride, his bare toes curling against the freezing stone, his dark hair sticking up in wild tufts.