Page 47

“They want me to sign away the MacFaris claim,” Sheona said, stepping closer. “They want the deed to the West Glens turned over to the Council’s trust.”

Brodie stopped. He didn’t turn around, but his broad shoulders locked into hard lines beneath his dark tunic. “Aye.”

“Then I will sign it,” she stated cleanly.

Brodie turned slowly. He held a flat iron chisel in one hand, his dark eyes shadowed beneath his heavy brow. His face was smeared with dark dust, making the fierce, sharp light in his gaze burn all the brighter.

“Ye willnae,” he said flatly.

“It is me decision to surrender!” Sheona snapped, stepping straight into his space, her chin lifting in sharp defiance. “If I sign the parchment, the Council leaves MacKinley Keep in peace. There will be nay hearing, nay threats of seizure, nay old feuds dragged back into the light! I am givin’ them what they came for!”

"Aye." Brodie set down the trowel. He turned to face her fully, his eyes flat and direct. "And the moment ye sign it, it goes to them. Nae to ye. Nae to yer children. Nae to MacKinley. To Morrison and his Council, in perpetuity, regardless of what happens at the binding."

He took one step toward her. "That is why they pushed the hearing forward. They want yer signature before ye become me wife. Once ye do, the claim is mine and they cannae touch it."

Sheona went very still.

“Ye are givin’ them yer blood!” Brodie said quietly. “Ye are yieldin’ the only piece of yer house left standin’!”

“I have nay house, Brodie!” she said, her breath rising in white clouds between them. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, her voice cracking under the strain. “Me father is dead! Me brother is buried beneath the sea in a meadow where nay one even kens his name! I am a captive livin’ on charity in a keep where I am called a stray hound!”

Brodie didn’t flinch, but his dark eyes narrowed, a muscle jumping frantically along his jawline. He stepped so close her skirts brushed against his mud-stained boots.

“Ye speak like a fool,” Brodie rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, fierce vibration that seemed to rattle the very stone beneath her feet. “Ye speak like someone who has never believed she deserved better than the scraps thrown from a high table.”

Sheona’s breath caught in her throat.

“I willnae let Thomas Morrison take that land,” Brodie said, leaning down slightly, his dark gaze pinning her to the spot. “I willnae let Aaron sign away what yer brother died tryin’ to hold. And I willnae sit back and watch ye erase yer own legacy just to prove ye owe me a debt!”

Sheona stared up into his hard, shadowed face. Her chest heaved, her heart pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. The distance between them had shrunk to nothing—she could feel the heat radiating off his broad chest, could see every tiny, dark fleck in his eyes, could smell the sharp tang of smoke and crisp wind clinging to his skin.

The question tore out of her before she could stop it.

“Why do ye care?” she whispered, her voice trembling, stripped of all fire and anger. “Why do ye care what becomes of me name?”

She stood frozen in the bitter wind, her lips slightly parted, her blue eyes searching every line of his hardened face, desperate for the words she had been waiting for through three endless, restless days.

Brodie’s jaw snapped shut. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his dark eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her blood run hot and thick through her veins. He lifted his hand half an inch—his broad, calloused fingers hovering near her cheek as if to wipe away a ghost—before his fist slowly curled tight and dropped back to his side.

He turned his back on her. He picked up the heavy iron trowel from the mortar trough, scooping up a fresh dollop of gray paste, and slapped it hard against the granite wall.

“Get ready,” Brodie rumbled flatly, his voice cold as the stone he was laying. “The hearing is tomorrow.”

The heavy linen sheets felt like iron bands across Sheona’s chest. For hours, she had lain awake in the quiet gloom of her chamber, watching the moonlight crawl slowly across the rough timber floor. Every time she closed her eyes, the echo of the day’s sharp words rang through her mind, until the air in the room grew too thick to breathe.

She wrapped her heavy wool cloak over her shift, slipped her feet into her soft leather boots, and padded silently down the winding stone stairs.

The courtyard was bathed in a pale, silver wash of moonlight. Night frost glistened on the timber water trough, and a sharp, biting wind whistled through the high crenellations above. Sheona pulled her cloak tighter around her neck, her breath misting white in the freezing air as her boots crunched softly on the icy gravel.

Near the old well in the center of the yard, a massive shadow sat motionless on the low stone bench.

Brodie leaned forward, his broad elbows resting on his knees, a half-drained horn cup held loosely between his hands. He wore no thick fur cloak, only his dark wool tunic against the freezing night air. He did not turn his head as she approached, but his broad shoulders shifted slightly in the darkness.

“What are ye doin’ out in the cold at this hour?” Sheona asked, her voice a quiet, clear murmur in the still night.

Brodie took a slow swallow from his horn cup, setting it down on the bench beside him. “I could ask ye the same, lass.”

A small, genuine grin broke across Sheona’s face, warming her cheeks despite the bitter wind. She walked over and sat down beside him on the cold stone, leaving a hand’s breadth of space between them.