Page 5

And Angus had rejected every woman brought to the keep. The boy had turned his back on earls’ daughters, ignored polished heiresses, and retreated into sullen, stubborn silence whenever a prospective stepmother tried to coax him with sweetmeats or hollow smiles. Angus was peculiar, dangerously curious, and as unyielding as granite, but Brodie had long ago learned not to dismiss his heir’s instincts.

This was the first woman the child had ever chosen.

The internal pressure from his own kin to secure his line and settle his debts warred violently with the external demands of the Highland Lairds sitting around them. But Brodie could not ignore the raw truth standing right in front of him: his son had made a choice.

Brodie slowly turned his head toward Aaron Gallaway, his dark eyes unblinking, flat, and absolute.

“It seems there will be nay escort carryin’ Lady Sheona back to MacFaris Keep,” Brodie said, his voice a low, heavy rasp that cut through the silent hall. “I will be taking her to me own lands instead.”

Aaron Gallaway didn’t flinch, though his brows pulled together in quiet calculation. He looked from the fierce determination on little Angus’s face back to Brodie’s broad, unyielding frame. “She is under me protection until the Council decides, Brodie.”

“And she will soon be under mine,” Brodie replied smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned to his son, placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, feeling the tight, rigid muscles beneath the child’s woolen plaid. “Stay in this hall with Caelan, Angus. Daenae leave the dais.”

“Father.”

“Stay,” Brodie commanded gently, squeezing his shoulder once before releasing him.

Without waiting for a response from the surrounding Lairds or the muttering Council Elders, Brodie turned on his heel and strode out of the great hall. His heavy boots struck the stone floor in a slow, deliberate cadence as he made his way down the vaulted corridor toward the healer’s solar.

He reached the heavy oak door, opened it without knocking, and stepped into the room.

Sheona was waiting exactly where he had left her, standing near the worktable in the center of the chamber.

Brodie paused at the threshold, taking a fraction of a second to study the woman before him. She was pale, the dark circles of exhaustion smudged beneath her eyes, but she was remarkably beautiful. Long, thick black hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, framing a slender face with a sharp, defiant jawline. And her eyes—those striking, clear blue eyes—followed his every step.

A sudden, sharp sting of irritation flared in his chest. Brodie mentally reprimanded himself for allowing her beauty to register at all. She was a MacFaris. Her father had tried to torch half the West Highlands, and her brother had died trying to tear Gallaway from his horse.

He wasted no time. He pulled the heavy timber door shut behind him, the latch dropping with a harsh clack.

“Ye have nay prospects, Lady Sheona,” Brodie said directly, taking two steps into the room, his dark plaid sweeping around his knees. “Ye have nay protector, nay army, and nay certainty beyond whatever bitter judgment the Council of Elders eventually chooses to pass upon yer head.”

Sheona’s chin jerked up, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. “Is this how ye offer comfort to a prisoner, Laird MacKinley?”

“I amnae offerin’ ye comfort,” Brodie said flatly. “I am offerin’ ye reality. Me son just marched into the great hall before every laird in these Highlands and announced that he has chosen ye as his guardian.”

Sheona blinked, the rigid posture in her spine wavering for a single, stunned second. “What?”

“Angus rarely changes his mind once it is set,” Brodie continued, his voice cold, steady, and clinical. “He believes ye listen to him. He believes ye have the makin’ of somethin’ he has lacked for nine years. And I daenae ignore me son’s instincts.”

Sheona took a breath to speak, but Brodie cut across her before she could part her lips.

“Ye are nae returnin’ to MacFaris Keep,” he stated. “Ye are ridin’ to MacKinley Keep as me betrothed.”

The silence that fell over the room was absolute.

Color rushed into Sheona’s pale cheeks, a vivid, fiery crimson that spread from her collar up to her ears. Her chest heaved as she stared at him as though he had completely lost his senses.

“Yer betrothed?” she breathed, her voice laced with sudden, razor-sharp fury. “Ye stand there in yer fine wool and tell me I am to be yer betrothed? I amnae a prize to be handed from one arrogant laird to another! I havenae agreed to become any man’s wife, least of all a brute who locks me in a room, and I would sooner remain a captive in Gallaway’s dungeon than submit to such humiliation!”

Brodie didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch at her anger. Instead, he took three long, deliberate strides forward, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed.

Sheona instinctively retreated, stepping back until the sharp edge of the oak worktable pressed hard against her lower back. She had nowhere left to go.

Brodie reached out, planting one hand flat on the heavy table beside her waist, effectively trapping her against the wood. He leaned down, his massive frame looming over her, shutting out the hearth’s light and forcing her to tilt her chin back at a punishing angle just to meet his gaze.

“Listen to me, lass,” Brodie said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal murmur that vibrated in the tight space between them. “I have nay intention of forcin’ either of us into a marriage built upon obligation or foolish romantic notions. But neither will I dismiss an opportunity without testin’ whether it serves me clan and me son.”

Sheona glared up at him, her blue eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred, but her hands stayed clamped to the edge of the table behind her. “I willnae marry ye.”