Page 52

The silence in the Council chamber was so thick that the only sound left was the steady, rhythmic hiss of the burning tallow candles. The Elders sat paralyzed, their eyes darting between the broad-shouldered Laird standing behind the chair and the faint, unmistakable threat in the air.

Brodie’s heavy hand remained anchored to the carved wood behind Sheona’s shoulder. He did not raise his voice, but when he spoke again, the deep, gravelly rasp dragged across the quiet room like rusted iron over stone.

“And in the end,” Brodie continued, his dark gaze sweeping past Colquhoun to lock onto the tall figure standing at Sir Thomas Morrison’s side, “the fate of the MacFaris name rests with Laird Gallaway. He was named guardian of those western glens after the MacFaris attack destroyed the border keeps. The Council sits in this chamber today only because Laird Gallaway was kind enough to step back and let them handle the dispute.”

Sheona felt her chest tighten as Brodie shifted his weight slightly, his presence looming like an impenetrable shadow over her left side.

“Whatever decision Aaron reaches regardin’ those boundaries,” Brodie said, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding certainty, “I will respect it. And so will every man sittin’ at this table.”

A collective murmur rippled through the lairds, but before Elder MacIntyre could open his mouth to protest, Brodie leaned down slightly. His eyes narrowed into two slits of cold, calcified fire as he pinned the Council members to their seats.

“And if ye cannae show the future Lady of this clan the respect she is due,” Brodie rumbled, the warning beneath his words so dark and low it sent a sudden, sharp shiver straight down Sheona’s spine, “then ye are nay longer welcome beneath this roof.”

No one spoke. Not a single boot sole shifted against the flagstones.

Across the dark oak table, Aaron Gallaway lowered his head. The hard, stern line of his mouth twitched, and he pressed his chin toward his chest, entirely unable to hide the faint, knowing smile playing across his lips. Sir Thomas Morrison let out a long, silent breath, resting his aged hands flat over the blank ledgers before him.

The weight in the room had shifted, but the final stroke belonged to her. Sheona placed both palms flat against the cold surface of the table. She drew a slow, deep breath, feeling the silk thread of her plaid pull tight across her chest, and rose to her feet.

She stood tall, her spine straight, her chin held high as she looked past the pale, withered faces of the Elders directly at the man who held the keys to her ancestral home. She did not raise her voice, but every word she uttered was crisp, clear, and cut through the room.

“If the MacFaris lands were ever to leave me hands,” Sheona declared, her blue eyes fixed firmly on Aaron, “I would entrust them only to Aaron Gallaway. A man who proved his honor when he chose mercy over slaughter at me father’s gates.”

She paused, taking a step closer to the edge of the table, letting her gaze sweep over Colquhoun and MacIntyre until both old men looked down at their own folded hands.

“Otherwise,” she continued, her voice echoing off the high timber rafters, “those glens will remain with me and me husband-to-be. They will be worked by our people, guarded by our spears, and passed in due time to me future son and heir.”

The declaration hung in the quiet air. Sheona held her breath, her heart hammering a fierce, rapid pulse against her ribs as she waited for the stroke to fall.

Aaron Gallaway stepped forward from beside Sir Thomas. The heavy iron links of his mail shirt clinked softly in the quiet room as he rested his broad hand on the hilt of his broadsword. He looked at the Elders first, his dark eyes brimming with a cool, sharp amusement, before turning his gaze back to Sheona and Brodie.

“I daenae ken about the rest of this Council,” Aaron said, his voice smooth and rich, carrying the quiet authority of a warrior who did not need to shout, “but I certainly have nay desire to stand against either Laird MacKinley or his Lady.”

Elder Colquhoun stiffened, his mouth opening in shock. “Laird Gallaway, the Council’s jurisdiction⁠—”

“The Council’s jurisdiction exists to prevent war, Colquhoun, nae to start one,” Aaron interrupted cleanly, shutting the old man down with a single, sharp look. He turned back to Sheona, bowing his head slightly in genuine, profound respect. “I daenae need vengeance, Lady Sheona. Nor do I seek conquest over a fallen house. I require only justice for the blood spilled on me borders. And in me eyes, justice has been served.”

A quiet, heavy exhale escaped Sheona’s lips. The invisible band that had been crushing her ribs for weeks—the suffocating weight of fear, debt, and uncertainty—suddenly snapped.

Before she could lose her footing, she felt it.

Brodie’s broad, heavy hand moved from the wooden chair and settled gently upon her shoulder. His palm was solid and burning warm through the thick wool of her dress. His long fingers curled slightly over the curve of her collarbone, a steady, anchoring weight that rooted her to the stone floor beneath her feet. It was not a gesture of ownership, nor a display for the men in the room; it was a quiet, physical line drawn around her, holding her upright when her knees threatened to yield.

It felt as though his hand against her shoulder was pumping fresh oxygen directly into her lungs. The cold air of the chamber suddenly cleared. She could breathe again.

Brodie shifted his posture, stepping up to stand flush beside her, his massive shoulder brushing against hers. He looked around the table at the defeated faces of the Council Elders, his expression hard, but the lethal edge gone from his eyes.

“If the matter is settled,” Brodie rumbled, his voice echoing clearly off the stone walls, “then we have a bindin’ celebration to prepare for.”

He paused, his heavy hand giving Sheona’s shoulder a subtle, reassuring squeeze before resting flat against her back.

“And every man present,” Brodie added, his dark gaze sweeping over Aaron, Sir Thomas, and even the sullen Elders sitting at the center, “is welcome to remain as a guest of Clan MacKinley.”

Sir Thomas Morrison closed his leather ledger. “The Council acknowledges the settlement,” the old man said quietly, a small, relieved smile breaking through his wrinkled face. “May the Almighty bless the union of MacKinley and MacFaris.”

Aaron Gallaway stepped back, inclining his head toward Brodie. “We accept yer hospitality, Laird MacKinley. And we will drink to the future Lady of the keep tonight.”

As the room burst into a flurry of moving chairs, rustling parchment, and quiet, hushed chatter, the heavy tension melted away into the draughty corridors of the keep. The Elders gathered their scrolls, their sharp sneers replaced by cautious, subdued nods as they filed past the foot of the table.