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The quiet rustle of heavy skirts and soft, low voices echoed beyond the archway, breaking the stillness.

Edith Gallaway—Aaron's wife, and the warmest woman Sheona had encountered since crossing into MacKinley lands —stepped into the garden first, carrying a wooden basin filled with clear, herb-infused well water. Behind her came Claire, carrying armfuls of freshly picked white heather and sprigs of sweet clover, along with Mairi and three other women from the upper village.

“Time, Laird MacKinley,” Edith announced gently, her lined face creased in a warm, knowing smile as she set the basin down on the flat stone bench. “The sun is risin’ over the eastern ridge. Old custom dictates the bride belongs to the women until the priest ties the linen.”

Brodie let out a low, reluctant growl in the back of his throat, his arms tightening around Sheona for one final, lingering second before he slowly released her. He stepped back, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her face as though memorizing every line of her features in the early light.

As the women gathered around Sheona, a tiny figure stepped out from behind the stone archway, marching with exaggerated, heavy strides.

Angus came to a halt right at the edge of the women’s circle. He puffed out his small chest, planting his feet wide in his small leather boots. Across his front, he held his tiny carved wooden sword clutched tightly in both hands, his dark brow furrowed into an expression of absolute, solemn duty.

“I am guardin’ the ladies!” Angus declared loudly, his clear voice echoing off the garden walls. “Nay man enters until the bindin’ is complete! I am the sentinel!”

A sudden rumble of deep laughter broke from Brodie’s chest. He stared down at his son—the boy who now stood guard over his future mother with a toy blade. Looking at Angus standing so fierce and proud, every dark, problematic thought that had ever haunted Brodie—the guilt of the past, the shadow of his late wife, the weight of his clan’s bloody history—seemed to vanish like smoke into the morning air.

“Very well, Sir Guard,” Brodie rumbled, his lips twitching with a rare, open grin as he inclined his head to the boy. “I yield to yer post.”

With a final, heat-laden glance toward Sheona, Brodie turned and strode out of the garden, leaving her in the care of the village women.

The hours that followed were a whirlwind of old Highland traditions.

Mairi and Edith guided Sheona to the center bench, washing her face and arms with cool, scented spring water to symbolize the washing away of old griefs. Claire stood behind her, using a bone comb to untangle Sheona’s long, dark tresses until they fell thick and glossy past her waist.

“Hold still, lass,” Claire murmured, her fingers deftly weaving slender strands of white heather, sweet clover, and green ivy directly into the thick braids crowning Sheona’s head. “White heather for good fortune, clover for a gentle heart, and ivy to keep ye bound through every winter.”

Sheona sat quietly, listening to the women’s gentle chatter and feeling their light, careful touches. When they lifted the fine, unspun wool gown over her head, her breath hitched. The dress was a soft, pale ivory, unadorned save for intricate silver embroidery along the cuffs and neckline—a garment crafted by the keep’s seamstresses for this day.

Before the final laces could be drawn tight through the brass eyelets along her spine, Edith turned toward the archway. “Claire, run fetch the silver brooches from the solar. We cannae pin her mantle without them.”

Claire nodded, hurrying toward the main keep, while Edith and Mairi stepped into the adjacent alcove to fetch the embroidered MacKinley plaid.

For a brief, quiet moment, Sheona was left alone in the sunlight streaming through the garden arch. She stood near the stone bench, smoothing the unfinished folds of her heavy cream skirt, her heart hammering a nervous, joyful pulse against her ribs.

A soft step rustled against the gravel behind her.

Sheona turned, expecting Claire to have returned so quickly, but caught her breath instead.

Brodie stood in the shadow of the garden entry. He had slipped past his son’s watchful post, stepping silently across the stone flags until only a few inches separated them. He had washed away the dirt of the courtyard; his dark hair was freshly combed back, and he wore a clean linen shirt beneath his dark green hunting doublet.

His dark amber eyes swept over her from the delicate flowers woven into her glossy braids down to the unlaced silk ties of her dress. He looked stunned, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths as he gazed upon her. She looked utterly radiant, a vision of ancient strength and soft grace beneath the unfinished gown that would soon mark her as Lady MacKinley.

Brodie took a single step closer, closing the remaining distance between them until his warm shadow completely enveloped her. He bent his head, leaning close enough so his warm breath brushed against the sensitive shell of her ear, his voice dropping into a low, velvet murmur that vibrated through her very bone marrow.

“I can hardly wait,” Brodie whispered, his rough voice thick with a dark, primal heat, “to see this gown lyin’ beside our bed tonight.”

A wave of intense, liquid heat flushed instantly across Sheona’s cheeks, turning her skin a bright, fiery rose. A sharp gasp caught in her throat, but as she looked up into his dark, gleaming eyes, the shyness melted into something fierce and playful.

She raised her chin, a sly, mischievous smile curving the corners of her lips as her blue eyes sparkled up at him.

“Ye are a wicked man, Brodie MacKinley,” Sheona answered back smoothly, her voice a low, teasing thread of sound as she laid her hand flat over his broad chest, feeling the thunderous beat beneath his tunic. “And ye will just have to wait a few more hours to find out.”

Brodie’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes darkening with a sudden, intense hunger, but before he could reach for her, the sound of Claire’s footsteps echoed along the stone walkway.

Stepping back with a low, rumbling chuckle, Brodie gave her one last, lingering look before slipping out into the courtyard, leaving Sheona standing in the morning sun, her heart soaring and her soul entirely at peace.

The afternoon sun hung low over the western peaks, bathing the great inner courtyard in a warm, honey-colored light. The cold mountain breeze seemed to lose its sharp edge, caught in the swirling heat of roasting meats, crackling pine torches, and the hundreds of voices gathered within the stone walls. Flags of dark green and deep crimson fluttered against the battlements, side by side for the first time in generations.

At the center of the courtyard, standing on the raised stone dais, Sheona felt as though the rest of the world had dissolved into a quiet, brilliant blur.