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“There is nay time for jokes, Father!” Angus declared, his voice ringing high and sharp over the fiddle music. “There is danger in the old watchtower! A scout came, and the watchmen are on alert!”

Brodie’s eyebrows raised slightly, though his smile only broadened. He smoothed a wild lock of dark hair back from the boy’s sweaty forehead. “Is that so? And who told ye this?”

“I saw the horse in the yard!” Angus insisted, his small feet stomping against the stone. “And Sheona has gone up to investigate! She sent me to fetch ye while she holds the stairwell! She is up there all by herself!”

Douglas raised an eyebrow, looking past the boy toward the empty dais where Sheona had been standing only moments before. “Lady Sheona went up to the old tower?”

Brodie stood up slowly, stretching to his full height, his gaze drifting toward the quiet, shadow-draped corridor leading to the ancient north wall. The smile remained on his lips, warm and unbothered.

He knew how the boy’s mind worked. Angus had been trailing the castle guards all morning, peppering them with endless questions about sentry rotations, steel blades, and defense towers. No doubt one of Douglas’s men had indulged the lad with a grand tale of phantom reivers or distant smoke signals to keep him occupied. And Sheona—ever patient, ever fond—had played along with the boy’s game, giving him a mission and sending him safely back down to the crowd.

More than that, the thought of Sheona slipping away from the loud, suffocating crowd of elders, dancers, and well-wishers hit Brodie with a sudden, irresistible pull. They had hardly shared a private breath since Father Colm had bound their hands. The prospect of catching her alone in the quiet, cool shadows of the old tower—away from the music and the eyes of the clan—made his blood run pleasantly hot.

He patted Angus’s head, giving his small shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Ye did well to bring the news, Sir Guard. A fine commander always reports to his laird.”

“Are ye goin’ to draw yer steel?” Angus asked, his eyes wide with eager anticipation, his fingers twitching on his wooden hilt.

“I will see to it personally,” Brodie murmured, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet intent. He looked up at Douglas, giving the older man a subtle, knowing nod. “Keep him with ye, Douglas. Make sure he gets a slice of that roast venison before the dogs get to it.”

“Aye, me Laird,” Douglas replied, a small, knowing smirk touching his beard. He rested a heavy, calloused hand on Angus’s head. “Come along, little warrior. Leave the watchtower to yer father. He has… pressin’ duties to attend to.”

Angus looked reluctant, his gaze darting back toward the dark corridor, but the mention of roast meat and Douglas’s firm grip on his shoulder won him over. “Daenae let any shadows escape, Father!”

“Nae a single one,” Brodie promised softly.

He turned away from the noise and heat of the great hall, slipping quietly past the heavy velvet tapestries into the archway. As soon as the thick stone walls swallowed the loud skirl of the pipes, the air cooled instantly. The quiet was a relief, washing over him like spring water.

Brodie walked down the damp flagstones of the passageway, his long, easy strides making almost no sound in his supple leather boots. A genuine, dark-eyed smile lingered on his face. He could already picture her standing up in the drafty tower room, her dark braids slightly mussed by the wind, looking out over the glen while she waited for him to come “rescue” her from Angus’s imaginary siege. He would step up behind her, wrap his heavy plaid around her shoulders against the chill, and tease her about letting a young boy command her post.

He reached the base of the spiral staircase that led to the old north watchtower. The stone steps were dark, lit only by the faint blue wash of moonlight spilling down from the upper arrow slits.

Brodie began to climb, his hand resting lightly on the cold, curved wall as he wound his way upward through the quiet, ancient heart of the keep.

The stone spiral ended in a wide, circular threshold arch where the damp wall gave way to open night air. The gale whistled sharply through the narrow arrow slits, carrying the crisp, bitter cold of the outer ramparts.

Brodie paused on the final granite step, a quiet, dark-eyed smirk lingering on his lips. He ducked his head beneath the low archway, his hand resting casually against the stone casing.

“Sheona?” he called softly, his deep voice rich with light, unhurried humor.

He expected a soft rustle of wool, the quick light tap of her slippers against the floorboards, or a sharp, teasing remark about how long he had taken to answer the lad’s summons. He was already preparing a dry retort about her abandoning the feast for drafty stone towers.

No voice answered. Only the dismal, hollow thud of a loose wooden shutter banging rhythmically against the outer sill.

Brodie’s smile disappeared.

The room before him was plunged in heavy, shifting shadows, lit only by a single flickering torch mounted beside the stair arch and by the cold, watery moonlight spilling through the window. The silence was thick, unnatural, and far too heavy.

Instinct, honed by years of bloody border skirmishes and brutal winter raids, tightened every muscle in his broad frame instantly. The easy warmth in his blood turned to pure, crystalline ice. His left hand dropped silently to the hilt of the dirk at his belt. His dark eyes swept the perimeter of the room in two razor-sharp beats, taking in the empty benches, the scattered rushes, and the dark puddle of rain slicking the floorboards near the far wall.

Something was terribly wrong.

The air tasted of wet wool, iron rust, and a sudden, sharp spike of panic that wasn’t his own.

A faint, scraped whisper of leather against stone echoed behind one of the ancient, crumbling stone pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling.

Brodie turned, his body coiling. His steel slid two inches from its sheath before his breath locked hard in his chest.

A figure emerged from the deep shadows beside the pillar. A thick, heavy arm was locked tightly around Sheona’s throat, pulling her back against a broad chest. She was breathing in short, desperate hitches, her small fingers clawing uselessly at the thick woolen sleeve clamped across her windpipe. Her dark braids were dragged across her face, but her bright blue eyes were wide, fixed on Brodie with a stark, silent warning. Her captor hauled her violently backward until the heels of her soft leather shoes hit the low, splintered sill of the broken window—one sharp shove away from the long, dark drop to the rocks below.