The room falls silent. I expect Lord Brennan to protest further, to beg or bargain. Instead, he bows deeply. "You are merciful, my lord. It will be done as you command."
After he's dismissed, I turn to Lachlan, curiosity overcoming my determination to remain aloof. "You knew before he came in. About the theft."
Lachlan nods, leaning back in his chair. "I make it my business to know who's stealing from me." His eyes study my face with unsettling intensity. "Just as I make it my business to know who's plotting against me."
The reference to my escape attempt makes me stiffen. "Then why bother with the audience? Why not just punish him directly?"
"Because public confession and restitution serve a purpose. They remind everyone watching that I see everything. That I know everything." His hand returns to my thigh, possessive and warm. "That nothing escapes me."
I should move away from his touch. Instead, I find myself asking another question. "Why didn't you take his lands? Or imprison him?"
Lachlan's eyebrow rises slightly, as if surprised by my continued interest. "Because he's otherwise competent, and his people respect him. Replacing him would cause more disruption than it's worth." His mouth curves slightly. "Not all problems require a sword to solve, Princess."
The admission of such pragmatic mercy doesn't fit the brutal conqueror I want him to be. It would be easier if he were simply cruel, simply tyrannical. This glimpse of wisdom, of calculated restraint, complicates the hatred I've been clinging to.
"Besides," he adds, his voice dropping lower, "his daughter is married to Lord Mackenzie, whose loyalty I need. Familyconnections matter in governance." His eyes hold mine meaningfully. "As you well know."
The reminder of our own political marriage stings, though it shouldn't. It's nothing I haven't told myself repeatedly—that I'm nothing more than a convenient alliance for him, a way to legitimize his claim to my kingdom.
The council meeting concludes, and Lachlan stands, automatically offering me his arm. I take it without thinking, the gesture becoming habit after days of being constantly at his side. We proceed to the training yard, where his captains are drilling new recruits—a mix of his men and mine, learning to fight together rather than against each other.
"Sit," Lachlan instructs, guiding me to a stone bench at the edge of the yard. "This won't take long."
He joins his men in the training circle, stripping off his finer tunic to reveal the simple linen shirt beneath. Even through the fabric, I can see the play of muscles as he demonstrates a particular sword maneuver to a young soldier struggling with the technique. His movements are fluid, powerful, a lifetime of warfare evident in every precisely controlled motion.
Despite myself, I watch with fascination. There's something mesmerizing about his absolute command of his body, the economy of his movements, the patience with which he corrects the young man's form. This is not the behavior of a mindless brute. This is a warrior who has earned his reputation through skill as much as strength.
When he finally returns to me, sweat dampening his shirt and making it cling to the contours of his chest, I find myself unable to look away.
"See something you like, Princess?" he asks, his voice teasing but his eyes intent.
"I was just thinking that you fight better than you govern," I reply, attempting to mask my unwelcome reaction to his physical presence.
He laughs, a genuine sound that draws glances from nearby soldiers. "A compliment and an insult in the same breath. You're becoming more diplomatic."
Before I can retort, a messenger approaches, his face grim. Lachlan's expression immediately sobers as he reads the scroll the man hands him. Without a word, he pulls me to my feet and leads me swiftly back toward the castle.
"What's happened?" I ask, hurrying to keep pace with his long strides.
"Riders approaching from the south. Not flying any banner we recognize." His hand tightens on mine. "Could be nothing. Could be trouble."
We reach the eastern tower, climbing the narrow staircase to the uppermost chamber where a large map table dominates the center of the room. Callum is already there, pointing to positions on the map where scouts have been dispatched.
"How many?" Lachlan demands, releasing my hand to examine the map.
"Thirty, perhaps forty," Callum answers. "They'll reach the outer village by nightfall if they maintain their current pace."
"Have the villagers been warned?"
Callum nods. "Those who wish to come within the walls may do so. Extra guards have been posted at all gates."
I stand back, watching the exchange, struck by the efficient calm with which they address a potential threat. There's no panic, no posturing—just swift, decisive action.
"What can I do?" The question leaves my mouth before I can consider it.
Both men turn to look at me with surprise.
"You want to help?" Lachlan asks, eyebrow raised.
