The words reassured him as very few things ever could.
They rode through the gates. Eyes followed them. Baird felt their curiosity, their whispers, their unease after the spectacle earlier. He helped Davina dismount, his hand lingering at her waist. She squeezed his fingers before stepping back, letting him walk ahead.
Inside the great hall, several council members rose immediately, already pressing forward with questions and demands. Baird lifted a hand, silencing them before a single word escaped their mouths.
“We will speak tomorrow,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “At dawn. Filib, the inquiry, the Sinclairs, all of it will be on the table. Ye will have yer answers then.”
A few men shifted uneasily. One opened his mouth as though to protest.
Baird cut him off with a sharp look. “Tomorrow.”
Grudging bows followed. The Council backed away.
Davina watched quietly from the edge of the hall, her gaze steady on him. And for the first time in a long time, Baird felt as though the ground beneath him was not slipping.
He turned back toward her, and felt hope lodge itself in his chest.
Tomorrow would bring trouble, but at least that night, he would have peace… andher.
CHAPTER 29
Laird Ewan Sinclair stood rigid beside the narrow window of his study, with his fingers drumming against the stone sill. The Highlands stretched before him, yet even their familiar expanse did nothing to cool the fury simmering beneath his skin.
The message from his riders lay torn on the floor behind him, crushed under his heel.
The scout has been taken. The inside man is exposed. Worthless, every last one of them.
“So,” he murmured to the empty room, “the Kincaid bastard solved the riddle sooner than expected.”
He had known Baird Kincaid was not a fool. No one held a clan together through winters and border feuds without a spine of iron, but this… this was irritatingly swift.
Ewan turned from the window and crossed the room with silent, predatory steps. His study was stark by design, with maps, ledgers, and a single long table strewn with the bones of plans half executed. The air smelled faintly of cold steel and the wax from his seal.
The image of Malcolm Kincaid rose inside his mind.
“So, it seems ye didnae live long enough tae wed the Fletcher lass,” he whispered. “A pity. Ye would have been easier tae break.”
Baird, however… Baird was a different matter entirely. That man was a stubborn, unyielding brute who had somehow managed not only to contain the scandal but to marry the girl himself, securing the alliance Ewan had spent months trying to sabotage.
He paced slowly, with fury giving way to calculation.
Davina Fletcher. Well, now Kincaid.
The name alone rankled him, like grit beneath a blade.
He thought of the Fletchers’ wealth, of their grain and their upcoming shipments meant to stabilize the Kincaids through the coming seasons… shipments his scouts had already reported moving.
A slow, sharp smile curled along Ewan Sinclair’s mouth.
“So the laird has his bride,” he murmured. “But let us see how well he fares without her precious supplies.”
The knock that sounded was extremely poorly timed, making Ewan’s smile vanish.
“Enter,” he snapped.
The heavy door creaked open, revealing Captain Lorcan, with his helmet tucked beneath his arm. “Ye sent fer me, me laird?”
“Aye,” Ewan replied, turning fully toward him. “Tell me again, are the Fletcher wagons still moving along the northern pass?”
