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Brodie raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes tracking the small movement of her thumb against his skin. A subtle, dangerous shift took hold of his jawline, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“The tapestries gather dust, and the grand chamber lacks a clear view of the gate,” he rumbled softly, his gravelly rasp vibrating in the small space between them. “And yet… ye’re still here.”

Sheona tilted her head, her dark lashes lowering slightly as she feigned deep thought. She let a slow, playful grin curl her lips before meeting his dark amber gaze again.

“Perhaps I’m simply waitin’ for ye to smile again,” she murmured, her voice dropping an octave. “It seems to happen about once every three moons. I would hate to miss the next one.”

Brodie didn’t smile, but his hand tightened around hers, his fingers sliding up to grasp her wrist, his thumb resting over the fast, fluttering pulse in her skin.

Sheona rested her head against his broad chest, her hand flat over the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath his leather tunic. Brodie wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his long fingers threading through the dark, heavy waves of her hair, his chin resting lightly atop her head. They did not speak. The soft crackle of the dying embers and the howling of the wind against the high, narrow window filled the quiet space between them.

Neither of them knew precisely when the fire burned down to gray ash, or when the quiet rhythm of their breathing merged. Sleep claimed them slowly, slipping over the room like a heavy shadow.

Sometime before dawn, the bitter chill returned to the edges of the room. Sheona stirred, her dark lashes fluttering open. The room was bathed in the pale, icy blue light of early morning, filtering through the high stone arrow-slit.

She was still tucked safely against his side, her arm draped over his ribs, her nose buried into the warm wool of his collar. Brodie’s massive arm remained locked firmly around her waist, holding her close against him even in sleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm.

She looked up at his face in the soft light. The hard, formidable lines of his jaw were relaxed, his brow smooth, stripped of the heavy, suffocating weight he carried every waking hour.

Sheona did not move away. She did not pull back or reach for her heavy woolen cloak. Instead, she let out a tiny, contented sigh, shifting half an inch closer into the solid warmth of his frame, and let her eyelids fall shut again.

The sharp, thunderous pounding on the heavy oak door shattered the silence of the study.

Sheona jolted awake, her breath catching violently in her throat as she sat up in the tangled wolf furs.

Brodie’s eyes snapped open instantly. In a single, fluid motion born of years of war, his hand dropped to the hilt of the dirk resting on the small table beside the bed, his entire body going taut as steel before his feet even hit the flagstones.

“Me Laird!” Douglas’s rough, urgent voice shouted through the heavy timber door, muffled by the thick wood. "Sir Thomas and his men are in the great hall. They are callin' for the hearin' to begin at once. Aaron is with them."

Brodie stood up beside the bed, his dark hair messy, his tunic rumpled, his jaw setting into a hard, dangerous line. He looked down at Sheona, whose face had gone pale in the cold morning light, her hand clutching the edge of the dark furs over her chest.

The warmth of the night vanished in an instant, replaced by the sharp, unyielding reality of the day ahead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The tall oak doors of the Council chamber creaked open, the iron hinges groaning under the weight of centuries. The air inside was dense, heavy with the sharp smell of burning tallow, old parchment, and wet wool.

Sheona stepped over the stone threshold with her chin lifted and her spine straight. She wore her finest dark wool dress, the plaid of her house pinned over her shoulder with a plain brass brooch. Brodie walked beside her, his long strides matching her pace. He did not reach for her hand or offer a word of comfort, but his sheer, broad presence at her left flank felt like a stone shield against the cold stares waiting in the room.

Only the lairds of the neighboring glens and the Council Elders sat within the chamber. At the center of the long trestle table stood Sir Thomas Morrison, his dark hair neatly combed over his shoulders, his lined face unreadable. Beside him stood Aaron Gallaway, his arms crossed over his leather cuirass, his dark eyes fixed on Sheona as she approached.

Brodie pulled out the heavy timber chair at the foot of the table and waited until Sheona took her seat before sinking into the one beside her. He leaned back, resting his broad forearms on the dark oak, his face a mask of quiet, dangerous stillness. He did not speak. He had made it clear before they crossed the yard—this was her blood, her house, and she would answer for it herself.

Sir Thomas Morrison cleared his throat, his broad, ink-marked hands resting flat on a leather-bound ledger. “Lady Sheona. We convene this mornin’ to settle the final disposition of the MacFaris glens before the hand-bindin’ takes place.”

Before Morrison could even finish his sentence, Elder Colquhoun—a sharp-nosed man with narrow eyes and a beard dyed yellow with tobacco—leaned forward, slamming his fist onto the table.

“Why should Clan MacFaris retain a single foot of soil?” Colquhoun demanded, his voice thin and rasping like dry grass. “After the burnin’ of the western stores? After three generations of cattle raidin’ and blood feuds that starved half the southern glens? Why should this Council trust the daughter of a traitor?”

Sheona drew a smooth, measured breath, placing her palms flat on the cold oak table. “Me father’s choices were his own. The clan elders who backed his raids are either buried in the meadow or fled past the border. The folk remainin’ on the land are farmhands, weavers, and old women who⁠—”

“Farmhands who bore yer father’s banner!” another Elder, a broad-shouldered man named MacIntyre, shouted over her. “They paid his tithes! They sharpened his spears!”

“They had nay choice!” Sheona countered, her voice rising, clear and firm over the murmur of the room. “When a laird demands tithes under threat of the torch, a tenant farmer does nae⁠—”

“And what of the future?” Colquhoun interrupted smoothly, twisting his lips into a cruel, knowing sneer. “Should her children inherit the west glens? Children born of MacFaris blood holdin’ a key mountain pass? They have nay right to that soil! The land should be stripped clean of the MacFaris name entirely, turned over to Council trustees to ensure the peace is kept!”

“The peace is kept by justice, nae by theft.” Sheona insisted, her blue eyes flashing with white-hot anger as she leaned forward. “I have offered a full audit of the grain yields. I have agreed to Council oversight on the border watch. The sins of me father belonged to him alone, and I willnae sit here and allow ye to⁠—”