Page 69 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

Baird, to his credit, inclined his head toward her, something that might almost have been respect settling into his weathered face. "Aye. It does. My lady."

Neilina held his gaze a moment longer, then turned back to her own plate as though she hadn't just silenced an entire council, and Marcas kept her hand in his beneath the table, his thumb moving slow over her knuckles, and thought that he had never once, in years of leading this clan, felt prouder standing beside anyone.

Look at her, he thought, unable to stop the smile pulling at his own mouth. Look at what she's just done, and she's already gone back tae her stew as though it were naething at all.

She glanced sideways at him, catching and returning the smile, and something warm and private passed between them, a shared look that needed no words. He thought that whatever came next—Fearchar, Cailleach, the whole tangled danger still circling them both—he would face every bit of it a great deal easier with her hand still in his.

It was in that exact moment, with her thumb still tracing idly over his knuckles and the hall's noise just beginning to rise back to its ordinary pitch, that the great doors at the far end crashed open hard enough to rattle on their hinges.

The doors slammed back against the stone with a crack that silenced the whole hall at once, and Neilina's hand went rigid in Marcas's grip before she'd even turned to see who'd caused it.

"Where is she?" A voice boomed

She knew the voice before she saw the face.

Fearchar stood in the doorway with more than a dozen Chisholm warriors at his back, travel-mud still on his boots, his sword already drawn. His eyes found her across the length of the hall with a fury she had never once seen on her brother's face in twenty-seven years of knowing him.

"Neilina." He was already moving, shoving aside a startled servant., MacKinnon men started rising on every side of the hall,hands going to their hilts. "Get away from him."

"Fearchar—"

"He's held ye here against yer will, and I've a letter from Cailleach MacRath telling me exactly what he's done tae ye, and I'll nae stand here and watch ye sit beside him like a hostage playing at a hostess's part." His voice carried the whole length of the hall, raw and furious. "MacKinnon. Ye'll release my sister, now, or I'll take her from ye the same way ye took her from MacRath,by force, in front of every man ye call yer own."

The hall erupted.

Chairs scraped across stone as men on both sides faced off, hands on blades, Lachlan already moving toward the doors with four MacKinnon men at his shoulder., Marcas was on his feet in the same instant, releasing her hand as he stepped between her and the sword her brother had drawn.

"Ye'll lower that blade in my hall," Marcas said, low and hard, "before this becomes something neither of us can undo."

"I'll lower naething while ye hold my sister hostage with yer sword at her back. "

"Then ask me," Neilina said, and stepped between them.

She felt the whole room's attention swing to her at once. Marcas's hand come up instinctively toward her shoulder, then stopped short, respecting the space she'd just claimed for herself. Neilina held her brother's eyes, her heart hammering even as her voice remained level.

"Fearchar. Lower yer sword."

His jaw tightened.

"I am nae a hostage," she continued. " No one is holding me against my will."

"Neilina—"

"Nae." Her voice sharpened. "Ye'll listen tae me now."

She took a breath, forcing herself to remain steady.

"I chose tae stay."

Fearchar stared at her.

"I chose tae marry Marcas. I chose this."

Her fingers trembled at her sides, but she held her ground.

"Whatever ye were told, whatever ye think ye're coming here tae rescue me from, ye need tae understand that there is nothing tae rescue me from."

His sword remained raised. Neilina swallowed.