Page 44 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Roy took it from her. Their fingers touched around the handle. The contact was brief, yet his body remembered her hands upon his scars with an immediacy that made the garden suddenly too warm. Donaldina turned toward the hive before he could read whether she felt it too.

“Now,” she instructed.

Roy pressed the bellows. A thin curl of smoke drifted over the bees, and they moved more slowly at once. “There,” she urged. “Ye see? They are calm.”

He frowned. “They are considering their strategy.”

Donaldina laughed softly. The sound moved through him more dangerously than the bees. She lifted one of the wooden frames from the hive. Honeycomb filled it in neat golden chambers, shining where sunlight found the wax.

“Come closer.”

Donaldina glanced at him, completely still. “Laird MacIver, have ye lost yer courage?”

“I have faced swords more comfortably than this hive.”

Her laughter came again, warmer this time. Roy stepped beside her. The bees crawled across the frame within inches of his hands. He held the smoker precisely as she instructed, though he suspected she took far too much pleasure in his caution.

Donaldina guided his free hand toward the wooden edge. “Hold it here.”

Her fingers settled over his. Roy looked down at them. Her hand looked small against his, yet steady. The touch carried no fear. It rarely did when she chose it herself.

Together, they lifted the frame. Honey glowed between them, amber and warm despite the cold sea wind. Roy watched Donaldina more than the comb. She belonged here differently than she did in the hall. There was no guarded dignity in her expression, no grief sharpened into command. Among the bees, she seemed entirely herself: patient, certain and quietly pleased by the living order around her. He wondered how many parts of her he had not yet seen.

Donaldina replaced the frame and took the smoker from him. “Ye survived.”

“Barely.”

“A heroic achievement.”

She reached into the basket and uncovered a small bowl of fresh comb. With a wooden spoon, she gathered a little honey from its broken edge. Then she held it toward him.

“Try it.”

Roy accepted the spoon without looking away from her. The honey was warm from the hive, thick and bright upon his tongue. It tasted of summer flowers, heather and something softer he could not name.

Donaldina watched him expectantly. “Well?”

Roy lowered the spoon. “Dangerous.”

“The honey?”

His gaze remained upon hers. “Nae.”

The smile faded from her mouth, though not from her eyes. For one long moment, neither moved. Then a bee circled between them, breaking the stillness. Donaldina turned back toward the hive, and Roy stepped away before curiosity became something more difficult to conceal.

CHAPTER TWELVE

She heard him cross the garden behind her, his boots quiet on the damp stones. She expected the wooden gate to open, followed by the fading sound of his footsteps on the path. It did not.

“Donaldina.” His voice settled over her more warmly than the afternoon sun.

She busied herself replacing the wooden cover upon the hive, though it had already been fitted correctly. “Aye?”

“I would ask something of ye.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I would like tae see Lachlan’s records.”