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Mabel stood up slowly, her eyes wide as she took in the formidable woman.

The woman turned, wiping her hands on her apron, and her sharp, observant eyes softened significantly as they landed on Mabel.

“Forgive the noise, Ma’am,” the woman said, offering a stiff but respectful curtsy. “I am Morag. I run the kitchens and the household of Blackthorn Keep, no matter what that scarred giant downstairs happens to think.”

Mabel offered a small, hesitant smile. “It is a pleasure to meet ye, Morag. Isla spoke highly of ye.”

“Isla talks too much,” Morag said, waving a dismissive hand though a fond smile touched her lips. “I brought ye food. Ye barely touched yer breakfast, and ye are far too thin. A stiff Highland wind could blow ye right off the battlements.”

“I am nae hungry, Morag, thank ye,” Mabel said quietly, looking toward the narrow, arched window.

Morag crossed her arms, unimpressed by the refusal. “I daenae care if ye are hungry. Ye will eat. Grief takes a terrible toll on the body, lass. It hollows ye out from the inside. Ye need strength for what comes next.”

Mabel stared out the glass. What came next? A political marriage? A new laird to command her? Caelan had made the terms perfectly clear in the corridor. He would keep her breathing, and in return, he would decide her entire future. She was perfectly protected and trapped.

I am suffocating, she thought, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her gown. I cannae breathe in this stone box.

“I need air,” Mabel murmured.

“Open a window, then,” Morag suggested practically, arranging the plates on the tray. “The stones are freezing today, but it will clear yer head.”

“I meant outside, Morag,” Mabel clarified, turning away from the window, a spark of stubborn MacAllister rebellion finally igniting in her chest. “I need to walk. I need to feel the wind on me face.”

Morag stopped arranging the plates. She looked at Mabel, her gray eyebrows raising slightly. “Oh, Ma’a,m, ye cannae leave the keep. The Laird gave strict orders. The guards will nae let ye pass the corridor.”

Mabel’s delicate jaw tightened. She was the heiress of her clan. She would not be kept in a cage, no matter how many swords surrounded it.

“We will see about that,” Mabel said.

She did not wait for Morag to argue. She grabbed her thick, dark wool cloak from the foot of the bed, threw it over her shoulders, and pulled the heavy hood up over her golden-blonde hair.

She slipped out the door.

The two guards in the corridor were currently arguing over a pair of loaded dice, their attention focused on the floor. Mabel did not hesitate. She turned left, moving silently down the dimly lit corridor toward the main stairwell.

She had barely reached the landing when a broad-shouldered figure stepped directly into her path.

Duncan Fraser crossed his thick arms over his chest, looking down at her with a heavily suspicious squint.

“And where exactly might ye be sneaking off to, Miss Mabel?” Duncan asked, his gruff voice echoing loudly off the stone walls.

Mabel stood her ground, refusing to shrink back from the imposing captain. “I am going to the gardens.”

“The Laird ordered ye to remain in yer chambers,” Duncan replied, not moving a single inch. “For yer own safety.”

“I am suffocating in that room, Duncan,” Mabel said, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet, unyielding authority she had watched her father use a thousand times. “I am nae asking to ride out into the glens. I am asking to walk within the walls of this fortress. Are yer men nae capable of securing a garden?”

Duncan’s gray-streaked eyebrows shot up. He stared at the petite woman, clearly surprised by the sharp steel hidden in her soft voice.

“Me men can secure the devil himself, lass,” Duncan grunted, “but the Laird…”

“The Laird is in his solar,” Mabel cut in smoothly. “If he takes issue with me breathing fresh air, he can come to the gardens and tell me himself. Now, step aside, Captain.”

Duncan hesitated, clearly unused to taking orders from anyone but Caelan. Whatever he saw in the set of her shoulders made him think twice. With a heavy sigh, he uncrossed his arms and took a slow step back.

“Fine,” Duncan muttered, rubbing his bearded jaw. “But I am sending two guards to stand at the garden gates. Ye daenae go near the cliff edge.”

Mabel didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She brushed past him, navigating the winding, drafty corridors of Blackthorn Keep. She slipped through a heavy iron gate near the armory and stepped out into the biting Highland wind.