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A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. Several of the older elders nodded their heads. It was a perfectly logical, strategic solution.

Mabel swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. She looked at Gregor MacNab. He was polite. He was wealthy. He was perfectly respectable.

And she felt nothing for him.

“Laird MacNab makes a sound proposal,” Elder Hugh noted, tapping his wooden cup against the table. “The MacNab lands are strong. The alliance would solidify the entire southern border.”

“It would,” Rowan agreed cautiously though he shot a sideways glance at Caelan.

Mabel opened her mouth to offer a polite, non-committal response, but before she could force a single word out, Caelan moved.

“Nay.”

The single word cut through the Great Hall like a physical blade. It was not loud, but the sheer, vibrating lethality in Caelan’s voice instantly silenced the entire room.

Gregor MacNab blinked, his polished smile slipping a fraction of an inch. “I beg yer pardon, Caelan?”

Caelan stood up. His chair scraped violently against the stone floor. He placed his large hands flat on the table, leaning forward. The feral, terrifying energy he had suppressed all morning broke loose.

“I said nay,” Caelan repeated, his gray eyes locking onto Gregor with a hostile, uncompromising glare. “Ye will nae court her.”

The room went dead. Duncan shifted uncomfortably near the hearth. Rowan dropped his gaze to the table.

Gregor’s aristocratic face tightened, his pride clearly wounded by the public rejection. “May I ask why, Laird MacCarron? Ye called this council to find a solution. I am offering a perfectly honorable one.”

“Yer men are stretched thin holding the southern pass,” Caelan snarled, dismissing Gregor’s wealth instantly. “If ye march two hundred men into the western valley, ye leave yer own borders exposed to the Comyn clan. It is a tactical failure.”

“I am perfectly capable of managing me own borders, Caelan,” Gregor countered coldly, standing his ground. “And Miss Mabel is capable of deciding if me suit pleases her. She is a MacAllister, nae yer property.”

Caelan’s jaw locked so tightly the thick scar slashing across his cheek pulled taut. He took a slow, menacing step around the table, putting his body directly between Gregor and Mabel.

“She is under me protection,” Caelan growled, his voice dropping into a dark, territorial rumble that made the hair on the back of Mabel’s neck stand straight up. “I promised William I would keep her safe. I willnae hand her over to a man who cannae secure his own backyard.”

“This is nae about me borders, and ye ken it,” Gregor snapped, his patience finally breaking. “Ye called us here to discuss a marriage, but ye bark like a rabid dog the second a man steps forward!”

“The conversation is over,” Caelan declared with ruthless finality. “Take yer seat, Gregor.”

Gregor stared at him, his face flushed with anger, but he lacked the physical size and the sheer violent reputation to challenge the Black Laird openly. With a sharp, furious exhale, Gregor turned and stalked back to his bench, sitting down heavily.

An incredibly uncomfortable, suffocating silence descended over the Great Hall.

Mabel sat perfectly still. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Caelan’s sudden, explosive hostility made no sense. He had cornered her in the corridor and demanded she accept a political marriage. He had ordered her to this meeting to listen to proposals. But the very second a man actually offered one, Caelan had nearly drawn his sword.

Why is he fighting this? Mabel thought, her hands trembling in her lap. What does he want from me?

The silence dragged on, thick and unbearable, until Elder Hugh finally cleared his throat.

The old man did not look intimidated. He looked at Caelan with a calm, penetrating stare.

“If ye intend to reject every honorable suit that comes before this table, Caelan,” Hugh said slowly, his voice echoing clearly across the room, “then ye leave us with only one logical conclusion.”

Caelan turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing at the elder. “Speak plainly, Hugh.”

“If ye refuse to allow another laird to court the lass,” Hugh pointed out calmly, “then ye must provide an alternative. Unless ye intend to marry Miss Mabel yerself.”

Mabel gasped softly, her blue eyes going wide. She stared at Caelan’s broad back, her breath catching painfully in her throat.

Marry him.