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The thought sent a sudden, electric jolt of pure, terrifying heat shooting through her veins. He was twelve years older than her. He was heavily scarred, widely feared, and utterly ruthless. But he was also the man who swore to protect her. He was the man who had burned with overwhelming hunger in the gardens.

The entire hall waited for his response. Duncan stopped moving. Rowan held his breath.

Caelan did not hesitate.

“That,” Caelan stated firmly, his voice devoid of any warmth or hesitation, “will never happen.”

The blunt, immediate dismissal struck Mabel right in the center of her chest.

It was not just a rejection. It was a complete, public refusal. He had dismissed the very idea of marrying her with the exact same cold, ruthless precision he used to parry a sword strike.

“Me duty is to William,” Caelan continued coldly, addressing the elders. “I will protect her until a suitable, tactically sound alliance can be found. Nothing more.”

Mabel felt the blood drain from her face.

She sat quietly in her wooden chair, listening to the men resume their arguing, moving past the suggestion as if it were a foolish joke.

Nothing more.

The words cut far deeper than they should have. She was a burden to him. A tactical problem to be solved. The heat in the garden had been nothing but a momentary lapse in his discipline, an instinct he clearly regretted and despised.

Mabel placed her hands flat on the wooden table.

She did not cry. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how thoroughly his coldness had humiliated her. She forced her spine straight and stood up.

The movement caught Caelan’s attention. He turned slightly, his gray eyes dropping to her pale face.

“Excuse me,” Mabel said. Her voice wasquiet, devoid of any emotion.

She did not wait for his permission. She turned and walked away from the table, moving swiftly toward the arched doorway.

“Mabel,” Caelan said gruffly, taking a half-step after her.

She ignored him. She did not look back. She walked out of the Great Hall and disappeared into the dim, freezing corridors of the keep before anyone could notice the bitter disappointment she was fighting so desperately to hide.

5

“Ye nearly took MacNab’s head clean off his shoulders yesterday,” Rowan noted, his voice carrying easily over the howl of the morning wind.

Caelan rested his forearms against the freezing, rain-slicked stones of the battlements. The dawn sky was a bruised, heavy purple, casting long, dark shadows across the courtyard below. He dinnae look at his friend. He kept his eyes locked on the southern tree line, his jaw tight enough to crack his own teeth.

“Gregor MacNab is a fool,” Caelan growled, his voice a harsh gravel that scraped against the cold air. “He leaves his southern flank exposed to the Comyn clan, and he thinks he can march two hundred men into the western valley without consequence. It is a tactical disaster waiting to happen.”

Rowan MacLarren leaned beside him, crossing his arms over his heavy tartan. A deeply amused, knowing smile played at the corner of his mouth.

“Aye, MacNab’s borders are a mess,” Rowan agreed smoothly, turning his head to study Caelan’s rigid profile. “But we both ken perfectly well that ye dinnae bite his head off over military tactics, Caelan. Ye reacted like a man who just caught a stranger eyeing his favorite horse. Or, more accurately, his wife.”

Caelan’s thick fingers dug into the mortar between the stones. “Watch yer mouth, Rowan.”

“I am merely pointing out what every single man in that hall saw yesterday,” Rowan continued, unfazed by the lethal warning in the Black Laird’s tone. “Laird MacNab offered a perfectly honorable, strategic suit. He is wealthy. He has men. He is exactly the kind of alliance Clan MacAllister needs. And ye looked ready to draw yer broadsword and gut him on the table.”

“He is too old for her,” Caelan snapped, pushing off the stone wall and pacing a tight, restless circle on the narrow walkway. “He buried his first wife a year ago. He is looking for a broodmare and a land deed, nae a partner.”

“He is a Highland laird, Caelan. That is exactly how marriages are made,” Rowan pointed out, his amusement fading into a sharper, more serious focus. “Every neighboring laird is going to attempt to secure Miss Mabel’s hand. If they daenae do it through diplomacy and council meetings, they will do it through force. Ye cannae stall this forever.”

“I am nae stalling,” Caelan shot back, stopping to glare at his friend. “I am protecting her.”

“Are ye?” Rowan challenged, stepping closer. “Because right now, ye are holding her hostage to yer own impossible standards. Ye shoot down every man who looks at her. Ye lock her in yer keep. Delaying a decision is only going to invite greater danger. Fergus Comyn is already moving his men along the border. He will nae ask politely like MacNab did.”