Page 19

Isla paused, the wooden bristles resting against Mabel’s hair. The maid stepped around to the side of the bed, her brown eyes dropping their previous teasing humor.

“The castle is talking about the council meeting, Ma’am,” Isla said quietly, taking a seat on the wooden stool near the fire. “They are saying Laird MacNab offered a suit, and the Black Laird nearly took his head off for it.”

“He did,” Mabel murmured, her voice flat.

“And yet,” Isla pressed carefully, leaning forward, “he also refused to claim ye himself.”

“He made his feelings perfectly clear,” Mabel said, a hot, defensive sting burning behind her eyes. “He considers me a duty. A burden left to him by me father. He will find a suitable alliance for me, and then his obligation will be complete.”

Isla tilted her head, studying Mabel’s pale, exhausted face. “Do ye truly believe that, Ma’am? Do ye find him as terrifying as the stories claim?”

Mabel hesitated. She thought of Caelan towering over the council table. She thought of his scarred face, his lethal reputation, and the sheer violence that clung to him like a second shadow.

Then she thought of the courtyard. The way he had gently reached down and offered his hand to the terrified young recruit in the mud. She thought of the heavy, intoxicating heat of his chest in the gardens, the way his hand had trembled with the effort of not touching her.

A hot, involuntary blush crept rapidly up Mabel’s neck, burning her cheeks.

“His face may frighten people,” Mabel admitted softly, staring into the flames. “And his temper is terrifying. But… I have nae seen cruelty in his eyes, Isla. I have seen anger. I have seen exhaustion. But nae cruelty.”

Isla’s eyes widened slightly, a slow, incredibly mischievous smile spreading across her face. “Oh, Ma’am.”

“What?” Mabel asked, instantly defensive, pulling her dark blue wool shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Perhaps,” Isla teased, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “ye are beginning to see something that nay one else in the Highlands has ever noticed. Perhaps ye see a man, nae a monster.”

“Daenae be ridiculous,” Mabel snapped, standing up from the bed quickly to hide the violent hammering of her heart. “I see a stubborn, impossible warlord who refuses to even look at me unless he is barking an order. He barely tolerates me presence, Isla. He made that obvious yesterday.”

“If a man barely tolerates ye, he doesnae threaten to gut a wealthy laird for looking at ye,” Isla pointed out practically, picking up the hairbrush again. “Men are incredibly stupid creatures, Ma’am. Especially the strong ones. They convince themselves that suffering makes them noble. If he is keeping his distance, it is nae because he hates ye.”

Mabel walked to the narrow arched window, pressing her hot forehead against the freezing glass.

If he doesnae hate me, then why is he pushing me away?

“I need to stretch me legs,” Mabel announced, needing to escape the suffocating accuracy of Isla’s observations. “I am going to walk the upper gallery.”

“Shall I fetch the guards?” Isla asked, already standing.

“Nae,” Mabel replied quickly. “The gallery is inside the central keep. I am nae leaving the main building. I just need a few moments alone.”

She stepped out of her chamber. The two guards in the corridor straightened up immediately, but she simply pointed toward the stairs. “I am remaining in the keep. I am going to the gallery.”

They did not stop her. They merely fell into step a respectful ten paces behind her, their boots echoing softly against the stone.

Mabel navigated the winding corridors until she reached the upper gallery. It was a long, open stone walkway enclosed by the heavy walls of the keep, featuring a row of wide, arched windows that overlooked the main training yard below.

The gallery was empty. The air was frigid, cutting through the thin wool of her gown, but it felt incredibly clean.

She walked to the center window and leaned her forearms against the stone sill, looking down into the courtyard.

The yard was busy. Men were hauling sacks of grain toward the storehouses while others were sharpening broadswords near the armory. The rhythmic, metallic ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed loudly over the steady hum of Highland voices.

Suddenly, the heavy iron gates of the keep groaned open.

Mabel’s breath caught in her throat.

Caelan rode into the courtyard on a black warhorse.

He was probably returning from inspecting the perimeter patrols. He looked exhausted, his heavy leather coat splattered with dark mud. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the freezing mist, and his broad shoulders were slumped slightly with fatigue.