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He swung down from the saddle with effortless, lethal grace, tossing the heavy leather reins to a waiting stable boy.

Mabel watched him, captivated. Her heart gave a sudden, violent kick against her ribs. She gripped the stone sill, her knuckles turning white. Despite his rejection, despite the harshness of his words, the mere sight of him sent a hot, rushing wave of comfort and undeniable attraction straight to her core.

Down in the yard, Caelan paused.

He stopped mid-stride, his body going still. It was as if he could physically feel the weight of her stare.

He turned his head slowly, looking straight up at the upper gallery.

Across the vast, noisy expanse of the courtyard, their eyes locked.

The distance between them vanished. The noise of the blacksmith’s hammer faded into complete silence. Mabel stared down into his piercing gray eyes, paralyzed by the sheer, magnetic intensity burning between them.

Without thinking, driven by the sudden, overwhelming relief of simply seeing a familiar face in this cold fortress, Mabel smiled.

It was not a polite, restrained smile. It was genuine, soft, and unguarded.

Down in the mud, Caelan went perfectly rigid.

Mabel watched, breathless, as the hard, terrifying mask of the Black Laird shattered. His features softened almost imperceptibly. His chest heaved, a look of profound, agonizing vulnerability flashing across his gray eyes. For one single, suspended heartbeat, he looked like a man who was desperate to climb the stone walls and reach her.

He took a half-step toward the keep.

Mabel’s heart soared. She lifted her hand from the stone sill, intending to wave, intending to bridge the gap he had forced between them.

But then, Caelan stopped.

The vulnerability in his eyes vanished, swallowed by a sudden, violent panic.

Caelan’s jaw locked with a brutal, audible snap. He actually bared his teeth, letting out a low, hostile growl that she could not hear but clearly saw in the rigid tension of his throat.

He deliberately, forcefully broke eye contact.

He turned his broad back to her instantly, grabbed a passing guard by the shoulder to bark an order, and ignored the gallery above him. He strode toward the armory, his heavy boots kicking up mud, never once looking back.

Mabel stood alone by the arched window, her hand frozen mid-air.

The brutal rejection hit her with the force of a physical blow. The soft smile fell from her lips, replaced by a crushing, suffocating wave of pure humiliation.

She lowered her hand, her fingers trembling violently as she gripped the freezing stone sill.

He is nae keeping his distance to protect me, Mabel thought, a hot, bitter tear finally spilling over her dark lashes to cut a clean track down her pale cheek. He is avoiding me because he cannae bear me company.

She had spent most of her life as the daughter no one quite knew what to do with, the youngest, the one who talked too much at table. It had taught her to expect to be tolerated rather than wanted.

She turned away from the window, unable to watch him walk away from her again. The cold stone of the gallery offered no comfort as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, the agonizing reality of her isolation finally settling over her heart.

6

“Icannae sit in this chair for one more single minute, Isla. I am going mad.” Three days of the same four walls had left her pacing a groove into the rug.

Mabel pushed herself up from the padded window seat, her soft leather slippers hitting the stone floor with a frustrated thud. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, pacing the length of the guest chamber. The heavy fire crackled in the hearth, keeping the room perfectly warm, but the heat felt stifling. It felt exactly like a cage.

Isla paused near the oak wardrobe, a stack of freshly laundered linens resting against her hip. She watched her mistress pace, a highly amused glint in her brown eyes.

“Ye have only been sitting there for an hour, Ma’am” Isla pointed out, her voice bright and teasing.

“An hour of doing nothing,” Mabel countered, spinning around to face the maid. Her golden-blonde hair whipped over her shoulder. “Back at MacAllister Castle, I was never idle. I helped the healers organize the willow bark and poultices. I took inventory of the winter grain. I read to the younger bairns in the lower hall. I had a purpose. Here, I am just a ghost haunting a guest room while the rest of the keep prepares for a war on me behalf.”