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“The Laird ordered ye to rest,” Isla reminded her, walking over to the bed to set the linens down.

“The Laird ordered me to stay within the walls,” Mabel corrected, her chin lifting with a spark of stubborn defiance. “He dinnae order me to stay bolted inside this specific chamber until I wither away into dust. I need to be useful, Isla. If I sit here any longer, staring at these four walls and thinking about the council meeting, I am going to scream.”

Isla’s expression softened, something sympathetic crossing her face. “I ken the council meeting still weighs on ye,” she said quietly. “Ye’ve hardly spoken since.”

This sudden burst of frustration was the very first sign of life she had shown in days.

“Well, we cannae have ye screaming, Ma’am,” Isla said, placing her hands on her hips. “Morag would think I am torturing ye, and she would likely box me ears. If ye truly wish to stretch yer legs, we could explore the keep. Properly, this time. Nae just the corridors leading to the Great Hall.”

Mabel stopped pacing. “Are we allowed?”

“As long as we daenae go near the outer gates or the armory, the guards willnae stop us,” Isla assured her with a confident wave of her hand. “The Black Laird’s word is law, but even he kens ye cannae lock a woman in a single room forever. Come. I will show ye where the real heart of Blackthorn Keep beats.”

Mabel did not hesitate. She grabbed her dark blue wool shawl, draping it over her shoulders, and followed Isla out into the dim, torch-lit corridor.

The two guards stationed outside her door immediately straightened up, their hands resting on the hilts of their broadswords.

“Miss Mabel,” the taller guard grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“We are going to the kitchens,” Isla announced briskly, ignoring their intimidating posture. “Miss Mabel requires a change of scenery. Ye can trail behind us if ye must, but try nae to step on me skirts today, Sorley.”

The guard named Sorley scowled, but he stepped aside, allowing them to pass.

They navigated the drafty fortress. Blackthorn Keep was incredibly different from her father’s home. MacAllister Castle had been built with wide windows and bright tapestries, designed for comfort as much as defense. This place was martial. The stone walls were bare and thick. The narrow windows were designed for archers, not sunlight. Every man they passed moved with a quiet, disciplined intensity.

Eventually, the cold smell of damp stone gave way to the overwhelming, rich scent of roasting meat, fresh herbs, and baking bread.

Isla pushed open a heavy set of swinging wooden doors, and the noise hit them immediately.

The castle kitchens were a chaotic, roaring hive of activity. Three hearths blazed with roaring fires, heavily loaded spits turning slowly over the flames. Dozens of servants rushed across the flagstone floors, carrying heavy iron pots, sacks of flour, and wooden bowls of chopped vegetables. The heat was immense, chasing away the Highland chill.

In the very center of the chaos stood Morag.

The formidable housekeeper was holding a large wooden spoon like a scepter, barking orders at a terrified-looking scullery boy who was struggling to lift a basket of turnips.

“Nae that way, ye daft lad, lift with yer knees!” Morag shouted, gesturing wildly with the spoon. “If ye drop those, ye will be peeling them with yer teeth!”

The boy scrambled to correct his grip, hurrying away toward the washing basins.

Morag turned, wiping her brow with the back of her flour-dusted arm, and finally spotted Mabel and Isla standing near the doorway. Her sharp, gray eyes immediately softened.

“Miss Mabel,” Morag greeted, her loud voice dropping into a much warmer tone. She marched over, ignoring the frantic activity buzzing around her. “What are ye doing down here in the smoke and the grease? Isla, ye foolish lass, why did ye bring her into this mess?”

“She was going mad in her chamber, Morag,” Isla defended herself quickly. “She needed out.”

“I wanted to see the keep, Morag,” Mabel added, offering a polite smile. “And I wanted to ask if there is anything I can do to help. I am accustomed to managing the inventory back home. I can chop, I can clean, I can mend…”

Morag stared at her, utterly horrified by the suggestion. “Ye will do nothing of the sort! Ye are the heiress of Clan MacAllister, nae a kitchen maid. The Laird would have me head on a pike if I handed ye a paring knife.”

“The Laird does nae need to ken,” Mabel pointed out stubbornly.

“The Laird kens everything,” Morag retorted with a dry snort. She grabbed a clean rag, violently wiped down a small wooden stool near the central preparation table, and pointed at it. “Sit. If ye insist on being down here, ye will sit and keep me company while I work. Isla, fetch her a cup of the sweet cider. The warm batch.”

Mabel gave up the fight. She walked over to the stool and sat down, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The heat of the nearby hearth was incredibly comforting. She watched Morag plunge her hands into a bowl of dough, kneading it with a fierce, practiced rhythm.

“It smells wonderful down here,” Mabel said quietly.

“It smells like exhaustion,” Morag muttered, punching the dough hard. “With fifty extra men stationed on the walls, these kitchens have nae stopped running since the night ye arrived. Speaking of eating… has that brooding giant upstairs eaten anything today?”