Page 26

He stared at the burning letter in the fire for a full minute. His chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths. He needed to tell her. As the acting guardian of her clan, he was obligated to inform her of any formal suits.

Caelan strode out of the room.

The walk through the winding corridors felt impossibly long. Every step he took toward her guest chamber felt like a heavy stone dragging him closer to a cliff edge. The two guards stationed outside her door straightened up immediately when they saw him approaching.

“Open it,” Caelan commanded roughly.

Sorley hurried to lift the heavy iron latch, pulling the thick wooden door open and stepping quickly out of the way.

Caelan stepped over the threshold.

The chamber was warm and quiet. Isla was nowhere to be seen. Mabel was sitting on the padded bench beneath the narrow, arched window. Her legs were curled beneath the soft wool of her gown. She held a heavy, leather-bound book in her lap, but she was not reading. She was staring blankly out at the darkening sky, her profile illuminated softly by the flickering light of the hearth.

She turned her head the second the door closed.

Her striking blue eyes widened slightly, locking onto his frame. He saw her gaze sweep rapidly over his tense shoulders, the locked line of his jaw, and the barely contained energy radiating from him.

She closed the book and set it carefully on the sill. “Laird MacCarron.”

“Miss Mabel,” Caelan replied, his voice a low gravel.

He did not walk further into the room. He remained near the door, keeping a wide, physical distance between them. If he got too close, he would smell the clean scent of lavender soap. He would see the exact shade of her eyes. He would lose his mind.

“Ye look as though ye are preparing for a battle,” Mabel noted. Her voice was incredibly calm, but he could see the slight tightening of her small hands where they rested in her lap.

“A rider arrived at the gates an hour ago,” Caelan stated flatly. “He carried a message for me.”

Mabel did not stand up. “From who?”

“Laird Fergus Comyn.”

Mabel flinched. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but Caelan caught it instantly. He saw the cold, sharp spike of genuine fear flash through her blue eyes before she forcefully blinked it away, locking her delicate features into a mask of polite composure.

“And what does Laird Comyn want?” Mabel asked, keeping her voice level.

“He is formally requesting permission to court ye,” Caelan delivered the words like a physical blow, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. “With the explicit intention of marriage.”

The room went silent. The only sound was the heavy crackle of the peat fire.

Mabel stared at him. She looked directly into his face, her gaze searching for any sign of emotion, any hint of his true intentions.

“I see,” Mabel said softly. She uncurled her legs and stood up from the window seat, smoothing the skirts of her gown. She took a slow step toward the center of the room. “And do ye intend to accept his proposal?”

The question gutted him.

She asked it so calmly, so rationally, as if she were inquiring about the weather. She was asking him if he planned to hand her over to the very man trying to steal her father’s legacy, and she was waiting for his command.

I would burn him alive before I let him touch ye, Caelan thought violently.

“Nay decision has been made,” Caelan said aloud, forcing the words through the tight restriction in his throat. “I am required to inform ye of any formal suits. The council made their stance perfectly clear yesterday. They believe marriage remains the safest, most strategic solution to secure both ye and Clan MacAllister.”

Mabel stopped moving.

The polite composure fell from her face. A sharp, raw hurt flashed across her features, followed immediately by a hot, rising anger.

She stared at him, her blue eyes narrowing. “The safest solution. Is that what I am to ye? A problem to be solved safely?”

“It is a tactical reality,” Caelan countered coldly, refusing to drop his guard. “Ye need a strong alliance.”