Page 27

“Oh, of course,” Mabel said. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, tilting her chin up. “A tactical reality. Perhaps this is exactly what ye wanted all along, Laird MacCarron.”

Caelan frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together. “What are ye talking about?”

“Once ye marry me off to Fergus Comyn, or Gregor MacNab or whoever else offers ye enough swords,” Mabel said, her voice dripping with thick, biting sarcasm, “yer obligation to me father will finally be fulfilled. Ye will be free of the burden I have become to ye. Ye can go back to yer quiet, violent life without having to worry about a useless heiress cluttering up yer keep.”

The accusation hit him with blinding force. He lost his grip on the cold mask of the Black Laird.

He crossed the room in three rapid strides, stopping mere inches from her.

“Ye are nae a burden,” Caelan snarled, the sheer volume of his voice shaking the stones beneath their feet. He glared down at her, his chest heaving. “Ye have never been a burden.”

Mabel did not shrink back. She stood her ground, leaning slightly into his space, her blue eyes blazing with defiant fire.

“Then what am I?” she challenged, her voice rising to meet his. “If I am nae a burden, why are ye so determined to hand me over to the next man who asks? Why are ye standing in me chamber, calmly discussing me future with a man who wants to steal me clan?”

“I am nae calmly discussing anything!” Caelan roared, a restless energy taking over his body. “I am informing ye of the political reality!”

“I daenae care about the political reality!” Mabel shouted back, her small hands dropping from her chest to clench into fists at her sides. “I care about what ye want! Ye dictate every single move I make. Ye lock me in this keep. Ye tell me who I can see and where I can walk but refuse to tell me what ye truly want!”

Caelan stared down at her. He was trapped.

He wanted her. He wanted to claim her. He wanted to pull her against his chest, bury his face in her golden hair, and consume her. He wanted to keep her locked in this fortress with him forever, safe from the violent world outside.

But if he spoke those words, if he confessed the dark, selfish monster lurking inside his mind, he would destroy her light.

“Me duty is to keep ye safe,” Caelan ground out, the words tasting like poison. “What I want doesnae matter.”

“It matters to me!” Mabel cried out, a sudden, desperate frustration cracking her voice.

Caelan’s jaw ticked violently. He looked away, staring blindly at the stone wall over her shoulder, unable to hold the raw, pleading look in her eyes. The silence stretched between them, heavy and agonizing.

Mabel let out a shaky, bitter breath.

“Fine,” she whispered. Her voice was drained of anger, leaving only a cold, hollow disappointment. “If ye are nothing but a guardian following orders, then we have nothing left to discuss.”

She turned away from him sharply, intending to walk toward the door to end the conversation.

The movement triggered his combat instincts. She was leaving. She was walking away from him again.

Without a single conscious thought, Caelan reached for her.

His hand shot out, his long fingers closing brutally fast around her delicate wrist. The grip was inescapable, burning with intense heat. He yanked her backward.

Mabel gasped, her soft shoes slipping slightly on the rug. She turned so violently that she crashed directly against his solid chest.

They froze.

They were standing impossibly close. The distance between them had vanished.

Caelan looked down. Mabel’s head was tilted back, her striking blue eyes wide and locked onto his. Her small hands were pressed flat against his heavy leather coat, right over his franticly hammering heart. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest brushing against him with every shallow breath she took.

He did not let go of her wrist. He could not physically force his fingers to open.

The air in the chamber instantly turned incredibly thick, saturated with the undeniable, gravitational pull of raw, primal attraction. The scent of her lavender soap and the warm, sweet smell of her skin flooded his senses, making his head spin.

Mabel stared up into his face. The defiance in her eyes shifted, melting into a dark, desperate challenge.

“Give me the order, Me Laird,” Mabel whispered. Her voice was incredibly soft, breathless, but laced with sharp, biting sarcasm. She leaned a fraction of an inch closer, her lips parting. “Tell me to marry him. Tell me to go to Fergus Comyn.”