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He had ruined everything.

8

The iron broadsword came down with a vicious, ringing strike that echoed sharply across the wet cobblestones.

Rowan barely managed to bring his own blade up in time to parry. The sheer force of the blow drove the younger man’s boots backward, sliding through the thick, freezing mud of the training yard.

“Yield,” Caelan grunted, his voice a harsh rasp in the damp morning air.

“I yielded three strikes ago!” Rowan gasped, lowering his weapon and resting his hands on his knees. His breath plumed in the cold mist. “Ye are fighting ghosts today, Caelan. I am a man of flesh and bone, and I would like to keep both intact before I assume me father’s title.”

Caelan did not smile. He lowered his sword, the tip sinking an inch into the mud. His chest rose and fell in rapid, punishing gasps, sweat mingling with the freezing mist on his face. The physical exertion had done nothing to quiet the roaring noise in his mind.

It had been three days.

Three days since he had stood in the guest chamber and allowed the darkest, most selfish part of his nature to break free. The phantom taste of sweet cider and lavender still clung stubbornly to his senses, a brutal, lingering reminder of his complete loss of control. He had kissed her. He had consumed her with the desperation of a starving animal.

Caelan turned his back on Rowan, striding toward the wooden water barrel near the armory wall. He splashed freezing water over his face and neck, scrubbing harshly at his skin, trying to wash away the memory of her soft submission. It did not work.

“The men are taking bets, ye ken,” Rowan called out, walking over and leaning his back against the stone wall.

“I daenae care about the men’s wagers,” Caelan muttered, wiping his face with a rough linen towel.

“They are betting on whether ye intend to work the entire guard to death by sunset, or if ye will simply drop dead of exhaustion first,” Rowan clarified, a knowing smirk touching his lips. “Ye have been pacing the battlements from dawn until midnight. Ye have doubled the sparring rotations. Ye look like a man running from a demon.”

“I am securing the keep,” Caelan stated flatly, tossing the towel onto a bench.

“Ye are securing a fortress that is already sealed tighter than a tomb,” Rowan countered, folding his arms.

Before Caelan could issue a lethal warning for his friend to hold his tongue, the loud crunch of boots sounded on the gravel. Duncan Fraser strode across the courtyard, ignoring the sparring men who quickly scrambled out of his path. The captain of the guard held a folded piece of thick parchment in one hand and a small, unlit wax taper in the other.

Duncan stopped in front of the armory, his gray-streaked eyebrows pulled into a tight scowl.

“If ye are quite finished breaking the arms of our allies,” Duncan said gruffly, casting a dry look at Rowan, “there is a matter of state requiring yer immediate attention, Me Laird.”

Caelan’s jaw tightened. He stared at the parchment in Duncan’s hand. He knew exactly what it was.

“Is the draft finished?” Caelan asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“Aye, exactly as ye ordered,” Duncan replied, holding the letter out. “A formal, polite, and positive acknowledgment of Laird Fergus Comyn’s request to visit Blackthorn Keep. The scribe finished it an hour ago. It only requires yer seal.”

Caelan could not reach for the parchment. His hands remained fixed at his sides.

The political reality was clear. He had betrayed William Crawford’s trust by touching Mabel. He had proven to himself that he could not maintain the objective distance required of a guardian. Therefore, he had to secure her future with another clan as quickly as possible, before he lost his mind completely and ruined her. Allowing Comyn to visit was the first tactical step in vetting a proper alliance. It was the only honorable course of action left.

Yet, his fingers refused to move.

“Give me the taper,” Caelan ordered stiffly.

Duncan handed over the thin wax candle but kept a firm grip on the letter. “The sealing wax is on yer desk in the solar, Caelan. Where ye have pointedly refused to set foot for the last three days.”

“I have been busy inspecting the southern perimeter,” Caelan growled, turning toward the keep.

“Ye have been avoiding the main corridors,” Duncan corrected, falling into step beside him as they walked out of the rain and into the dry, torch-lit corridor of the main building. “Morag is threatening to feed yer supper to the hounds again, and the kitchen maids think ye have taken a vow of silence.”

“Me habits are none of yer concern, Duncan.”

“Yer state of mind is me concern,” the captain fired back smoothly.