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“Ye cannae hide in this chamber forever, waiting for someone else to decide yer future. Ye are the heiress of Clan MacAllister. Take yer future into yer own hands, rather than waiting on a verdict.”

Mabel stared at the maid.

The quiet, introverted girl she had been at MacAllister Castle would have shrunk from the idea of forcing an uncomfortable interaction. She would have stayed in the shadows, perfectly content to be ignored. But the grief of losing her father, the terror of the flight through the glens, and the crushing humiliation of Caelan’s rejection had forged something new inside her. A sharp, unyielding core of MacAllister steel.

He wants to treat me like a political duty? Mabel thought, her jaw setting firmly. Fine. I will face him as one. I will nae hide in me chamber while he calmly negotiates me surrender.

“Ye are right,” Mabel said. She stood up from the window seat, her posture straightening, her chin lifting high.

Isla grinned, her brown eyes sparkling with immediate approval. “There is the fire. Shall I fetch the dark green gown, Ma’am? The one that matches the MacAllister tartan?”

“Aye,” Mabel agreed, her voice steady. “And brush me hair out properly. If the Black Laird wishes to discuss me future, he will have to look me directly in the eye to do it.”

9

The biting wind howling across the northern battlements was sharp enough to slice through solid leather, but Caelan did not move. He stood near the edge of the stone parapet, his gloved hands gripping the freezing mortar, his gaze fixed on the bustling courtyard far below.

“Are ye actively trying to freeze us to death, Caelan, or is this simply a new tactic to bore the enemy into surrender?” Rowan asked, his teeth audibly chattering. He had his tartan pulled up over his ears, shifting his weight from one boot to the other in a desperate attempt to stay warm. “Because if it is the latter, I surrender. I will confess to whatever crimes ye wish. I will even admit to stealing Duncan’s good hunting dagger last winter. Just let me go back to the fire.”

“The guard rotations need inspecting,” Caelan stated, his voice a harsh rasp against the wind.

“The guards are fine,” Rowan argued, stepping closer and peering over the edge of the wall with a miserable squint. “They are armed. They are awake. They are also, unlike us, standing near the braziers. We have been up here for two hours, Caelan. Fergus Comyn is nae going to march an army through a freezing mist, and if he does, the archers will see him long before we freeze our noses off.”

Caelan did not answer. He barely heard his friend’s complaints.

Down in the sunlit courtyard, Mabel was walking toward the armory.

She wore her dark green wool gown, a thick gray shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders against the autumn chill. She was not alone. A trail of five small, dirty-faced castle children followed closely behind her skirts, waddling like a line of determined ducklings. One of the little girls was holding firmly onto the edge of Mabel’s cloak, babbling excitedly.

She is everywhere, Caelan thought, a rigid tension locking his jaw into a hard line. Every time I try to bury meself in the garrison, I turn a corner and find her bringing light to a place that has only ever known grease, smoke, and steel.

He watched as Mabel stopped near the weapons rack. She knelt in the mud, completely disregarding the fine wool of her gown, to wipe a smudge of dirt from the smallest girl’s nose. She reached into her woven basket and handed the child a small, wrapped honey-cake she had clearly managed to coax out of Morag’s pantry.

“Well, look at that,” Rowan murmured, leaning his forearms on the stone wall beside Caelan. His shivering was temporarily forgotten, replaced by sheer, morbid fascination. “Sorley is going to yell at her. He hates people loitering near the armory.”

Sorley, the most belligerent, foul-tempered guardsman in the entire MacCarron garrison, was currently on duty near the heavy oak doors. The massive man had a fresh scar across his nose, a missing tooth, and a well-earned reputation for breaking tavern tables with his bare hands.

Mabel stood up and turned to the guard. Caelan couldn’t hear the words exchanged over the howl of the wind, but he saw Mabel point to Sorley’s left knee, which the man had injured during a brutal sparring match two days prior. She offered him a small, bundled poultice from her basket.

Sorley stared at the poultice as if it were a poisonous snake. Then, slowly, the terrifying guardsman leaned his heavy iron pike against the stone wall. He took the bundle with surprising gentleness, muttered something down to her, and actually smiled.

It wasn’t a smirk. It was a genuine, awkward, unconscious smile.

Rowan gasped loudly, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Did Sorley just smile? Caelan, tell me I am hallucinating from the frostbite. I dinnae ken his face could do that without cracking in half. If Sorley is smiling, the world is clearly ending. We must sound the alarm.”

“He is smiling because she gave him a remedy for his joint,” Caelan grunted though a sharp, bitter ache twisted deep in his own gut.

“She has the entire keep eating out of her hands,” Rowan noted, shaking his head in amazement. “The elders by the gatehouse adore her. The children follow her. Even yer bloodthirsty warriors are turning into blushing lads. The lass is a bloody miracle worker.”

“The lass is a distraction,” Caelan corrected harshly, pushing away from the stone wall and turning his back on the courtyard. “And we have a fortress to run.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Rowan sighed dramatically, falling into step behind him. “I forgot that joy is strictly forbidden within these walls. Where are we going now? To inspect the structural integrity of the dungeons? Perhaps we can count the rats.”

“I have ledgers to review,” Caelan snapped, taking the stone steps two at a time to escape the conversation.

He left Rowan complaining on the landing and retreated into the dim, torch-lit corridors of the central keep. The air inside was significantly warmer, smelling of old pine and woodsmoke. He strode toward his solar, determined to lock the heavy oak door, pour himself a cup of dark ale, and drown himself in maps and border reports until his mind stopped conjuring the image of Mabel’s smile.

As he turned the corner near the eastern gallery, a bright, clear laugh echoed off the stones ahead.