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“If Morag catches ye giving the good honey to the hounds, she will skin us both, Ma’am!” Isla’s voice rang out, followed by the soft, rapid clicking of their shoes on the flagstones.

“The hound looked hungry, Isla,” Mabel replied, her tone teasing and light. “And I only gave him a drop. Morag will never notice.”

Caelan froze. They were coming down the intersecting corridor. In five seconds, they would round the pillar and walk directly into him.

Move, his military instincts demanded. Keep walking. Ye are the Laird of this keep. Ye daenae flee from a lass carrying a basket.

But the memory of her mouth yielding against his flashed through his mind. The intoxicating scent of lavender. The soft, desperate grip of her fingers in his hair as she surrendered to the kiss. If he looked into her striking blue eyes right now, if he smelled her skin, the last fragile thread of his restraint would snap.

Caelan pivoted on his heel.

He swiftly backtracked, ducking into a narrow, drafty servant’s alcove just as Mabel and Isla passed the corridor opening. He stood perfectly still in the deep shadows, pressing his broad back against the cold stone, listening to the fading sound of her voice. His chest heaved as if he had just run a mile in full armor.

I am a coward, Caelan realized, dragging a trembling hand over his face. I am a warlord hiding in a broom closet because I cannae trust meself to look at her.

He had spent three days punishing himself since he fled her chamber. He had taken double shifts on the perimeter patrols, drilled his men until their muscles burned, and slept in the drafty barracks rather than his own bed. Yet, distance had proved useless. Every glimpse of her made it harder to maintain his resolve.

Needing to escape the upper levels, Caelan descended deeper into the keep. He wandered through the lower bailey until the scent of damp earth and old mortar gave way to the overwhelming smell of roasting meat and baking bread.

He ended up on the stone steps leading down into the kitchens, pausing halfway to the bottom.

“Hold the basin steady, lad, unless ye want the floor swimming in brine again!” Morag’s sharp voice echoed across the flagged stones.

From his vantage point in the dim stairwell, Caelan could see Mabel standing by the long oak preparation table. She had shed her gray shawl. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing pale, slender forearms, and a light dusting of white flour coated the front of her dark green gown. She was laughing brightly at something a terrified-looking scullery boy had just muttered, her head tilted back, her golden-blonde hair catching the amber light of the massive hearth fire.

She looked radiant. Untouched by the grim reality of his world.

Caelan shifted his weight, preparing to back up the stairs and take the long route around the armory, but a sudden commotion near the buttery doors blocked his path.

Duncan appeared from the pantry, hauling a large wooden crate of salted fish, his gray-streaked beard bristling with exertion. The captain stopped dead when he saw Caelan lurking in the shadows of the stairwell.

“Ah, exactly the man I was looking for,” Duncan grunted, shifting the heavy crate to rest on his armored hip. “Though judging by the expression on yer face, ye look as though ye’ve swallowed a bag of unpolished nails.”

“What do ye want, Duncan?” Caelan asked, his voice a low, warning rumble.

“Only to inform ye that the south gate hinges are rusting faster than the blacksmith can patch them,” Duncan replied smoothly. The captain’s sharp eyes flicked toward Caelan then squinted into the dark stairwell. “What exactly are ye doing standing in the dark? Are ye planning to ambush the turnips?”

“I was inspecting the archway,” Caelan lied smoothly, tapping the heavy stone blocks above his head. “The mortar here is crumbling. The damp is getting into the stone.”

“The mortar has been crumbling since yer grandfather built the place,” Duncan muttered, adjusting his grip on the crate. “The men in the barracks are starting to think ye’ve lost yer mind, Caelan. Ye have us running drills at midnight. Ye are inspecting walls that havenae moved in a hundred years. If ye are this paranoid about Fergus Comyn, we should just march on his keep and be done with it.”

“I am nae paranoid,” Caelan ground out, his jaw rigid. “I am ensuring the fortress is secure.”

“Ye are ensuring we all drop dead of exhaustion before the enemy even arrives,” Duncan corrected with a dry chuckle. “We are secure, Me Laird. Try to remember what sleep feels like, eh?”

Duncan disappeared down the hall, leaving Caelan alone with his rising fury.

He thinks I am obsessed with Comyn, Caelan thought, his hands curling into tight fists. He doesnae ken that the only thing I am trying to defend this keep against is me own lack of discipline.

Seeking solitude, Caelan turned away from the kitchen and marched upward toward the silent, stone-lined corridors of the western wing. He needed the stark, punishing quiet of the chapel. It was the only place in the fortress where the noise of the keep, and the constant, traitorous pull toward Mabel, could not reach him.

By late afternoon, the gray skies outside had darkened, casting long, somber shadows across the flagstones.

Caelan stood in the dim corridor just outside the heavy iron-banded doors of the sanctuary. He had seen Mabel cross the courtyard toward the chapel nearly an hour ago. He knew she was inside, likely lighting a candle and praying for William.

He paced a tight, restless line in the hall.

He knew what he had to do.