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The door suddenly groaned, the iron latch clicking loudly.

Caelan stopped pacing, planting his boots firmly on the stone and turning to face the entrance.

Mabel stepped out from the chapel, her fingers loosely clutching her dark woolen shawl around her shoulders. The flickering light from the votive candles inside cast a warm, golden halo behind her before the door swung shut, plunging them both into the dim, cold light of the corridor.

For several agonizing seconds, neither of them moved.

The air between them instantly thickened, charged with the heavy, electric phantom of the kiss they had shared. Caelan’s throat tightened. He saw the exact moment she recognized him standing in the shadows. He saw the way her striking blue eyes widened slightly, a flash of raw, unfiltered surprise crossing her face, before an icy, impenetrable mask swiftly slid over her delicate features.

She looks exhausted, Caelan thought, a sharp pang of guilt twisting like a rusted blade in his gut. And I am the one who put those shadows beneath her eyes. I am the one making her suffer in me own home.

“Mabel,” he said, stepping out of the shadows. His voice came out far rougher than he intended, scraping against the silent stone walls.

She did not flinch. She did not take a step back. Her chin lifted with that familiar, unyielding MacAllister pride.

“Laird MacCarron,” Mabel replied, her voice perfectly even, betraying nothing.

Caelan forced his boots to carry him forward, closing the distance until the space between them vanished. He could smell the clean, sweet scent of lavender soap mingling with the damp stone and the faint trace of candle wax. It drove him to the very edge of his restraint. His hands ached with the consuming urge to reach out, to pull her against his chest, bury his face in her golden hair, and beg for her forgiveness.

He locked his arms rigidly at his sides, curling his fingers into fists so tight his knuckles ached.

“What happened in yer chamber,” Caelan began, the words tasting like ash and iron on his tongue, “should never have occurred.”

Mabel’s expression did not flicker. She stood perfectly still, watching him with an unsettling, quiet intensity that made his chest burn. She didn’t offer a polite agreement. She didn’t try to save his pride by interrupting him. She simply waited, her blue eyes fixed on his, forcing him to say the ugly, cowardly words aloud.

“It was a mistake,” Caelan forced himself to continue, dragging his gaze away from the soft curve of her lips to lock onto her eyes. “A complete failure of discipline on me part. I am yer guardian, nothing more. I must ask ye… to forget it ever happened.”

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant howl of the wind outside the narrow corridor windows.

Mabel listened without a single interruption. Her small hands gripped the fabric of her shawl so tightly, her knuckles turned stark white. He watched the subtle tightening of her delicate jaw, the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her lower lip before she bit it down.

When he finally finished, the formal confession hanging in the air like a death sentence, Mabel did not yell. She did not demand an explanation or hurl insults at his face. She did not weep.

She simply nodded.

“Ye need nae worry, Laird MacCarron,” Mabel said. Her voice was completely devoid of emotion, smooth and cold as river ice. “It will never happen again.”

Before he could process the finality in her tone, or the sudden, crushing sense of loss that slammed into his ribs, she stepped forward.

She brushed past him, her shoulder lightly grazing his heavy leather coat as she walked down the aisle toward the guest wing. She did not look back.

Caelan stood alone in the dark corridor, listening to the fading sound of her soft leather slippers against the stone, wondering why doing the honorable thing felt exactly like tearing his own heart out of his chest.

10

The sound of her soft leather slippers fading down the stone corridor felt louder than a war horn.

Caelan stood rooted in the dim light of the chapel archway, staring at the empty space Mabel had just occupied. The lingering scent of lavender hung in the damp air, mocking him. She had given him exactly what he asked for. An emotionless dismissal. She had locked her heart away behind a wall of MacAllister pride, and he was the one who had handed her the stones to build it.

This is right, he told himself, the thought cold and hollow in his mind. This keeps her safe.

He turned to head back toward the armory, desperate to find a blade that needed sharpening or a recruit who needed bruising, but the heavy thud of familiar boots interrupted him.

Duncan Fraser rounded the corner, his broadsword slapping rhythmically against his armored thigh. The captain did not carry his usual dry smirk. His jaw was set tight beneath his gray-streaked beard.

“I was wondering where ye vanished to,” Duncan grunted, stopping a few paces away. His sharp eyes flicked to the chapel doors then back to Caelan’s rigid posture. “I take it yer attempt at casual conversation dinnae go well.”

“The conversation went exactly as it needed to,” Caelan stated, his voice a flat, uncompromising rumble. “What do ye want, Duncan? I have patrols to review.”