Page 35

“The patrols can wait,” Duncan replied, crossing his thick arms. “We have riders at the outer gates. Two dozen men, flying the green and gold.”

Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Gregor MacNab.”

“Aye,” Duncan confirmed grimly. “He is requesting an audience. Claims he has come to discuss the autumn trade routes and the security of the southern borders.”

“He does nae give a damn about trade routes,” Caelan snarled, pushing past the captain and striding down the corridor toward the main keep. “He was shut down at the council meeting, so now he is trying to slip through the side door.”

“He is a sitting Highland laird, Caelan,” Duncan reminded him, falling into step beside his frame. “And our borders touch. By custom, ye have nay honorable reason to refuse him hospitality. If ye turn him away in the rain when he carries a flag of parley, ye insult his entire clan.”

“Let him feel insulted.”

“Caelan,” Duncan warned, his tone dropping into a low, firm reprimand, “we are already bracing for Fergus Comyn’s inevitable treachery. Ye cannae afford to make an enemy of MacNab simply because ye daenae like the man’s face.”

Caelan stopped at the foot of the main stairwell. He knew Duncan was right. A warlord could not afford to sever vital alliances out of spite. But this was not spite. It was a dark, feral possessiveness that he was fighting a losing battle against.

“Bring him to the Great Hall,” Caelan ordered, forcing his voice to remain level. “Offer him hot ale and bread. I will meet him there.”

“And Miss Mabel?” Duncan asked carefully.

“She remains in her quarters.”

Duncan sighed, a heavy, scraping sound. “MacNab is going to ask to see her. Ye ken that. And if ye refuse, ye will look like a jailer holding a hostage, nae a guardian.”

“I said, bring him to the hall,” Caelan growled.

Duncan offered a curt nod and marched away to see the gates opened.

Caelan took the stairs two at a time, heading for the Great Hall. When he arrived, the room was already being prepped. Servants hurried to stoke the central hearth, throwing fresh blocks of peat onto the roaring fire. Rowan MacLarren stood near the high table, casually pouring himself a goblet of dark ale.

“I hear we have guests,” Rowan noted, lifting his cup. “Gregor MacNab always did have a terrible sense of timing.”

“He has a terrible sense of boundaries,” Caelan muttered, taking his place behind the chair at the head of the table. He did not sit. He braced his hands on the wood, waiting.

Ten minutes later, the heavy doors of the hall swung open.

Laird Gregor MacNab strode into the room, flanked by two of his own lieutenants and escorted by Duncan. Gregor looked exactly as he had at the council meeting: polished, unscarred, and effortlessly confident. His dark green tartan was pinned with a silver brooch, and his boots were polished, free of mud. He possessed the easy charm of a man who spent more time negotiating in warm rooms than bleeding in freezing glens.

“Laird MacCarron,” Gregor greeted, offering a smooth, respectful bow. “I thank ye for opening yer gates on such a foul afternoon.”

“Laird MacNab,” Caelan returned, his tone stripped of any warmth. “Me captain says ye wish to discuss the southern borders.”

“I do,” Gregor said, stepping closer to the fire to warm his hands. He accepted a goblet of ale from a passing servant with a polite nod. “With the unrest following William Crawford’s passing, me scouts have reported increased movement near the western valley. I thought it wise we coordinate our patrols. A unified front deters opportunistic men.”

Men like ye, Caelan thought, his eyes narrowing.

“Me patrols are already doubled,” Caelan replied flatly. “The western valley is secure.”

“For now, perhaps,” Gregor conceded with an easy smile. “But winter is approaching. Coordinating our grain stores and timber would benefit us both.”

They spent the next half hour discussing the logistics of the border. Caelan answered every proposal with blunt, tactical precision, refusing to give Gregor an inch of unnecessary leverage. Rowan chimed in occasionally, his natural charisma smoothing over the sharp edges of Caelan’s blatant hostility.

Finally, Gregor set his empty goblet on the table. He adjusted the cuffs of his tunic, his polite smile shifting into something far more deliberate.

“I am glad we could reach an understanding on the trade routes,” Gregor said smoothly. “Now, onto a more personal matter. I trust Miss Mabel is faring well?”

The air in the Great Hall instantly cooled. Rowan went still. Duncan crossed his arms near the hearth.

“She is grieving,” Caelan stated, his jaw locked tight.