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“Laird MacCarron tells me ye have been keeping to yer quarters,” Gregor noted, taking a seat on the bench directly across from her. “It must be terribly isolating. Me own keep sits on a loch, surrounded by bright gardens. It is much less… severe.”
Gregor cast a brief, dismissive glance at the bare stone walls of Blackthorn Keep.
Caelan’s jaw ticked.
“I find the keep suits me fine,” Mabel replied, taking a sip of her cider.
“Still,” Gregor pressed gently, leaning his forearms on the table, “a lass like yerself should not be locked away in a fortress meant for war. The Highlands are dark enough without hiding our brightest lights behind iron gates.”
It was a smooth, practiced compliment.
Caelan shoved away from the high table, the heavy legs of his oak chair scraping loudly against the stone. The sharp noise cut through Gregor’s charm like an axe.
“If ye are so concerned with the dark, Gregor,” Caelan growled, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat that silenced the entire hall, “ye should be riding back to yer own borders before the sun sets. The glens are treacherous at night.”
Gregor looked up, his polite smile finally faltering under the sheer, murderous weight of the Black Laird’s glare.
“I have enough men to ensure me safe passage, Caelan,” Gregor said stiffly.
“Men die in the dark every day,” Caelan countered, taking a slow, menacing step around the table. He stopped a few feet from Gregor, his frame radiating violence. “Finish yer ale.”
It was a threat. Blunt, rude, and against Highland hospitality.
Duncan cursed under his breath by the hearth. Rowan simply took a long drink of his ale, watching the disaster unfold with wide eyes.
Gregor stood up slowly, his aristocratic face flushing with insulted pride. He looked at Caelan, realizing quickly that pushing the issue would likely result in drawn steel. The Black Laird was not playing the game of politics; he was marking his territory.
“I see me concerns regarding the autumn trade are no longer welcome,” Gregor said coldly. He turned his attention back to Mabel, forcing his expression to soften. “Miss Mabel, it was a true pleasure. I hope to see ye again under more… hospitable circumstances.”
“Safe travels, Laird MacNab,” Mabel said quietly.
Gregor offered one final bow, shot Caelan a dark look of pure resentment, and strode out of the Great Hall with his lieutenants trailing behind him.
The heavy doors slammed shut.
Silence descended over the room, thick and suffocating.
Caelan stood in the center of the hall, his chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths. The feral, possessive rage slowly began to recede, leaving behind a cold, stark realization of exactly what he had just done. He had insulted a powerful neighbor and damaged a potential alliance, all because he could not stomach watching another man speak to her.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto Mabel.
She was still sitting at the table. She was not looking at the doors. She was looking directly at him.
11
Asharp, rapid knocking shattered the quiet of the guest chamber, dragging Mabel from a deep sleep.
She blinked into the pitch-black room, pulling the thick fur blanket up to her chin. Is the keep under attack? she thought, her heart giving a frantic flutter.
Before she could call out, the door cracked open. Isla slipped inside, carrying a single, flickering candle. The maid looked too awake though her red hair was stuffed haphazardly beneath a crooked linen cap.
“Get up, Ma’am,” Isla whispered loudly, setting the candle on the bedside table. “The roosters havenae even cleared their throats yet, but yer presence is apparently required.”
Mabel sat up, wincing as the freezing air bit through her thin chemise. “Required? By whom?”
“Dress for the cold.” Caelan’s voice filtered through the half-open door, devoid of warmth. “Ye are riding out with me.”
The door clicked shut before she could even process the words.
