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Mabel stared at the wood, her jaw dropping slightly. Did he truly just bark an order at a closed door and walk away?
“Is he always this pleasant before the sun rises?” Mabel asked, throwing the blankets aside and instantly shivering.
“Only on days ending with a ‘y’,” Isla replied cheerfully, already pulling a thick, dark woolen gown from the wardrobe. “He is in a foul mood this morning. More than usual, I mean. He snapped at Morag for burning the porridge, and Morag threatened to hit him with the ladle. It was very dramatic.”
Mabel pulled the gown over her head, her mind racing. Why does he want me to ride with him? After the disaster in the Great Hall, she had assumed he would ignore her existence completely. He is likely trying to keep me under constant watch. He drove Gregor MacNab away, and now, he intends to ensure I daenae speak to anyone else.
“Here, take the thickest shawl,” Isla instructed, wrapping the woven fabric tightly around Mabel’s shoulders. “The mist out there is thick enough to drown in.”
Ten minutes later, Mabel descended the winding stone stairs and stepped out into the courtyard.
Isla had not exaggerated. The morning mist was a thick, gray soup, smelling of wet earth and damp horses. Near the main gates, a small escort was already mounted.
Rowan MacLarren was sitting on a brown gelding, actively shivering. He had his hands tucked deep beneath his tartan, glaring resentfully at the dark sky.
“I am a laird’s son, nae a nocturnal badger,” Rowan complained loudly as Mabel approached. “Why are we awake, Duncan? Give me one good reason.”
Duncan Fraser tightened the girth on his saddle, rolling his eyes. “Because the borders daenae guard themselves.”
“The borders are frozen,” Rowan argued. “Anyone attempting to invade us today would slip on the frost and break their own necks. We could have slept until noon and let the ice do our jobs.”
“Stop whining,” Duncan grunted. “The horses are embarrassed for ye. Morning, Miss Mabel. The gray mare is readied for ye.”
“Thank ye, Duncan,” Mabel said, offering a small smile as she took the reins. She glanced around the mist. “Where is the Laird?”
“Right behind ye.”
Mabel jumped, spinning around.
Caelan stood mere inches away, leading his black warhorse out of the shadows. He wore a thick leather coat and a dark wool cloak, his face unreadable. He didn’t offer a greeting, nor did he apologize for startling her.
He moves far too quietly for a man his size, Mabel thought, pressing her lips together to keep from snapping at him.
“Mount up,” Caelan ordered, swinging effortlessly into his own saddle.
They rode out just as the first bruised purple light of dawn cracked over the jagged peaks.
The silence between Mabel and Caelan was immediate and unbearable. They rode side by side, yet they might as well have been on opposite ends of the earth. Every time the narrow dirt road forced their horses closer together, Caelan rigidly pulled his mount away. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, treating her as if she were a ghost.
Fine, Mabel thought, lifting her chin. If ye wish to pretend I am invisible, I can play that game just as well.
“The path here is slick,” Caelan said suddenly, his voice scraping against the quiet air. “Mind yer mare.”
“I have her firmly in hand,” Mabel replied smoothly.
“If ye need to stop to rest, tell me.”
“I daenae require a rest, but thank ye for yer concern.”
Rowan, riding a few paces ahead, let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “If ye two are going to wage a war of politeness, please warn me, so I can ride off the nearest cliff. The tension is making me teeth ache.”
Caelan shot Rowan a glare that would have frozen water, but he didn’t argue.
As the morning light slowly illuminated the glens, Mabel’s annoyance began to fade, replaced by a quiet, settling sadness. She had spent her life sheltered behind the prosperous walls of MacAllister Castle. Seeing the MacCarron lands was different.
They rode past the skeletal remains of burned cottages. She saw abandoned crofts where the roofs had caved in, the surrounding fields lying barren. Near a cluster of small stone houses, thin women in worn wool were patching a damaged sheep pen.
The war took everything from them, Mabel realized, her stomach tightening.
