Page 40
“Ye ken their names,” Mabel said, breaking the quiet.
Caelan glanced at her, mildly surprised. “I did.”
“Angus, Tavish, the Widow MacFarlane,” Mabel listed, keeping her tone conversational. “Ye knew the old man in the first village, too. Me father was a good laird, but he dinnae ken the name of every crofter in the valley. He relied on his stewards.”
Caelan’s hands tightened on the reins. He stared out over the water for a long time.
“A laird should ken his people, or he’s asking loyalty of strangers,” Caelan said quietly. The rough edge of his voice was gone, leaving only a profound weariness. “When I order a man to stand in a shield wall, I am asking him to bleed. I am asking him to leave his wife a widow. The very least I can do is look him in the eye and call him by his true name before he dies.”
Mabel’s hands went still on her pommel.
The raw truth of his words stripped away the final illusion of the Black Laird. She looked at his face. She didn’t see a ruthless killer. She saw a man buckling under the weight of responsibility.
“Ye cannae carry every death in the Highlands, Caelan,” Mabel said softly.
Caelan flinched. The sound of his given name seemed to strike him. He turned his head sharply, opening his mouth to speak, his eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate vulnerability.
Before he could answer, a violent gust of wind swept up from the valley.
The temperature plummeted. The gray clouds overhead thickened into a bruising storm front, and a biting chill sliced straight through the wool of Mabel’s gown. She suppressed a shiver, sitting rigidly in the saddle.
Caelan noticed immediately.
Without a word, he brought his warhorse to a halt. He unclasped the iron brooch at his throat, pulling the thick black wool cloak from his shoulders. He leaned across the space between their horses and draped the fabric directly over her.
The cloak swallowed her. It held the immense, radiating heat of his body. The scent of him flooded her senses.
“I daenae need this,” Mabel protested though her hands instinctively gripped the warm wool. She looked at his dark linen shirt. “Ye will freeze.”
“I daenae freeze,” Caelan dismissed smoothly, adjusting the edge of the fabric near her collar.
His knuckles brushed against her neck.
They both went completely still.
The brief contact sent a sharp jolt of heat straight down her spine. Caelan’s hand lingered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening, locking onto hers with that familiar, intense hunger. Then, he pulled back, staring straight ahead as he urged his horse forward.
Mabel didn’t argue again. She pulled the wool tightly around herself. Has anyone in me entire life ever cared for me so instinctively? she wondered silently. Without asking for a single thing in return?
As late afternoon shadows stretched across the rocky terrain, Caelan abruptly veered off the main road.
He guided his horse onto a narrow, overgrown path winding upward toward a quiet hill. The ancient pine trees formed a dense canopy, blocking out the gray sky.
Mabel frowned, her mare following closely. “Where are we going? The keep is further east.”
“There is somewhere ye deserve to be before we return home,” Caelan answered softly.
The words filled Mabel with a sudden, tight unease. What does he mean? She gripped the reins harder.
The horses crested the top of the steep hill, breaking through the trees into a secluded clearing that overlooked a serene loch. The wind was completely silent here.
In the center of the clearing sat a small, ancient stone cemetery.
Mabel’s breath caught in her throat.
Resting in the very center of the moss-covered stones, supported by fresh wooden planks, was a single, pristine oak coffin. Draped carefully over the polished wood was the bright, unmistakable dark green and navy tartan of Clan MacAllister.
Standing quietly near the head of the coffin was Father Malcolm.
