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Mabel’s vision blurred. The world seemed to tilt.

Caelan dismounted. He walked over to her mare, reaching up to take the reins from her frozen, shaking fingers.

“Ye told me they would leave him in the ash,” Mabel whispered, tears spilling fast down her cheeks. “Ye said the castle burned.”

“It burned,” Caelan confirmed softly, looking up at her. The harsh warlord was gone, “but I sent a retrieval party the night ye arrived. I told them to find him.”

Mabel stared down at him. He had sent his own men into a ruined fortress to retrieve her father’s body, simply so she would not have to grieve a ghost.

Caelan offered his hand. “Come, lass. It is time to bring him home.”

12

The wind coming off the loch carried the bitter chill of early winter, biting through the thick wool of Caelan’s cloak where it rested around Mabel’s shoulders.

She stood at the edge of the freshly turned earth, staring down at the polished oak coffin. The dark green and navy tartan of Clan MacAllister lay draped over the wood, a vibrant splash of color against the stark, gray landscape.

He is truly gone, Mabel thought, the reality of it settling into her bones like frost. This wooden box is all that is left of the man who taught me how to read the maps. The man who pushed me into the dark and stayed behind to die.

Across the open grave, Father Malcolm opened a small, leather-bound book. The elderly priest looked weary, his stooped shoulders braced against the wind, but his eyes held a gentle, unwavering calm. Surrounding them in a loose circle stood a handful of surviving MacAllister warriors, their faces grim and battered, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Caelan’s escort.

“We gather here today,” Father Malcolm began, his voice carrying clearly over the rustling pines, “to return a son of the Highlands to the earth that forged him.”

Before the priest could utter another word, a low, rhythmic rumble echoed through the trees.

Duncan’s hand dropped instantly to the hilt of his broadsword. Rowan stepped forward, positioning himself squarely between the dirt road and the cemetery.

Mabel turned her head, a spike of panic piercing through her grief.

“Hold,” Caelan commanded. He did not draw his weapon. He stood tall near the edge of the clearing, his eyes locked on the tree line. “Those are nae enemy horses.”

A moment later, a vanguard of riders broke through the mist. The banner snapping in the wind above them was not the hostile red of an enemy. It bore the silver stag of Clan MacMahon.

Mabel’s pulse jumped. She took a hesitant step away from the grave, her hands clutching the edges of the oversized black cloak.

At the front of the column rode a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of unruly dark hair—Callum MacMahon—and riding securely beside him, her face pale and her dark cloak billowing behind her, was Rhea.

“Rhea,” Mabel gasped, the word tearing out of her throat.

The moment her older sister spotted her standing among the gravestones, she did not even wait for her horse to fully stop. She practically threw herself from the saddle, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground before picking up her skirts and running across the damp grass.

Every single ounce of composure Mabel had fought so desperately to maintain over the last few weeks simply evaporated.

She ran.

She met Rhea halfway across the cemetery. They collided with a force that nearly knocked them both into the mud. Mabel buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, her fingers twisting fiercely into the fabric of Rhea’s cloak.

“I have ye,” Rhea sobbed, her arms wrapping around Mabel like a vice. “I have ye, Mabel. Ye are safe. I am here.”

The dam broke. Weeks of suffocating fear, the terror of the dark tunnels, the agonizing loneliness of Blackthorn Keep, and the crushing weight of their father’s death all poured out of Mabel in a ragged, breathless wail. She wept, uncaring about the hardened warriors watching them, uncaring about the Black Laird standing only a few yards away. She was a younger sister again, clinging to the only piece of her home that had not burned to ash.

“I thought I would never see ye again,” Mabel cried, her tears soaking into Rhea’s shoulder. “He told me to run, Rhea. He told me to leave him.”

“He did what he had to do to keep ye breathing,” Rhea whispered fiercely, pressing a kiss to the top of Mabel’s head, her own tears flowing freely. “And ye listened. Ye were so brave, little bird.”

“I was terrified.”

“I ken,” Rhea soothed, rocking her gently. “I ken.”