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“Write to me,” Rhea demanded, squeezing her tightly. “Send a messenger every week. If ye daenae, I will ride to Blackthorn and break down the gates meself.”

“I will write,” Mabel promised, pulling back.

Callum tipped his head to Mabel. “Keep yer chin up, lass. Ye have the MacAllister fire in ye. Daenae let anyone tell ye otherwise. Even him.” He jerked his thumb toward Caelan with a bold grin.

Caelan scowled though it lacked its usual venom. “Safe travels, MacMahon.”

Mabel stood near Caelan’s warhorse, watching as her sister and brother-in-law mounted their horses and rode back toward the dirt path, their escort falling into formation behind them. She watched until the silver stag banner disappeared into the mist.

She was alone again.

But as she turned to face Caelan, she realized the crushing loneliness that had plagued her for weeks was gone.

“Ye should mount up,” Caelan instructed, holding the reins of her dapple-gray mare out to her. “The storm is moving in fast.”

Mabel took the leather straps, her fingers brushing against his. He did not pull away this time.

“Ye sat in the mud,” Mabel noted quietly.

Caelan paused, his hand dropping to his side. “The ground was uneven. I lost me footing.”

“Ye are a terrible liar, Caelan MacCarron,” Mabel said, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips.

Caelan stared at her. The wind whipped his dark hair across his cheek. For a long moment, he looked as though he wanted to argue, to rebuild the wall he had so carefully constructed in the chapel. But the exhaustion of the day, and the raw vulnerability they had just shared, seemed to drain the fight out of him.

“Get on the horse, Mabel,” Caelan muttered though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in what could almost be considered a smile.

Mabel swung into the saddle, adjusting the heavy black wool of his cloak around her shoulders. She felt lighter. The grief was still there, an ache that would likely never fully fade, but it was no longer crushing her.

As they rode back toward Blackthorn Keep, Rowan trotted his horse up beside hers.

“I must ask, Miss Mabel,” Rowan began, his tone serious, “when yer sister returns to visit, does she always bring such dramatic weather, or was today a special occasion?”

Mabel laughed, the sound carrying brightly over the cold wind. “She prefers making an entrance, Rowan.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Rowan said, nodding sagely. “I will ensure Morag bakes extra tarts next time. Nothing soothes a dramatic entrance like pastry.”

Up ahead, Caelan rode in silence. But as Mabel watched his broad back, she noticed his shoulders had relaxed, losing the rigid, defensive tension he had carried all morning.

13

The journey back from the cemetery was a quiet, heavy affair.

Mabel stared straight ahead between her mare’s ears, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone doing little to quiet the chaos in her mind. Wrapped tightly in Caelan’s oversized black wool cloak, she could still feel the lingering heat of his body trapped in the heavy fabric. Every bump in the road reminded her of the warmth of his shoulder pressing against hers beside her father’s freshly dug grave.

He sat in the mud, she reminded herself, a small, involuntary smile touching her lips. The most feared laird in the Highlands ruined his best trousers simply to keep me company.

“Ye look dangerously content for someone riding through a freezing swamp, Miss Mabel,” Rowan’s voice broke through her thoughts. He trotted his horse closer, leaning casually over his saddle horn. “I am beginning to suspect the Black Laird has cast some sort of dark sorcery over ye with that coat.”

“Sorcery requires a great deal more imagination than Laird MacCarron possesses, Rowan,” Mabel replied, pulling the wool closer around her chin.

Rowan chuckled, adjusting his tartan against a sudden gust of wind. “True. His idea of friendship usually involves a stern lecture on defensive perimeters and an inspection of the granaries. Though, I must admit, sharing a cloak is a distinct step up from threatening to feed people to the hounds.”

“Keep riding, MacLarren,” Caelan’s rough voice rumbled from the front of the column. He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders stiffened. “Or I will find a very muddy ditch for ye to inspect.”

“See?” Rowan whispered loudly to Mabel. “Pure friendship.”

Mabel laughed softly, opening her mouth to retort, when a sharp, frantic sound cut through the damp air.