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Thud, thud, thud.

The thunder of approaching hoofbeats echoed rapidly down the narrow pass ahead. Duncan’s hand dropped instantly to his sword hilt, his posture snapping into military readiness. Caelan raised a single, gloved hand, bringing the entire escort to a halt with a silent command.

A moment later, one of Duncan’s scouts broke through the mist, his bay gelding lathered in sweat and panting heavily. The man hauled back on the reins, sliding to a messy halt right in front of Caelan.

“Me Laird,” the scout breathed out, his face pale with exertion. “We caught one.”

Caelan urged his warhorse forward an inch, his eyes narrowing. “Explain.”

“A stranger,” the scout reported quickly. “Hanging about the alehouse in the lower village. He was asking far too many questions about the guest rosters at Blackthorn Keep, specifically inquiring whether Miss Mabel had been seen riding out with the escort today.”

A dense tension dropped over the path. Mabel felt the blood drain from her face.

They are looking for me.

“Did anyone else see him?” Caelan demanded, his voice dropping into a low, lethal rumble that made Mabel’s skin prickle.

“Only the innkeeper, Me Laird. We grabbed him before he could slip into the woods,” the scout answered. “He’s locked in the supply cart now. Struggled like a trapped wolf, but we brought him.”

Caelan didn’t hesitate. “Bring him to the keep. Alive. I want him breathing when he tells me who sent him.”

“Aye, Me Laird!”

The journey the rest of the way to Blackthorn Keep lost all its previous quiet comfort. The dark shadow of Fergus Comyn’s ambition hung over the riders like a storm cloud. Mabel clutched Caelan’s cloak around her, the comforting warmth now eclipsed by a cold spike of dread.

By the time the escort thundered across the drawbridge, word of the capture had already spread through the fortress like wildfire.

Torches flickered against the damp stone walls of the Great Hall as Mabel slipped through the side entrance. She tried to blend into the shadows near the hearth, but Isla and Morag were already waiting there, their faces tight with worry.

“Are ye hurt, Ma’am?” Isla whispered fiercely, rushing over and grabbing Mabel’s hands. “We heard a scout came back shouting about an attack!”

“It wasnae an attack, Isla, just a spy,” Mabel murmured, her eyes fixed on the center of the hall. “They caught him in the village.”

“Good,” Morag muttered, crossing her arms tightly over her apron. The housekeeper looked ready to face an army with nothing more than a rolling pin. “The rats are crawling out of the woodwork. It is high time someone reminded them whose land they are trespassing on.”

In the middle of the hall, the heavy oak doors banged open.

Duncan dragged a struggling, mud-stained man forward, shoving him roughly onto the flagstones. The prisoner stumbled, catching himself on his hands, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the clean stone. He was thick-necked, wearing a dark travel cloak bearing no crest, and his eyes darted frantically around the room, taking in the ring of armed guards surrounding him.

Caelan walked slowly toward him.

He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t shout. He simply descended the steps from the high table, his boots echoing in the cavernous silence. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at the captive with a terrifying stillness.

“Name,” Caelan said quietly.

The prisoner sneered, wiping his bloody lip with the back of his sleeve. He cast a defiant, arrogant glare up at the Black Laird. “Ye can keep yer questions, MacCarron. I ken who ye are, and I daenae fear yer little stories. Ye willnae touch me.”

Rowan, leaning against a stone pillar, let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, that is a brave choice of words. Truly, a masterclass in diplomacy.”

The prisoner ignored him, keeping his chin lifted. “I am a free man of the glens. Ye have nae right to hold me.”

“Ye were caught lurking near me borders, asking after Miss Mabel,” Caelan replied, his voice terrifyingly calm. “That gives me every right to feed ye to the crows. But I am feeling generous today. Who sent ye?”

“Go to hell,” the man spat.

Caelan didn’t blink. He didn’t raise his voice. Instead, he turned his head slightly toward the dark arched entryway leading down to the dungeons.

“Duncan,” Caelan commanded softly. “Bring up the other one.”