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Can I live with both? she wondered, frustration tying a tight knot in her stomach. The ruthless warlord who sheds blood without a flicker of remorse, or the quiet protector who knows every crofter in the valley by name?
Unable to find rest, Mabel tossed the furs aside. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet flinching against the freezing floorboards, and reached blindly for her dark blue wool shawl. Wrapping it tightly around her shoulders, she stepped out into the corridor.
The fortress at night was a different beast. It was shadowy, freezing, and steeped in centuries of grim history. She padded softly down the winding stone stairs, her slippers making barely a whisper against the flagstones. As she reached the lower bailey, a warm, golden glow spilled across the corridor floor, leaking from the thick oak doors of the kitchens.
Drawn by the promise of heat, Mabel pushed the door open just an inch.
Morag stood by the central preparation table. A single iron lantern cast a warm, flickering light over her stern features. The housekeeper had her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, rhythmically punching down a mound of bread dough with sharp, practiced efficiency.
“If ye are looking for midnight tarts,Ma’am, ye are three hours too late,” Morag announced without looking up from her work. “Sorley and his midnight patrol cleared out the last of the plum preserves before the watch changed. I swear, those men have hollow legs.”
Mabel stepped fully into the kitchen, letting the door click shut behind her. “I am nae looking for tarts, Morag.”
Morag stopped kneading. She wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and turned, taking a long, critical look at Mabel’s pale face. The housekeeper’s stern expression melted into something remarkably gentle.
“Aye, well, ye look as though ye’ve seen a ghost wandering the battlements,” Morag noted. She gestured toward a small wooden stool near the glowing embers of the hearth. “Sit down before ye fall over. I will fetch ye a cup of warm cider.”
“I daenae want to be a bother,” Mabel murmured though she walked over to the stool and sank onto it gratefully, holding her cold hands out toward the residual heat of the stones.
“Ye are nae a bother,” Morag scolded lightly, moving to a small iron pot resting near the edge of the fire. She poured a steaming cup of dark amber liquid and pressed it into Mabel’s hands. “Now, drink that, and tell me what is keeping ye awake at this ungodly hour.”
Mabel stared into the cup, watching the steam rise. “I watched him tonight, Morag. In the Great Hall.”
“Ah,” Morag said quietly, leaning her hip against the edge of the wooden table. “The execution.”
“He killed him without a single second of hesitation,” Mabel whispered, her voice cracking slightly in the quiet room. She looked up, her blue eyes pleading for an explanation. “There was no anger in him. No regret. Just cold, finality. It was terrifying.”
“He is the Black Laird,” Morag stated simply, crossing her arms over her apron. “Men daenae survive twenty years of defending these borders by offering polite warnings to men who burn villages.”
“I ken that,” Mabel argued softly, gripping the warm cup. “I ken the reality of the Highlands. But I also ken the man who sat in the mud with me at me father’s grave. I saw him hoist a roof beam for a crofter. I daenae ken how they fit together. Which one of them is real?”
Morag let out a short, dry breath. She walked over and placed a firm, callused hand on Mabel’s shoulder.
“Both of them are real, Ma’am,” Morag said, her voice dropping into a fierce, quiet certainty. “One of those men protects the Highlands. He does the dark, bloody work that allows the rest of us to sleep safely in our beds. The other man protects the people he loves.”
Mabel absorbed the words in silence.
“The only difference,” Morag continued gently, giving her shoulder a final pat, “is that very few souls in this world are ever fortunate enough to meet the second man. If ye have seen him, ye are luckier than most.”
He protects the people he loves, Mabel thought, a sudden, frantic fluttering starting in her chest. Does he count me among them?
“He thinks he is a monster,” Mabel said softly.
“He thinks he is what the clans require him to be,” Morag corrected, turning back to her dough. “He carries the weight so the rest of us don’t have to feel it. Now, finish yer cider and go back to sleep. The sun will be up soon, and Isla will be pacing the halls looking for ye.”
The following days settled into a strange, agonizing routine.
Mabel tried to process Morag’s words, but the reality of living in Blackthorn Keep proved far more difficult than late-night philosophy. The danger of Fergus Comyn was real. The spies were real. And the terrifying warlord who had executed a man in cold blood was real.
She found herself actively retreating. Every time she stepped out of her chamber, she kept Isla close by her side, using the red-haired maid’s endless stream of chatter as a defensive barrier.
“I am telling ye, Ma’am, if Sorley asks for another slice of roasted mutton, I am going to serve him his own boot,” Isla complained loudly as they walked down the upper gallery two mornings later. “The man eats like a starving bear, and he has the manners of one, too.”
“He is a large man, Isla,” Mabel replied quietly, her eyes firmly fixed on the stone path ahead. “He requires a lot of sustenance.”
“He requires a lesson in courtesy,” Isla sniffed, adjusting the basket of mending on her hip. She cast a sideways glance at Mabel. “Speaking of courtesy, ye are practically walking into the wall. Is there a specific reason we are taking the long route to the solar?”
“I simply prefer the view from this corridor,” Mabel lied, deliberately ignoring the courtyard below.
