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She knew exactly where Caelan was. She could feel his presence like a physical weight in the air.

Whenever she crossed the courtyard or walked the battlements, she could sense him watching her from a distance. He stood near the armory or up on the gallery, perfectly still. He never approached her. He never called out. But his eyes tracked her every movement with a dark, unreadable intensity.

Mabel reacted the only way she knew how. She lowered her gaze, quickened her pace, and avoided him completely.

“Ye are avoiding him,” Isla observed bluntly, shattering Mabel’s fragile pretense.

“I am doing nay such thing,” Mabel denied, lifting her chin.

“Ma’am, ye nearly tripped over a stray hound yesterday trying to dart down a side staircase just because ye heard his boots in the hall,” Isla pointed out with a dry laugh. “Ye are treating the Laird of this keep like he is carrying the plague.”

“He is busy,” Mabel argued, her cheeks flushing warm. “He is preparing the defenses. I am simply staying out of his way so he can focus on his duties.”

“Right. Duties,” Isla mused, rolling her eyes. “Because standing on the gallery for an hour staring at the back of yer head is a vital military strategy.”

“He isnae staring at me,” Mabel muttered though her pulse skipped a beat at the thought.

“He is staring at ye so hard, I am surprised yer hair hasn’t caught fire,” Isla corrected cheerfully. “But if ye wish to play this game of hide and seek, I will happily play along. Just daenae be surprised when he finally loses his patience and corners ye in a pantry.”

“He will do nay such thing,” Mabel said firmly, turning the corner.

She spoke too soon.

As they rounded the stone pillar near the entrance to the Great Hall, Mabel nearly collided directly with a wall of dark leather and wool.

Caelan stopped dead in his tracks.

Rowan MacLarren, who was walking beside him holding a rolled piece of parchment, halted a second later.

The corridor suddenly felt too narrow.

Mabel’s breath stalled. She looked up, instantly meeting Caelan’s eyes. The fierce, terrifying intensity in his gaze pinned her to the spot. He looked exhausted, the lines around his mouth carved deep, his face set so rigidly a muscle ticked frantically beneath his skin.

“Lady Mabel,” Caelan said. His voice was a low, rough gravel that scraped against the quiet stone.

Mabel swallowed hard, forcing her spine to remain perfectly straight. Daenae let him see ye tremble, she ordered herself. Daenae let him ken how much he affects ye.

“Laird MacCarron,” Mabel replied, her voice cool and formal. She quickly lowered her eyes, focusing on the silver buckle of his belt rather than his face. “Laird MacLarren. Good morning.”

Rowan offered a bright, too-amused smile. “Good morning, Miss Mabel. We were just discussing the sheer lack of joy in this fortress. I was suggesting we host a small feast to raise the spirits of the men. Caelan was suggesting I throw meself into the loch.”

Mabel offered a small, polite nod, refusing to look back up at Caelan. “A feast sounds lovely, Rowan. I am sure the men would appreciate it.”

She took a deliberate step to the side, intending to slip past them.

Caelan shifted his weight, his broad shoulder subtly blocking her path. “Ye have been keeping to yer quarters.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a blunt, edged observation.

Mabel kept her eyes down. “I have found plenty to occupy me time, Me Laird. Isla has been keeping me company.”

“Aye, we have been mending,” Isla chimed in, unbothered by the lethal glare Caelan suddenly aimed in her direction. “So much mending. The guards tear their tunics as if it is a sport.”

Caelan ignored the maid, his attention focused on the top of Mabel’s golden head. “If ye require anything, ye need only ask Duncan.”

“I require nothing,” Mabel said quickly. She finally risked a glance up at his face. The cold, unyielding mask of the Black Laird was firmly in place, but beneath it, she saw a flicker of raw, bitter resignation.

“Excuse me,” Mabel murmured, gathering her skirts.