Page 5

The next morning, after a restless night’s sleep, bathed, fed, and dressed in a simple, warm gown of dark blue wool provided by Morag, Mabel found herself pacing the length of the chamber. The walls felt like they were pressing inward. The persistent, suffocating feeling that she was still being hunted refused to leave her. Every time a guard’s boot scraped against the stone in the corridor outside, her heart gave a violent, frantic kick against her ribs.

She walked to the narrow, arched window and pressed her hands flat against the freezing glass.

The window overlooked the central courtyard of Blackthorn Keep. The freezing rain had finally stopped, leaving a heavy, gray mist clinging to the slick cobblestones.

Down in the yard, a group of MacCarron warriors was sparring. The harsh, rhythmic clash of heavy iron broadswords rang out sharply in the damp air.

Mabel’s eyes immediately locked onto the tallest figure in the yard.

Caelan.

He was not wearing his heavy leather coat. He wore only a thin, dark linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal thick, corded forearms heavily marked with pale scars. He wielded a broadsword with terrifying, effortless precision.

Mabel’s breath caught in her throat. She watched him move. He was not just fighting; he was dominating the space. His movements were fluid, predatory, and brutally efficient. He did not waste a single step. He parried a heavy blow from a broad-shouldered warrior, twisted his wrist, and sent the man’s sword flying across the yard in two seconds flat.

The stories are real, Mabel thought, a shiver tracing its way down her spine. He is a monster on the battlefield.

Another warrior stepped forward to challenge him. This one was much younger, barely more than a recruit. The boy’s hands were visibly shaking as he gripped his sword. He lunged at Caelan with desperate, reckless speed.

Caelan did not even flinch. He sidestepped the wild strike with bored ease, brought the flat of his blade down hard against the boy’s wrist, and swept his heavy boot behind the recruit’s knees.

The boy hit the muddy cobblestones with a harsh, painful thud, his sword clattering uselessly away.

Mabel’s hands tightened into small fists against the glass. She braced herself, fully expecting the legendary Black Laird to shout, to humiliate the boy, or to kick him while he was down. That was what men forged by war did. That was the cruelty she had come to expect from the world.

Down in the yard, Caelan lowered his sword.

He did not shout. He took a slow step forward and offered his large, bare hand to the boy sitting in the mud.

Mabel blinked, leaning closer to the glass.

The young recruit looked up, terrified, but he took the Laird’s hand. Caelan hoisted the boy effortlessly to his feet. He did not drop the boy’s hand immediately. Mabel watched Caelan point to the boy’s foot placement then mimic the reckless swing the recruit had just attempted.

Caelan adjusted the boy’s shoulders with his own hands, correcting the stance. He picked the discarded sword up from the mud, handed it back to the boy, and gave him a single, encouraging nod to try again.

Mabel stared down at the courtyard, stunned.

Her father had been a good man, but he was a harsh teacher. The men in her clan learned through bruising failure and loud reprimands. But the most feared killer in the Highlands had just paused a sparring match to gently correct a terrified boy’s footing.

It was a profound, jarring crack in the terrifying mask of the Black Laird.

He is nae what they say he is, Mabel realized, a strange, pooling warmth settling low in her chest. He is something else.

Caelan stood in the center of his solar, pouring a heavy measure of dark ale into a wooden cup. He had just returned from the training yard, his linen shirt clinging damply to the heavy muscles of his chest. He grabbed a clean towel from the desk and dragged it roughly over the sweat and mist dampening his dark hair.

The door pushed open.

Duncan strode into the room, his thick boots thudding against the stone. The captain of the guard looked tired, his gray-streaked beard damp from the courtyard mist, but his sharp eyes were alert.

“The gates are sealed, Caelan,” Duncan announced, pulling out a heavy wooden chair and dropping his frame into it. “The night patrols are doubled. I have men stationed on the southern ridge with the warning fires prepped, and the watch on the eastern wall has been reinforced with archers.”

Caelan took a long, slow drink of the bitter ale. He did not sit down. He paced slowly behind his desk, his jaw locked tight.

“Good,” Caelan grunted. “Ensure the perimeter guards daenae slack off when the temperature drops. I want a complete lockdown. Nae a single soul enters or leaves Blackthorn Keep without me direct, personal approval. If a merchant arrives, turn him away. If a messenger comes from an allied clan, strip him of his weapons and hold him at the gatehouse until I question him.”

Duncan crossed his thick arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. He watched his Laird with a slow, calculating squint.

“I have done exactly as ye asked, Me Laird,” Duncan said, his gruff voice dropping an octave. “But ye are locking down this fortress tighter than we did when the MacLeods marched on us three winters ago.”