Page 52

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached toward her face. He gently caught a loose strand of golden-blonde hair that had escaped her braid, brushing it back behind her ear. His knuckles grazed her cheek. His touch was so light, so incredibly careful, as if he believed she might shatter.

Mabel let out a soft, shaky breath. She turned her face, leaning the warmth of her cheek fully into the calloused palm of his hand.

A ragged groan tore its way out of Caelan’s throat.

The last fragile thread of his restraint snapped.

He leaned forward, sliding his hand to the back of her neck, his long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, and pulled her to him.

He kissed her.

It was nothing like the desperate, violent collision in her guest chamber. This kiss was slow. It was hesitant, almost reverent, as if he were tasting something sacred that he knew he did not deserve.

Mabel’s eyes fluttered shut. She slid her hands up the hard, corded muscles of his chest, looping her arms loosely around his neck. She opened her mouth to him, welcoming the deep, intoxicating slide of his tongue against hers. He tasted of dark ale and the cold Highland wind.

Caelan groaned again, shifting his weight. He hauled her upward, pulling her out of her kneeling position until she was standing between his spread knees. He wrapped his free arm around her waist, anchoring her flush against his solid body.

The kiss deepened, the hesitation melting into a profound, aching hunger. He kissed her the way a dying man drank water, desperately, deeply, consumed by the need for survival. Mabel tangled her fingers in the dark waves of his hair, kissing him back with every ounce of the fierce, unyielding emotion she had been hiding for weeks.

There was no fear. There was no duty. There was only the overwhelming rightness of his mouth moving against hers.

When the need for air finally became too hard to ignore, Caelan slowly broke the kiss.

He did not pull away. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his chest heaving against hers. His large hands moved up to cup both sides of her face, his thumbs gently stroking her flushed cheeks.

Mabel kept her hands on his shoulders, her own breathing ragged and shallow.

“Mabel,” Caelan whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer hide.

Before he could say another word, a sharp, authoritative knock shattered the heavy silence of the solar.

The door swung open without waiting for permission.

Duncan Fraser strode over the threshold, his heavy boots echoing loudly. “Caelan, we have a…”

The captain stopped dead in his tracks.

Mabel froze, her hands still resting on Caelan’s bare shoulders. Caelan’s head snapped toward the door, his hands dropping from Mabel’s face though he kept his arm firmly wrapped around her waist, refusing to step away from her.

Duncan’s sharp eyes swept over the scene. He looked at Mabel’s flushed face and swollen lips. He looked at Caelan’s bare, bandaged chest. He looked at the discarded, blood-stained linens resting in the basin.

For a long, agonizing moment, the captain of the guard simply stared at them.

Then, with perfect, unbreakable military composure, Duncan shifted his gaze to the stone wall directly above Caelan’s head, giving them a small measure of privacy. He cleared his throat loudly.

“Me Laird,” Duncan announced, his gruff voice devoid of judgment, though carrying a grim weight, “a messenger has arrived from Clan Comyn.”

Caelan went completely still. The warmth of the moment instantly evaporated, replaced by the freezing reality of the outside world. He slowly released his grip on Mabel’s waist, stepping back.

“What does Comyn want?” Caelan asked, his voice returning to the harsh, commanding bark of the Black Laird.

Duncan hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping back to Caelan.

“Laird Fergus is requesting a personal audience,” Duncan reported grimly. “He intends to ride to Blackthorn Keep himself before the week is out.”

16

The iron broadsword cleaved through the damp morning mist, biting into the stuffed leather of the practice dummy. Hay burst from the torn seams, scattering across the wet cobblestones. Caelan wrenched the blade free with a harsh grunt, pivoting for another strike before the sun had even breached the eastern ridge.