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He had kissed her.

The memory kept ambushing him mid-swing.

He drove his boot into the base of the wooden stand and swung again, harder, as if he could beat the thought out of his own skull.

He had kissed her.

Caelan drove his boot into the base of the wooden stand, ripping his sword out of the dummy’s chest. The memory of Mabel’s mouth yielding against his own flashed behind his eyes, vivid and consuming. He could still taste the sweet, earthy trace of yarrow salve and the warm cider on her breath. He remembered the desperate, soft grip of her small hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer when he had fully expected her to push him away. She had surrendered to him completely, offering a fierce, unyielding heat that had nearly shattered the last remaining fragments of his control.

If Duncan had not opened the door to the solar, Caelan knew exactly what would have happened. He would have taken her to his bed. He would have ruined her.

“Ye are murdering a bag of straw, Caelan.”

The gruff, amused voice drifted out from the shadows near the armory doors.

Caelan froze, his broadsword suspended mid-air. He lowered the blade slowly, the tip resting against the muddy stones. He dragged a forearm across his brow, wiping away the mixture of sweat and freezing mist.

Duncan Fraser stepped out into the dim courtyard light. The captain of the guard held a wooden mug of steaming ale in one hand, watching his laird with a highly critical, deeply entertained squint. Duncan took a slow sip, his gray-streaked beard twitching with a suppressed smile.

“The straw offended me,” Caelan stated, his voice a harsh, gravelly rasp. He turned his back on the captain, walking toward the wooden water barrel near the weapons rack.

“Aye, it must have,” Duncan agreed smoothly, leaning his armored shoulder against the stone wall. “I watched ye hack at it for twenty minutes. I was beginning to think the dummy insulted ye.”

“If ye have a point to make, Duncan, make it quickly,” Caelan grunted. He splashed freezing water over his face and neck, scrubbing harshly at his skin. The cold did nothing to erase the lingering phantom pressure of Mabel’s hands against his chest.

Duncan pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at the ruined practice dummy then back to Caelan’s rigid posture.

“In all the years I have served ye,” Duncan noted quietly, his tone dropping into a dry, conversational lilt, “I have never seen a sword draw less blood than a kiss.”

Caelan’s hands tightened convulsively on the edge of the wooden barrel. The thick wood groaned under his grip. A hot, stinging flush of pure embarrassment crept up the back of his neck. He locked his jaw, refusing to look at his captain.

“I daenae ken what ye are talking about,” Caelan lied, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal, warning rumble.

“Oh, spare me the terrifying glare, Me Laird,” Duncan chuckled, unfazed. “I walked into yer solar last night to find ye practically devouring the lass. If I had knocked three seconds later, I would have had to avert me eyes. And given the way ye are currently trying to beat a wooden post into sawdust before the roosters wake, I am guessing the realization of what ye did finally caught up with ye.”

“The subject is closed, Duncan,” Caelan snapped. He grabbed a rough linen towel from a nearby bench, dragging it over his wet hair. “We have more pressing matters. Fergus Comyn is riding toward our gates. Have the watchmen on the southern ridge reported any movement?”

Duncan sighed, a heavy, scraping sound that echoed in the quiet yard. He took another sip of his ale, refusing to let the deflection pass so easily.

“The southern ridge is quiet,” Duncan answered obediently though his sharp eyes never left Caelan’s face. “But the corridors of this keep are nae. The entire castle already kens that something has shifted between ye and Miss Mabel.”

Caelan whipped the towel down, turning on his captain with a volatile, defensive heat. “Nothing has shifted. What happened in the solar was a mistake. A momentary lapse in discipline. It will nae happen again, and nothing can ever come of it. Me duty is to protect her, nae to compromise her.”

“A momentary lapse,” Duncan repeated slowly, testing the words on his tongue. He shook his head, offering a pitying look. “Ye are a brilliant tactician on the battlefield, Caelan, but when it comes to the matters of yer own heart, ye are a complete and utter fool.”

“That’s enough,” Caelan said and turned back to the target.

“Me place is beside ye, trying to keep ye from ruining yer own life,” Duncan fired back, pointing a finger at Caelan’s bandaged chest. “Denying the truth has never once made it disappear. Ye look at that lass like she is the sun itself. She looks at ye like ye hung the moon in the sky. If ye intend to stand in the Great Hall and hand her over to Fergus Comyn simply because ye think ye are too broken to claim her, ye are going to destroy both of ye.”

The words hit Caelan directly in the center of his chest, twisting like a rusted blade. He opened his mouth to issue a harsh reprimand, to force the captain to drop the subject permanently, but a sudden, deafening sound shattered the quiet morning.

A long, low blast from the watchtower horn echoed over the damp stone walls of Blackthorn Keep.

Duncan immediately dropped his wooden mug. The ale spilled across the cobblestones as the captain’s hand shot to the hilt of his sword. Caelan’s combat instincts took over instantly. The awkward, exposing conversation vanished from his mind, replaced by the cold, calculating precision of a wartime laird.

“Riders approaching!” a guard shouted from the upper battlements, his voice carrying clearly through the mist.

“Colors?” Caelan roared back, grabbing his leather coat from the bench and shrugging it over his broad shoulders.