Page 54

“Silver stag on a green field, Me Laird!” the guard called down. “It is Clan MacMahon!”

Caelan stopped moving. He exchanged a quick, confused look with Duncan. The tension in the courtyard immediately dropped, leaving behind a ripple of surprised curiosity.

“Callum and Rhea,” Duncan grunted, his hand falling away from his sword. “They must have ridden through the night. I will have the men open the gates.”

Duncan hurried toward the gatehouse, shouting orders to the men manning the iron chains. Caelan stood in the center of the courtyard, watching the massive wooden doors slowly grind open.

A small, well-armed escort trotted into the keep, the horses blowing clouds of steam into the cold air. At the front of the column rode Callum MacMahon, his unruly dark hair plastered to his forehead by the mist. Beside him, wrapped in a thick traveling cloak, sat Rhea.

Callum pulled his large bay gelding to a halt, swinging down from the saddle with effortless grace. He offered his hand to his wife, helping Rhea dismount. The Laird of Clan MacMahon looked exhausted, his boots caked in fresh mud, but his naturally playful eyes brightened the moment he spotted Caelan standing near the armory.

“Laird MacCarron!” Callum called out, his booming voice chasing away the grim shadows of the courtyard. He strode forward, clapping Caelan firmly on the shoulder. “I see ye are already awake and scowling. It is comforting to ken some things never change.”

“Callum,” Caelan greeted, his tone polite but guarded. He looked over the younger laird’s shoulder, noting the small size of their escort. “We dinnae expect ye. Is there trouble on yer borders?”

“Nay trouble,” Rhea answered, stepping up beside her husband. She pushed her dark hood back, offering Caelan a warm, respectful smile. “We wanted to spend a few days with her, to ensure she is truly settling in.”

Caelan’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly why Rhea had returned. The older sister was fiercely protective, and she was undoubtedly here to inspect the conditions of Mabel’s sanctuary.

“Ye are welcome at Blackthorn Keep for as long as ye wish,” Caelan stated formally. “Duncan will have the stable hands see to yer horses, and Morag will prepare warm rooms in the guest wing.”

“Thank ye, Caelan,” Rhea said softly. Her sharp eyes swept over his face, lingering for a fraction of a second on the fresh bandage visible beneath the collar of his leather coat. She did not comment on the injury, but Caelan could see the silent questions forming in her mind.

Before anyone could speak further, the wooden doors of the central keep pushed open.

Mabel stepped out onto the upper landing, wrapping her dark blue woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders. She had clearly just woken up. Her golden-blonde hair fell in loose, messy waves down her back, and her striking blue eyes were wide with sleepy confusion.

Caelan’s heart gave a violent, involuntary kick against his ribs.

He stared up at her, completely paralyzed. The memory of her soft, pliant mouth opening to him last night slammed into his senses all over again. He noticed the slight flush high on her delicate cheeks. He noticed the way her lips still looked slightly swollen. He wanted to cross the courtyard, climb those stone steps, and pull her directly back into his arms.

Mabel’s gaze dropped to the courtyard, scanning the small crowd. When her eyes locked onto Caelan, she froze. A hot, vivid blush instantly burned across her pale skin. She quickly looked away, dropping her gaze to the damp cobblestones, unable to hold his intense stare.

“Mabel!” Rhea cried out, her voice cracking with pure, unrestrained relief.

Mabel’s head snapped up. She spotted her sister standing near the horses, and a brilliant, blinding smile broke across her face. She abandoned all propriety, lifting the skirts of her gown and running down the stone steps as fast as her soft slippers would allow.

“Rhea!” Mabel gasped, throwing herself into her sister’s waiting arms.

The two women collided in a tight, desperate embrace. Rhea buried her face in Mabel’s golden hair, laughing and crying all at once. Caelan watched the reunion, a strange, pooling warmth settling low in his chest. For all the darkness and violence that plagued his fortress, the sheer joy radiating from the two sisters made the stone walls feel momentarily brighter.

Callum stood beside his wife, watching the emotional display with a fond, knowing grin. When Rhea finally pulled back to wipe her tears, Callum stepped forward and wrapped his large arms around Mabel, lifting her off her feet in a massive bear hug.

“Put me down, Callum!” Mabel laughed, slapping his broad shoulder playfully.

“I will put ye down when I am certain the wind willnae blow ye away, little bird,” Callum teased, setting her gently back on her feet. He took a step back, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes sweeping over her face. “Though I must admit, ye look far better than I expected. Ye have color in yer cheeks. Ye look healthier than the last time I saw ye.”

Callum cast a brief, highly amused glance toward Caelan. “It seems the Black Laird has been taking surprisingly good care of ye.”

Mabel’s blush deepened until her face matched the color of a ripe apple. She avoided looking in Caelan’s direction.

“Morag ensures I eat too much,” Mabel muttered, smoothing the front of her gown with nervous, trembling hands. “And Isla refuses to let me sit idle. The keep is very busy.”

“Aye, well, it is about to get busier,” Morag announced loudly, marching out of the kitchens with a wooden spoon clutched in her fist. The formidable housekeeper surveyed the unexpected guests, her gray eyes narrowing critically. “I suppose I must feed the lot of ye now. Laird MacMahon, I’ll thank yer men to mind the mud on me clean flagstones.”

Callum held his hands up in immediate surrender. “I assure ye, Morag, we will tiptoe if necessary.”

“See that ye do,” Morag said crisply, turning on her heel. “Breakfast will be served in the Great Hall in twenty minutes.”