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The courtyard erupted into organized chaos as Duncan directed the MacMahon escort toward the barracks and the stable hands rushed to take the tired horses. Rhea linked her arm through Mabel’s, pulling her sister toward the central keep, their voices dropping into quiet, urgent whispers as they caught up.

Caelan remained standing near the armory, watching them go.

Callum did not follow his wife immediately. He lingered behind, walking slowly over to Caelan. The Laird of Clan MacMahon watched Mabel disappear through the oak doors, his expression turning thoughtful.

“She truly does look well, Caelan,” Callum said quietly. “Rhea has been sick with worry since we left the funeral. She feared the isolation of this keep would crush her spirit. But she looks… alive.”

“She is resilient,” Caelan replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “She carries the strength of her father.”

“Aye, she does,” Callum agreed and let the subject go.

Callum patted Caelan’s rigid shoulder once more before whistling a cheerful tune and strolling toward the Great Hall, looking forward to his breakfast.

Caelan stood alone in the mist, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides.

Duncan’s teasing was bad enough. Now he had Callum MacMahon analyzing his every move. The fortress suddenly felt too crowded. He needed space. He needed to clear his head before Fergus Comyn arrived and complicated an already impossible situation.

Turning sharply, Caelan strode toward the armory doors, intent on finding Rowan and throwing himself into the defensive planning. But as he crossed the damp stones, his mind kept wandering back to the guest wing, back to the memory of soft lips and the scent of yarrow, and the terrifying, inescapable realization that Duncan was absolutely right.

Denying the truth would not make it disappear.

He was falling in love with her. And it was going to destroy them both.

17

“If ye threaten me with that wooden spoon one more time, Morag, I will personally see ye banished to the outer stables,” Rowan declared loudly, holding his silver goblet of dark ale far out of the housekeeper’s formidable reach.

“Ye can banish me to the moon for all I care, Rowan,” Morag retorted, planting her hands firmly on her apron. “But if ye feed another piece of me good roasted mutton to that stray hound hiding under the table, ye will be eating yer breakfast from a trough tomorrow morning. I spent three hours turning that spit.”

Mabel sat at the table, pressing her fingers against her lips to stifle a sudden burst of laughter. The Great Hall of Blackthorn Keep was unrecognizable tonight. The grim tension that usually clung to the cold stone walls had been chased away by the roaring hearth fire and the chaotic, echoing voices of her unexpected family.

“She means it, Rowan,” Duncan grunted from his seat across the table, taking a slow sip of his ale. “I once saw her chase a full-grown guardsman up the western watchtower simply because he looked at a sweet tart before it was fully cooled. The man refused to come down until nightfall.”

“I was protecting the integrity of the pastry,” Morag sniffed haughtily. She turned on her heel and marched back toward the kitchens though a highly satisfied smirk played at the corners of her mouth.

Rowan waited until the doors swung shut before deliberately dropping a large piece of meat onto the floor. A scruffy brown hound instantly emerged from the shadows, snatched the prize, and vanished back beneath the wooden benches.

“Disobedience is a terrible trait in a future laird,” Callum noted, his dark eyes shining with pure amusement as he carved another slice of bread for Rhea. “If ye daenae learn to follow simple orders, Rowan, yer clan will likely feed ye to the wolves before winter.”

“Me clan loves me,” Rowan replied brightly, settling back into his chair. “I am charming. I am handsome. I bring joy to the dreary glens. Unlike our brooding host sitting over there, who looks as though he is actively calculating how much it would cost to have us all thrown into the loch.”

Mabel turned her head slowly, her gaze naturally gravitating toward the head of the table.

Caelan was not brooding. He sat relaxed in his large wooden chair, his broad shoulders resting heavily against the carved backrest. He wore a simple, dark linen tunic. The laces at his collar hung loose, exposing the strong, tanned column of his throat and a faint glimpse of the fresh white bandages wrapped around his ribs. He had barely spoken three words since Morag brought the first trays of food out to the table, but he was listening to every single exchange.

As Rowan made his ridiculous claim, a low, genuine chuckle rumbled deep in Caelan’s chest.

Mabel felt the sound vibrate straight down to her toes. She stared at him, completely captivated. The terrifying, impenetrable mask of the Black Laird was nowhere to be seen tonight. The harsh, bitter lines around his mouth had softened remarkably in the warm candlelight. He looked incredibly handsome, possessing a quiet, raw masculinity that made her pulse race frantically against her wrists.

“I am nae calculating the cost, Rowan,” Caelan replied, his voice a smooth, gravelly murmur that carried over the noise of the hall. “I am simply wondering if the loch is deep enough to drown yer endless complaints.”

Callum let out a booming laugh, slapping the table so hard the wooden plates rattled. “He has ye there, MacLarren! I told ye he had a sense of humor buried under all that terrifying leather.”

“It is a very dark sense of humor,” Rowan grumbled though he was smiling widely. “I fear for me safety in this fortress. Duncan, pass the salt before I waste away.”

Mabel watched Caelan lift his goblet to his lips. As he took a drink, his piercing gray eyes shifted slightly, cutting through the crowded table to lock directly onto hers.

The breath stalled in Mabel’s throat.