Page 6

“William Crawford is dead,” Caelan stated flatly, his eyes locking onto Duncan. “The entire political landscape of the Highlands just shifted beneath our feet. We are preparing for the fallout.”

“Aye, the landscape shifted,” Duncan agreed smoothly, scratching his beard. “But we both ken why ye have fifty extra men shivering on the walls tonight. And it isnae politics.”

Caelan slammed the wooden cup down onto the desk. The loud crack echoed sharply in the solar. “Watch yer tone, Duncan.”

“I am yer captain, and I am yer friend which means I am the only man in this keep foolish enough to tell ye the truth,” Duncan fired back, unfazed by the Black Laird’s legendary temper. “Ye are taking extraordinary precautions for one tiny, golden-haired lass.”

“She is William’s daughter,” Caelan growled, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his scarred knuckles turned stark white. “I owe that man me life. I made a vow to protect her, and I will nae fail him. Nae again.”

“I am nae questioning yer honor,” Duncan said quietly. “But I saw the way ye looked at her before we walked her to her chambers last night. Ye looked like a man who just took an arrow to the chest and hasnae quite realized he is bleeding yet.”

“Enough,” Caelan commanded. His voice was a lethal, vibrating rumble that demanded obedience.

Duncan held his hands up in surrender, though a faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “As ye say, Me Laird. The keep is locked. The girl is safe. Nay one is getting to her.”

“See that they daenae,” Caelan muttered, turning his back to the captain to stare blindly into the roaring fire.

Duncan stood up, his heavy chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “I will check the northern watch before I eat. Rest, Caelan. Ye have been pacing this room like a caged wolf since she arrived.”

The door clicked shut as Duncan left.

Caelan closed his eyes. The heat of the flames washed over his face, warming the jagged, brutal scar that marked his skin, but it did nothing to thaw the sudden, terrifying ice in his veins.

Duncan was right.

When Mabel MacAllister had stood in this very room, shivering, covered in mud, and looking up at him with those striking, ocean-blue eyes, something deep inside his chest had violently, irreparably snapped. He had spent two decades burying every single part of himself capable of tenderness, convinced that compassion only led to open graves. He was the Black Laird. He was violence.

But when he looked at her, he did not see a political pawn. He saw a fierce, quiet resilience that captivated him. He wanted to pull her against his chest. He wanted to murder every single man who had chased her through the glens.

And that made her incredibly dangerous.

Protecting her meant keeping her away from him. He was a monster forged in blood; she was delicate, beautiful, and innocent. If he let himself want her, he would only destroy her.

Caelan grabbed his heavy leather coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it over his broad shoulders. He needed to walk the perimeter himself. He needed the freezing air to clear the intoxicating scent of rain and fear that she had left lingering in his solar.

He strode out of the room, his boots carrying him toward the Great Hall.

The corridor outside the hall was dim, lit only by a few sputtering torches set high in the stone walls. The loud, boisterous noise of his men eating their evening meal echoed faintly through the thick wooden doors.

Caelan turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

Mabel was standing near the entrance of the hall.

She had paused in the shadows, her small hands wrung tightly together in front of her dark blue wool gown. Her golden-blonde hair was dry now, brushed until it shone in the dim light, cascading over her slender shoulders. She looked agonizingly beautiful and incredibly small against the cold stone of his fortress.

She heard his footsteps and turned sharply.

Her blue eyes widened slightly as she took in his frame blocking the corridor. She did not shrink away, but her body went rigid, a clear, instinctual reaction to his intimidating presence.

“Lady Mabel,” Caelan said. His voice came out rougher than he intended.

“Laird MacCarron,” Mabel replied softly.

He closed the distance between them, stopping too close. He could smell the faint trace of the lavender soap Morag provided for the guest chambers. It was a sweet, clean scent that instantly tightened the muscles in his stomach.

“Why are ye nae in the hall eating?” he demanded, looking down at her.

“I was…” Mabel hesitated, her gaze dropping briefly to the wide, solid expanse of his chest before snapping back up to his eyes. “I am nae accustomed to such large gatherings of men. I thought it best to wait.”