Page 61

Ten minutes later, the oak door of the solar swung shut, sealing Caelan, Duncan, and Rowan inside the stifling heat of the room.

Caelan stood behind his large desk. He wore a simple dark tunic, the laces open at the throat, his face a mask of cold, unyielding stone. He held the unrolled parchment in his large hands. His gray eyes scanned the elegant, looping script. The silence in the room stretched until it felt enough to crush bone.

“Three days,” Caelan said. His voice was a low, vibrating rumble that scraped the corners of the room. He dropped the letter onto the wooden desk as if it were coated in poison. “Fergus Comyn intends to ride through me gates in three days.”

“To discuss the future of Clan MacAllister,” Duncan added grimly, resting his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “He isnae hiding his intentions anymore. He is coming directly for the lass.”

Rowan leaned his hip against the edge of the stone hearth, tossing a small piece of peat into the flames. “He is playing a dangerous game. Coming here in person is a bold move. I suspect he intends to launch a charm offensive. Fergus kens he cannae take Blackthorn Keep by force, so he will try to win Lady Mabel with pretty words and promises of a grand future. He will try to convince her, and the rest of the surrounding clans, that he is the civilized savior she desperately needs.”

“He is a snake,” Duncan countered sharply, shaking his head. “Fergus Comyn rarely travels without a hidden motive tucked up his velvet sleeve. If he is stepping foot inside this fortress, he is looking for weaknesses. He wants to test the defenses, count our men, and gather information. This meeting is a scouting mission disguised as diplomacy.”

Caelan looked down at the broken red wax seal resting on the wood. The muscles in his jaw ticked frantically. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to bar the gates, line the battlements with archers, and send the messenger back to Comyn with a bloody warning.

But he was a laird. He was bound by the ancient customs of the Highlands. If a sitting laird requested an audience under the banner of peace, refusing him without cause would be seen as an act of cowardice. It would hand Fergus the exact political leverage he needed to turn the other clans against Blackthorn Keep.

“We will welcome him,” Caelan finally declared. The words tasted like ash.

Rowan stood up straight, his playful demeanor vanishing. “Are ye certain about this, Caelan?”

“I have nay other honorable choice, Rowan,” Caelan replied, lifting his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes. “Comyn will be welcomed according to Highland custom. We will offer him bread and ale. But every single man inside this fortress will remain on high alert. Double the guard on the gatehouse. Keep the armory unlocked. I want patrols walking the outer walls day and night.”

“I will see to it immediately,” Duncan nodded, his expression grim and resolute.

“And keep that messenger away from the main corridors,” Caelan ordered softly. “I daenae want Comyn’s eyes wandering where they daenae belong.”

Duncan and Rowan turned and left the solar, leaving Caelan alone in the silence.

He stared blindly into the roaring fire. The decision was made, but the true burden of it sat heavily in his chest. Mabel needed to know. She deserved to hear the news directly from his lips, not whispered in the kitchens or carried on the wind by gossiping servants.

Caelan left the solar, navigating the winding stone corridors with rapid, purposeful strides. He did not find her in her chamber. He did not find her in the kitchens with Morag.

He found her in the castle gardens.

The autumn air was crisp and biting, carrying the sharp scent of pine and damp earth. Mabel was walking slowly along the narrow gravel path near the cliff edge. She wore her dark green woolen gown, a thick gray shawl wrapped tightly around her delicate shoulders. Her golden-blonde hair was braided neatly down her back, catching the pale, filtered sunlight breaking through the clouds.

She looked peaceful. She looked like a woman who had finally found a small measure of safety.

Caelan’s boots crunched loudly on the gravel.

Mabel stopped walking. She turned around, a soft, welcoming smile instinctively touching her lips. But the moment her bright blue eyes landed on his face, the smile vanished.

She knew him well enough now to read the rigid tension in his broad shoulders. She saw the dark, stormy intensity brewing in his gray eyes.

“What is wrong?” Mabel asked. Her voice was quiet, but it trembled slightly in the cold wind.

Caelan closed the distance between them, stopping a few feet away. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to pull her against his chest and hide her away from the vicious reality of the world. He locked his hands firmly behind his back instead.

“A rider arrived at the gates this morning,” Caelan began, keeping his voice carefully level and stripped of emotion. “He carried a formal notice from Clan Comyn.”

Mabel’s breath caught audibly in her throat. Her small hands tightened their grip on the edges of her gray shawl. “Fergus.”

“Aye,” Caelan confirmed, holding her terrified gaze. “He has requested a personal audience. He intends to ride to Blackthorn Keep in three days’ time.”

The color drained instantly from Mabel’s face. She took a tiny, involuntary step backward, her soft slippers scraping against the stones. The fear rolling off her was palpable, thick, and suffocating. She looked toward the towering stone walls of the keep as if expecting Fergus Comyn to appear from the shadows at that very moment.

“He is coming here,” Mabel whispered, her voice cracking. “He is coming for me.”

Seeing her so shaken shattered Caelan’s disciplined resolve.