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It was obvious that the words didn’t settle right with her.

He was rejecting her again. He had pulled her into his fire and made her feel the absolute, undeniable truth of his desire, only to shove her back out into the cold. He was choosing his twisted sense of duty over the very real, beating heart standing right in front of him.

Mabel stared at him in complete disbelief. A single, hot tear spilled over her dark lashes, cutting a clean track down her pale cheek. She did not wipe it away. She simply lifted her chin, calling upon every last ounce of MacAllister pride she possessed.

Without saying a single word, Mabel turned on her heel.

She gathered the skirts of her dark green gown in her fists and walked away. She moved down the gravel path, her spine perfectly straight, her head held high against the biting Highland wind. She did not look back.

Caelan stood still in the empty garden, watching her golden hair disappear into the shadows of the central keep. The freezing air whipped around his broad shoulders, matching the cold, hollow wasteland he had just created inside his own chest.

20

“Straighten yer backs, ye miserable lot! If Laird Comyn sees ye slouching like drunken sheep, I will personally throw ye off the battlements.”

Duncan Fraser’s voice echoed off the damp stone walls of the courtyard, sharp enough to cut through the morning fog. The captain paced a rigid line before the assembled MacCarron guards, his gray-streaked beard bristling with raw tension.

Rowan MacLarren leaned casually against the wooden frame of the armory door. He tossed a small green apple in the air and caught it with a soft smack against his palm. “Ye are wound tighter than a cheap crossbow, Duncan. Relax. Fergus Comyn is bringing a diplomatic escort, nae a siege engine.”

“I daenae trust the man,” Duncan grunted. He paused to glare at a young recruit whose iron helmet sat slightly crooked. “And I daenae trust our own laird to keep his broadsword in its sheath once the snake rides through those gates.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Rowan agreed brightly, taking a loud bite of his apple. “The last two days have been an absolute joy, have they nae? I have never seen a man look so thoroughly miserable while actively terrifying everyone around him.”

The atmosphere inside Blackthorn Keep had grown so thick and suffocating that even the hunting hounds were hiding under the tables. Determined to regain control over himself, Caelan had retreated once more behind the cold mask of the Black Laird. He had spoken to Mabel only when absolute duty demanded it, his voice stripped of all warmth and his gray eyes locked firmly on the stone floors.

Mabel stood near the arched entryway of the Great Hall, her hands clasped tightly in front of her dark green woolen gown. She watched the courtyard preparations with a heavy, sinking heart. She had spent the last forty-eight hours fluctuating between fierce, blinding anger and a deep, hollow heartache. He had pushed her away again. He had ignited a fire between them, proven the undeniable, electric connection they shared, only to drown it in a sea of rigid obligations.

“Ye are crushing the fabric of yer skirts, Ma’am,” Isla whispered, appearing suddenly at her side. The red-haired maid smoothed the side of Mabel’s gown with quick, nervous hands. “Ye must look composed. Morag says Laird Comyn has an eye for weakness.”

“I am composed, Isla,” Mabel replied quietly. Her striking blue eyes remained fixed on the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing near the gatehouse.

Caelan wore his finest dark leather armor, polished and immaculate. His black hair was brushed back from his face, leaving the brutal, jagged scar on his cheek fully exposed to the pale morning light. He stood like a statue carved from solid granite, radiating a lethal, unyielding authority. He had not looked in her direction once all morning.

The chains of the gatehouse began to groan.

“They are here,” Duncan announced, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble. “Stand ready.”

The massive wooden doors of Blackthorn Keep finally opened to welcome Laird Fergus Comyn. The entire household gathered in the Great Hall and along the courtyard edges according to Highland custom.

Mabel held her breath, expecting a sprawling, intimidating army to pour through the entrance. Instead, Fergus arrived with only a small escort. He presented himself as a respectful guest rather than an ambitious rival.

Laird Fergus Comyn rode at the front of the column on a pristine white gelding. He was tall, impeccably dressed, and effortlessly confident. His dark crimson and black tartan was pinned with a shining silver crest, and his polished leather boots were free of the usual Highland mud. Unlike Caelan, Fergus did not carry the brutal scars of war on his face. His features were handsome, refined, and untouched by the violent reality of the glens.

Fergus swung down from his saddle with practiced grace, handing his reins to a waiting stable boy with a polite nod. He immediately commanded the courtyard with his polished manners and easy charm.

“Laird MacCarron,” Fergus called out, his voice smooth and cultured. He walked forward, his arms open in a gesture of peace. “I thank ye for opening yer gates to me. The roads are growing cold, and Blackthorn Keep is a welcome sight.”

Caelan did not step forward to meet him. He remained firmly planted in the mud, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Laird Comyn. We honor the customs of the Highlands. Ye will find bread and ale in the Great Hall.”

“Excellent,” Fergus smiled, unfazed by the icy reception. His calculating gaze swept over the courtyard, lingering for a fraction of a second on the heavily armed guards before landing directly on the arched entryway where Mabel stood.

The smile on Fergus’s face brightened significantly. He bypassed Caelan, walking with purposeful, measured steps toward the Great Hall.

Mabel forced her spine straight. She lifted her chin, calling upon every ounce of MacAllister pride her father had instilled in her.

Fergus stopped two paces away. He offered a deep, sweeping bow that was far more elegant than anything she had seen inside this rugged fortress.

“Miss Mabel,” Fergus greeted, his tone dropping into a gentle, soothing cadence. “It is an absolute honor to finally stand before ye.”