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“Laird Comyn,” Mabel replied, her voice cool and level. “Welcome to Blackthorn Keep.”

Fergus placed a hand over his heart, his expression twisting into a mask of profound sympathy. “I was deeply sorrowed to hear of the fall of MacAllister Castle. I compliment the courage of yer late father. William was a lion of the glens. His loss is felt deeply by us all.”

“I thank ye for yer kind words,” Mabel murmured.

Fergus smiled again. “I only wish we were meeting under brighter circumstances, Ma’am. But I assure ye, Clan Comyn stands ready to assist ye in any way ye require.”

Though undeniably attractive and charismatic, there was something carefully rehearsed about every smile and every compliment that left Mabel quietly uneasy. His eyes did not hold the raw, honest intensity she was used to seeing in Caelan. They were cold and far too observant. He was analyzing her, measuring her worth not as a person but as a political asset.

Caelan stepped into the entryway, his massive frame deliberately blocking the pale sunlight spilling through the door.

Throughout the entire introduction, Caelan remained unusually silent. He stood just a few feet away, his arms hanging rigidly at his sides. He did not issue any threats. He did not bark any orders. But the sheer, suffocating menace radiating from his body was impossible to ignore.

“We will take our conversation inside,” Caelan stated, his voice a flat, uncompromising growl. “The wind is turning.”

Fergus nodded agreeably. “Lead the way, Laird MacCarron.”

The Great Hall had been prepared for a feast. The long wooden tables were polished, and Morag’s best silver goblets sat waiting beside platters of fresh bread and roasted meats. Rowan and Duncan took their places near the high table, their eyes fixed firmly on the guest of honor.

As they moved toward the fire, Fergus deliberately stepped close to Mabel, offering his arm to guide her around a wooden bench.

A low, vibrating sound tore its way out of Caelan’s chest. It was a feral, animalistic noise.

Every time Fergus stepped a little too close or held Mabel’s attention a moment too long, the growls and the tightening of the Black Laird’s jaw did not go unnoticed by Rowan or Duncan.

Rowan coughed loudly into his fist, hiding a wide, knowing smirk. Duncan casually moved his hand to rest heavily on the pommel of his dagger, watching his laird fight a violent internal battle.

Mabel politely ignored Fergus’s offered arm, stepping around the bench on her own. She took her seat near the hearth, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She could feel Caelan’s eyes burning into the side of her face. The sexual tension that had been suppressed for the last two days suddenly roared back to life, fueled by raw, primal jealousy.

Fergus took the seat directly across from her. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“I must say, Miss Mabel, the harsh stones of this fortress daenae do justice to yer beauty,” Fergus remarked smoothly, his gray eyes sparkling with practiced charm. “Ye bring a rare light to a very dark place.”

Crack.

The sound of splintering wood echoed sharply across the hall.

Mabel jumped in her seat. She looked toward the head of the table. Caelan was staring directly at Fergus. His large, scarred hand was gripping his silver goblet so tightly that the metal was actively bending beneath his fingers. The wooden armrest of his chair had a fresh, visible crack running straight down the center.

“The stones of this fortress have stood for three hundred years, Comyn,” Caelan said softly. The absolute lethality in his quiet tone made the hair on the back of Mabel’s neck stand up. “They require nay justice from ye.”

Fergus did not flinch. He simply offered a polite, apologetic smile. “Of course, Caelan. Forgive me. I meant nay offense to yer ancestral home. I merely observed that a lady of such high birth deserves surroundings that match her station.”

“I am content,” Mabel said before Caelan could answer for her. “I am also standing right here.”

Fergus turned his attention back to Mabel. “Ye must find the isolation difficult, Ma’am. Me own keep sits upon a wide, open loch. We host music and dancing. It is a place of life, nae a monument to old wars.”

Mabel’s stomach twisted. She felt the rehearsed nature of his words again. He was deliberately poking at the dark reputation of the Black Laird, trying to draw a stark contrast between Blackthorn Keep and his own lands.

“I find peace wherever I am welcomed, Laird Comyn,” Mabel answered carefully. She refused to look at Caelan. She knew that if she met his blazing gaze right now, she would lose her composure. The heat radiating from his side of the table was intense enough to melt iron.

Rowan cleared his throat again, stepping forward to pour fresh ale into Fergus’s cup.

“Laird Comyn has a deep appreciation for the arts, Caelan,” Rowan noted cheerfully though his eyes were sharp and alert. “He employs a harpist from the lowlands. A very expensive harpist. I suppose when ye daenae spend yer coin on maintaining a standing army, ye have plenty left over for music.”

Fergus’ polite smile slipped for a fraction of a second. “Clan Comyn prefers diplomacy over endless bloodshed, Rowan. We find that words build stronger alliances than swords.”

“Words daenae stop border raids,” Duncan grunted from his position near the fire.