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“Indeed, they daenae,” Fergus agreed smoothly. He picked up his goblet, taking a refined sip of the dark ale. He set the cup down and looked directly at Caelan. “Which is precisely why I have come today. The Highlands are unstable. With the fall of MacAllister Castle, the western valley lies exposed. It requires immediate, unified leadership.”

21

The doors of the council chamber slammed shut with a deafening thud, severing the chaotic noise of the Great Hall and plunging the room into tense, stifling quiet.

Rowan MacLarren immediately kicked his boots up onto the edge of the polished table, balancing his wooden chair on its two back legs. He tossed a silver coin into the air, caught it, and offered a thoroughly unimpressed smile.

“Well, Laird Comyn,” Rowan announced cheerfully, ignoring the lethal glare Duncan Fraser aimed at his muddy boots. “Ye certainly know how to ruin a good feast. I was just about to secure a second slice of Morag’s roasted mutton. Now, I am trapped in a room smelling of old parchment and terrible politics.”

Fergus Comyn did not take the bait. He remained standing near the roaring hearth, looking at ease within the heavily guarded walls of a rival clan. He adjusted the silver brooch pinning his dark crimson tartan, his movements smooth, practiced, and lacking any trace of genuine warmth.

“Me apologies for interrupting yer supper, Rowan,” Fergus replied. His voice was cultured and modulated. “But the survival of the Highlands often requires us to set aside our personal comforts for the greater good.”

Duncan scoffed loudly from his post by the doorway. The captain rested his thick hands on the belt of his leather armor. “The greater good. That is a very pretty phrase for a man who marched into our courtyard counting our archers out of the corner of his eye.”

“I am an observant man, Duncan,” Fergus conceded with a polite inclination of his head. “In times of war, a laird must know the strength of his neighbors. It is merely practical.”

Caelan stood at the head of the long council table. He had not taken a seat. He remained on his feet, his massive shoulders rigid beneath his dark leather tunic. The violent, feral jealousy that had nearly consumed him during the feast was still burning fiercely in his blood, but he had managed to chain the monster back down. Barely. He stared at Fergus with cold, unblinking intensity, waiting for the snake to finally reveal his true colors.

“Sit down, Comyn,” Caelan commanded. His voice was a flat, vibrating rumble that commanded absolute obedience. “Ye asked for a private audience. Speak yer piece, and let us be done with it.”

Fergus offered a polite smile though it did not reach his calculating gray eyes. He moved gracefully to the table and took a seat directly opposite Caelan. He folded his clean, unscarred hands together, looking the picture of a reasonable, civilized ruler.

“I will be direct, Caelan,” Fergus began, his tone shifting into a serious, diplomatic register. “We are all aware of the tragedy that befell MacAllister Castle. William was a fierce warrior, but his fall has left a massive void in the western valley. That land is vital. It borders yer territory, it borders mine, and currently, it is exposed to any opportunistic raider with a dozen swords and a torch.”

“The western valley is secure,” Caelan stated coldly. “Clan MacCarron patrols those borders.”

“A temporary measure,” Fergus waved a dismissive hand. “Ye and I both ken that yer men cannot hold that vast stretch of land forever, nae without leaving yer own eastern flank vulnerable. The MacAllister people need stability. They need a permanent banner to rally behind. They need leadership.”

Rowan let his chair drop forward, all four wooden legs hitting the stone floor with a sharp crack. “They have leadership. Miss Mabel is the rightful heiress.”

Fergus smiled a thin, patronizing smile. “Miss Mabel is a young, grieving lass who has never commanded a standing army. She is a symbol, Rowan. Nothing more. Her name carries the heritage and the lineage of her father, but a name cannot wield a broadsword. A name cannot negotiate trade routes or feed starving crofters through a bitter Highland winter.”

Caelan’s jaw tightened. Fergus was not wrong that Mabel was young and had never led men. He was wrong about everything else.

“The future of Clan MacAllister is uncertain,” Fergus continued, speaking with remarkable composure. “And that uncertainty breeds chaos. We have all bled enough over the last few years. The Highlands require order. They require a strong, unified front to prevent further bloodshed.”

“And ye believe ye are the man to provide this order,” Duncan grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I am the most logical choice,” Fergus answered smoothly. He leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Caelan. “Me lands are prosperous. Me army is well rested and fully equipped. I can march three hundred men into the western valley tomorrow and secure it permanently. I can rebuild MacAllister Castle. I can ensure that William’s legacy is preserved.”

Fergus paused, letting the weight of his wealth and power settle over the room.

“A marriage between meself and Miss Mabel is no longer simply a personal matter,” Fergus argued, his voice laced with absolute conviction. “It is a political necessity. By uniting our houses, we create an impenetrable fortress in the west. We secure the borders for a generation. It is the only sensible course of action.”

Caelan listened in complete silence. He watched Fergus carefully, analyzing every word, every gesture, every subtle inflection in the man’s voice.

Fergus spoke of Mabel’s name, her lands, and her lineage. He never spoke of the woman herself though he had now sat across from her for two days. It was transactional, and the more he talked, the clearer it became.

“Ye speak of her as if she is a sack of winter grain to be bartered,” Rowan observed quietly, his dark eyes narrowing with clear disgust.

“I speak of her as a laird speaks of duty,” Fergus corrected smoothly. “Romance is a luxury for bards and fools, Rowan. We are men of power. We must make decisions based on heritage, stability, and the survival of our people. Miss Mabel understands her duty. She is a woman of noble birth. She kens what is required of her.”

Caelan felt a cold, murderous rage wrap tightly around his lungs. He thought of Mabel standing in the freezing garden, her voice breaking as she asked him how he could calmly discuss handing her over to another man. He thought of the desperate, beautiful fire in her eyes.

“I have made me intentions clear,” Fergus said, leaning back in his chair with an air of complete confidence. “I am formally requesting yer blessing to wed her, Caelan. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Ye will be relieved of the burden of protecting her, and I will secure the western valley.”

Fergus picked up his goblet, taking a slow sip of wine. He set the cup down and smiled, unaware of the lethal violence coiling in the man sitting across from him.