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“We live in a harsh world, Caelan,” Fergus casually remarked, brushing a speck of dust from his crimson sleeve. “Some opportunities simply cannot be allowed to slip away.”

The specific choice of words snapped the final, frayed thread of Caelan’s legendary restraint.

Caelan slammed his massive hands flat onto the oak table. The sheer force of the impact shook the solid wood, rattling the silver goblets and causing Fergus to jump slightly in his seat.

Realizing exactly where the conversation was heading, Caelan abruptly pushed himself to his full, towering height.

“Miss Mabel is nae an opportunity for ye to exploit, Comyn,” Caelan snarled. His voice was a terrifying, guttural roar that commanded the absolute attention of every man in the room.

Fergus blinked, his polished composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “Caelan, be reasonable. I am offering a strategic…”

“I daenae care what ye are offering!” Caelan interrupted, his chest heaving with raw, unfiltered fury. He leaned across the table, his piercing gray eyes locking onto Fergus with a promise of absolute death. “She is nae a parcel of land changing hands. She is nae a trade agreement to be negotiated over a cup of cheap wine.”

Rowan slowly lowered his boots to the floor, sitting up straight. Duncan uncrossed his arms, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his weapon, ready for blood.

“Ye walk into me home,” Caelan continued, his voice dropping into a dark, vibrating threat, “and ye speak of her lineage. Ye speak of her borders. But ye daenae ken a single thing about the lass. Ye daenae deserve to stand in the same room as her, let alone claim her as a bride.”

Fergus stood up slowly, his handsome face flushing with insulted pride. “I am a sitting laird, MacCarron. I offer an honorable alliance. Ye have nay right to speak to me in this manner.”

“I have every right,” Caelan fired back, closing the distance around the table until he stood mere inches from Fergus. He towered over the older man, radiating a pure, suffocating menace. “She is under me protection. I promised William Crawford that I would keep her safe. And any decision concerning her future deserves careful consideration. It will nae be rushed for yer political convenience.”

“Me political convenience?” Fergus scoffed though he took a cautious step backward. “I am trying to save her clan! If ye refuse this alliance, ye are leaving her people to starve. Ye are letting yer own stubborn pride blind ye to reality.”

“The reality,” Caelan stated with absolute, unyielding finality, “is that this conversation is over. Ye have delivered yer proposal, Comyn. It is noted. Now get out of me council chamber before I forget me hospitality and throw ye out the window.”

Fergus stared at the Black Laird, his gray eyes flashing with a cold, venomous hatred. He quickly realized that pushing the issue any further would result in physical violence, a fight he knew he could not win.

“Ye are making a grave mistake, Caelan,” Fergus said, adjusting his crimson tartan and smiling as though they were friends. “A girl like that doesnae need a warlord guarding her door. She needs a husband who will tell her what to do with it. I would be happy to relieve ye of the burden and of her lands while I am at it.”

“I am securing me borders,” Caelan growled. “Duncan. Show Laird Comyn to his quarters. Ensure he does nae get lost in the corridors.”

“With pleasure,” Duncan rumbled, stepping forward and gesturing broadly toward the oak doors. “Right this way, Me Laird. Mind yer step.”

Fergus offered one final, furious glare before turning on his heel and sweeping out of the council chamber. Duncan followed closely behind, shutting the doors firmly and leaving Caelan and Rowan alone in the tense, silent room.

Caelan stood still, his hands curled into tight, shaking fists at his sides. He closed his eyes, fighting to slow the frantic, roaring rhythm of his heart.

“Well,” Rowan noted quietly, breaking the silence, “that went exactly as terribly as I expected.”

22

“If that fiddler plays one single upbeat jig more, I am going to break his instrument over me own knee,” Duncan Fraser muttered darkly, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

Rowan MacLarren laughed aloud, taking a long drink from his silver goblet. He leaned back against the wooden bench, watching the chaotic swirl of dancers spinning in the center of the Great Hall. “Ye have absolutely nay joy in yer soul, Captain. It is a ceilidh. People are supposed to smile. People are supposed to move their feet without marching in formation.”

“Me feet are fine remaining firmly on the flagstones,” Duncan grunted, glaring at a young guardsman who was clumsily attempting to spin one of the kitchen maids. “And this is nae a celebration. It is a siege disguised as a feast.”

Mabel sat quietly beside Rowan, her hands resting in the lap of her dark blue woolen gown. She agreed with the gruff captain. The Great Hall of Blackthorn Keep was brightly lit, roaring with music and the loud chatter of clansmen, but the atmosphere felt incredibly tight. Morag had outdone herself, preparing roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet tarts to honor Highland hospitality. The servants moved swiftly, keeping the ale flowing and the fires burning high.

Yet, the danger in the room was palpable.

Laird Fergus Comyn was proving himself to be an exceptionally flawless guest. He moved through the crowded hall with effortless grace, his dark crimson and black tartan catching the firelight. He spoke to the clan elders with respectful deference. He laughed at Rowan’s jokes with perfect timing. He charmed the servants, thanking Isla politely when she refilled his cup, leaving the red-haired maid blushing and flustered.

He was absolutely terrifying.

“He is too smooth,” Rowan observed quietly, his smile remaining fixed on his face while his dark eyes tracked Fergus across the room. “A man who never stumbles is a man walking on a path he paved himself. He is calculating every step.”

“He is a snake,” Duncan corrected bluntly.