Page 67

Mabel swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a small sip of her cider. Throughout the entire evening, Fergus had been a model of propriety. He never overstepped his bounds. He never spoke a harsh word. But his attention repeatedly drifted back to her.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Fergus appeared at her side. He moved silently, sliding into the empty space on the bench to her left.

“Are ye enjoying the music, Miss Mabel?” Fergus asked gently. His voice was cultured, warm, and devoid of the harsh Highland edge she had grown accustomed to hearing inside these walls.

“The musicians are very talented, Laird Comyn,” Mabel replied politely, keeping her posture rigid.

Fergus noticed her goblet was half empty. He immediately reached for the silver pitcher resting on the table, pouring a fresh measure of cider into her cup before she could even register the movement. He did not ask permission. He simply anticipated her need and filled it, a subtle display of control wrapped in perfect manners.

“Allow me,” Fergus smiled, setting the pitcher down. “A lady should never have to pour her own drink while sitting among men.”

“Thank ye,” Mabel murmured, her fingers tightening around the cold metal of her cup.

“I must admit, I am surprised to see such lively festivities within Blackthorn Keep,” Fergus continued, leaning slightly closer. He kept a respectable distance, but his presence was suffocating. “The rumors paint this fortress as a place of endless gloom. Yet here ye are, bringing life to the stone.”

“The people of Clan MacCarron are resilient,” Mabel answered, her voice steady. “They find joy where they can.”

“Resilience is a noble trait,” Fergus agreed smoothly. He offered his arm, gesturing toward the open floor. “Would ye do me the honor of a dance, Ma’am? The musicians are striking up a reel.”

Mabel’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. She opened her mouth to politely decline, intending to use her grief as an excuse, but a low, vibrating sound cut through the noise of the hall.

Mabel turned her head instantly, her striking blue eyes darting toward the high table.

Caelan MacCarron sat directly in the center of the raised platform, positioned to oversee the entire hall. He wore his dark leather tunic, his broad shoulders pulled tight with unyielding tension. He had not spoken a single word to Fergus Comyn since the initial greeting in the courtyard. He had simply watched.

Every time Fergus stepped a little too close to Mabel, every time the crimson-clad Laird touched the pitcher near her hand or leaned in to speak to her, Caelan’s jaw locked tighter. The fierce, possessive jealousy radiating from the Black Laird was destructive.

Caelan was staring at Fergus right now. His large hands were planted flat on the oak table. He looked like a wolf preparing to vault over the timber and tear the throat out of an intruder. “I thank ye for the offer, Laird Comyn,” Mabel said quickly, turning back to Fergus before Caelan could actually draw his sword, “but I am still in mourning for me father. I daenae feel it is appropriate for me to dance.”

Fergus did not look offended. He offered a deeply sympathetic smile, bowing his head slightly. “Forgive me, Miss Mabel. I completely understand. I only wished to offer ye a moment of distraction from yer sorrow.”

He remained standing beside her, lightly placing his hand on the back of her wooden chair. It was a casual gesture, but it clearly marked his territory to anyone watching from across the room.

From the high table, Caelan’s gray eyes burned into that hand. A thick muscle ticked violently in his cheek.

Duncan shifted uncomfortably near the hearth, well out of earshot of the high table, recognizing the lethal stillness in his laird. “If Comyn touches her shoulder, Caelan is going to take his arm off at the elbow,” the captain muttered to Rowan, pitching his voice low.

“I will ready the bandages,” Rowan sighed softly.

The musicians finished their lively tune, the final notes echoing up into the rafters. The dancers bowed to one another, returning to their seats to catch their breath and refill their cups. A natural lull fell over the Great Hall. The roaring fire crackled loudly in the sudden quiet.

Fergus Comyn recognized his moment.

He stepped away from Mabel’s chair and walked smoothly into the center of the open floor. He did not demand attention, but his polished presence naturally drew the eyes of every clan elder, warrior, and servant in the room. He turned to face the high table, looking directly at Caelan.

“Laird MacCarron,” Fergus called out, his voice carrying clearly through the hall, “I thank ye for hosting this ceilidh. Yer hospitality is truly commendable.”

Caelan did not reply. He remained seated, his face an impenetrable mask of dark stone.

Fergus turned gracefully, addressing the assembled crowd. He looked at the MacAllister warriors who had survived the siege then at the MacCarron elders sitting near the front benches.

“We gather here tonight to share food and music,” Fergus spoke with polished diplomacy, spreading his hands openly. “But we also gather in the shadow of a great loss. William Crawford was a titan of the glens. His death has left a wound in the Highlands that will take years to heal.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the older men in the room. Fergus was playing the crowd expertly.

“I look upon Miss Mabel,” Fergus continued, turning his body slightly to gesture respectfully toward her. “And I see her father’s strength. I see a woman of fierce intelligence, undeniable grace, and noble birth. She carries the burden of her clan’s future upon her delicate shoulders.”

Mabel felt her cheeks flush hotly. She did not want this attention. She did not want to be the subject of a public speech. She glanced toward Caelan, seeing the dangerous, volatile fire building behind his gray eyes.