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“But she should nae have to carry that burden alone,” Fergus declared, his voice rising with conviction. He turned back to Caelan, folding his hands together. “The western valley lies vulnerable. Clan MacAllister requires stability. They require an alliance that can rebuild their walls and secure their borders against the coming winter.”

Fergus took a slow, measured step toward the high table.

“I am a man of means, Caelan,” Fergus stated proudly. “I have the men, the wealth, and the profound desire to see Clan MacAllister restored to its former glory. Therefore, before this honorable assembly, I formally request yer permission to court Miss Mabel MacAllister with the explicit intention of marriage.”

The Great Hall went silent. Isla stopped pouring ale. Rowan slowly lowered his goblet to the table. Duncan’s hand locked firmly onto the hilt of his broadsword.

Fergus smiled warmly, offering a picture of perfect, civilized reason. “It is the obvious solution for both our clans. Together, we can prevent future bloodshed and bring lasting peace to the glens.”

Mabel’s heart hammered frantically against her ribs. She looked at Caelan, waiting for him to unleash the fury she knew was boiling just beneath his skin. She remembered his harsh words in the garden, telling her that he had to secure her future, even if it meant giving her to another man. Would he actually do it? Would his twisted sense of duty force him to accept this flawless political offer?

Caelan sat still. He looked at Fergus. He looked at the confident, arrogant smile on the man’s face.

Before any clan elder could voice their approval, before Fergus could take another step forward, Caelan opened his mouth.

“Nay.”

The single word landed heavily across the Great Hall. It was not a shout.

Fergus did not appear offended. Instead, his polite smile widened just a fraction of an inch, revealing a flash of teeth. He had anticipated this.

“Nay?” Fergus repeated calmly, tilting his head. He looked around the silent room then looked directly back at Caelan. “May I ask whether that refusal comes from Miss Mabel herself or from the man who has appointed himself her guardian?”

The insult was thinly veiled, a direct challenge to Caelan’s authority and his motives.

Caelan stood up. He did not rush. He rose to his full, towering height, a massive wall of scarred muscle and dark leather. He placed his hands flat on the edge of the high table, leaning forward slightly.

“Miss Mabel is still mourning her father,” Caelan reminded him, his voice a low, vibrating threat. “She is nae in a position to entertain suitors. This discussion is over, Comyn.”

Fergus nodded respectfully, taking a small step backward to show compliance. “Of course. I respect her grief. It is a heavy thing.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch for a calculated moment. Then, almost innocently, Fergus asked a final question.

“But I must ask, Laird MacCarron,” Fergus said, his voice carrying a note of feigned concern, “if ye refuse every honorable offer that comes through yer gates, how long do ye intend to keep Miss Mabel hidden inside this castle?”

Duncan stepped forward from the hearth, his jaw set. “Mind yer tongue, Comyn.”

Fergus held up a placating hand, continuing before anyone could stop him. He addressed the crowd again, spinning his words with lethal precision.

“Surely a man as honorable as Caelan MacCarron would never allow his own personal feelings to interfere with Miss Mabel’s future,” Fergus stated loudly. The words sounded exactly like praise, but everyone in the room understood they were a direct accusation. He was publicly claiming that the Black Laird was hoarding the heiress for his own selfish desires.

Fergus turned toward Mabel for the first time all evening. He offered a deep, highly apologetic bow.

“Forgive me, Miss Mabel,” Fergus said quietly, sounding sincere. “I apologize for speaking as though others should decide yer future. Ultimately, the choice belongs to ye alone. Ye must decide who can offer ye the life ye deserve.”

Then, Fergus looked back at Caelan. The polite mask vanished, leaving only a sharp, vicious rival aiming for a killing blow.

“If Miss Mabel remains beneath yer roof year after year,” Fergus challenged, his voice ringing clearly off the stone walls, “people may begin to wonder whether ye are preserving her reputation or destroying it.”

That was enough.

Caelan shoved forward so abruptly that his wooden chair toppled backward, crashing against the stone floor.

The loud, violent clatter made half the room flinch. The feral, possessive monster he had been fighting for weeks finally shattered the iron cage of his discipline.

Caelan strode around the edge of the high table, his boots hitting the flagstones with deliberate force. He walked directly toward the center of the hall, stopping only when he placed his massive body between Fergus Comyn and Mabel.

“Ye are right about one thing,” Caelan said at last. His voice was no longer quiet. It was a dark, commanding roar that shook the very foundations of the keep. “The rumors must end.”