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“Out. Every last one of ye. Now.”
Caelan’s command was not a shout. It was a low, vibrating hum that scraped against the stone walls of the Great Hall, cold enough to freeze the blood in a man’s veins.
Duncan Fraser did not hesitate. The captain of the guard grabbed Rowan MacLarren by the sleeve of his tartan and hauled the younger man backward toward the kitchens before another word could be spoken. The remaining clan elders and servants scrambled for the exits, tripping over their own boots in their haste to escape the room. The doors slammed shut behind the last fleeing servant, leaving Caelan alone in the hall.
Duncan was the first to break the silence from the corridor outside, his muffled voice carrying clearly through the timber. “He has lost his mind. Fergus came here hoping to provoke exactly this kind of reckless disaster.”
“Aye,” Rowan muttered through the crack in the door. “He has the right idea and the worst way of going about it.”
“And if she refuses him,” Duncan added, “he will have publicly asked and been turned down. That is a fine way to lose face.”
Inside the hall, Caelan did not move. He stood rigidly at the head of the high table, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Out!” Caelan roared, the single word echoing like thunder.
The footsteps in the corridor faded away rapidly, leaving complete silence in their wake. The restraint he had fought to maintain for months finally collapsed. With one violent sweep of his arm, he slammed his massive forearm against the edge of the great dining table. The timber crashed onto its side with a deafening screech of splintering wood. Silver goblets shattered across the stone floor, candles scattered in a shower of sparks, and the echo of destruction rattled through the dark keep.
Mabel did not knock. She pushed the solar door open, walked in, and gave him one long, betrayed look. Caelan knew from her face alone that he had made a grave mistake.
The room was pitch black, save for the dying embers of the hearth casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. Caelan stood alone near the far end of the chamber. His back was turned to her, his massive shoulders heaving with ragged breaths, one large hand braced flat against the stone window frame overlooking the dark courtyard.
“Why are ye here, Mabel?” Caelan asked quietly. He did not turn around. His voice was a harsh, flat rasp.
Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, Mabel marched across the room, stopping a few feet behind him.
“Why did ye do it?” Mabel demanded, her voice shaking with a volatile mixture of grief and fury. “Why did ye announce our marriage before the entire hall without ever asking whether it was what I wanted?”
Caelan remained silent, his hand gripping the stone sill.
“I trusted ye,” Mabel continued, stepping closer, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “When Papa sent me here, I trusted ye to protect his legacy. I trusted ye to keep me safe from the vultures.”
Caelan slowly turned around.
The dim light of the embers caught the brutal, jagged scar on his cheek. His gray eyes were dark, burning with a dangerous, volatile energy, but his face remained a mask of stubborn defiance.
“I did what was necessary,” Caelan stated, his voice dropping into a low rumble. “Comyn was backing us into a corner. He was using yer name to undermine me authority and force an alliance. I secured our borders.”
“Ye secured yerself!” Mabel shouted back, the hot tears finally spilling over her lashes. “Fergus dinnae force yer hand, Caelan. He dinnae put a sword to yer throat. Ye chose to claim me. Ye chose to make me the center of a public spectacle.”
She took a step right up to his chest, looking up into his face with fierce, demanding eyes.
“Would ye have made that announcement if Fergus had never come to Blackthorn Keep?” Mabel asked, her voice dropping into a trembling, fragile whisper. “Would ye have ever looked at me, would ye have ever claimed me, if another man had nae walked through those gates to try and take me?”
Caelan went still.
The silence stretched between them, agonizing and absolute. He had no answer. His silence said everything.
Mabel let out a shaky, broken breath, the final remnants of her hope shattering into dust.
“I see,” she whispered, turning her head away to hide the fresh tears sliding down her cheek. “If marrying me is merely another sacrifice made out of duty, if it is just another debt ye feel obligated to pay to me father, then ye should withdraw yer proposal before the rumors become truth. I will nae be yer prisoner, Caelan, and I will nae be yer penance.”
She turned on her heel, intending to walk out of the solar and out of his life forever.
In an instant, Caelan crossed the distance.
He moved with terrifying, predatory speed. His hand shot out, his long fingers closing tightly around her wrist. He yanked her backward, spinning her around and trapping her against the solid wood of the closed door.
