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Mabel gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Caelan…”

“Let me,” he murmured against her lips, low and rough, more plea than command. “Just this. Let me have this much of ye.”

She could not have refused him even if some last shred of propriety had demanded it. She nodded, and he groaned as though she had offered him the whole of the Highlands.

His fingers found her with deliberate care, slow and reverent, learning the shape and slick heat of her. The restraint in his touch only made her hips buck helplessly against his hand. He watched her face the entire time, drinking in every gasp, every broken sound she could not hold back.

When his thumb settled on the exact place that made her cry out, he did not relent. He held her steady with an arm banded hard around her waist, his mouth open against the frantic pulse in her throat, his fingers working her in a steady, devastating rhythm until the tight coiling heat low in her belly finally shattered.

Mabel came apart in his arms with a strangled cry, her whole body shaking, her nails biting crescents into the hard muscle of his shoulders. Caelan caught every tremor of it against his chest, murmuring rough, half-formed words into her hair as she trembled through the aftermath; praise and hunger and something far more dangerous tangled together in his voice.

Before their overwhelming emotions could carry them any further, before the burning friction between their bodies could cross a line neither of them was willing to breach outside the sanctity of a wedding vow, Caelan forced himself to stop.

He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as he fought to bring his breathing back under control.

“Nae like this,” Caelan murmured, his voice a thick, strained rasp. “Nae until ye are me wife.”

Mabel stared at him, her hands still resting against his broad shoulders. The wild, frantic heat in her blood slowly cooled into a deep, profound sense of peace. She reached up, her fingers gently tracing the jagged scar running across his cheek.

“I will hold ye to that promise, Laird MacCarron,” Mabel whispered.

24

Caelan surfaced from sleep with a slow, heavy pull, anchored by the soft, unfamiliar weight resting against his left side.

For the first time in over a decade, he did not wake with a violent jolt or instinctively reach for the cold iron dagger resting on the bedside table. His muscles were relaxed, drained of the rigid, hyper-vigilant tension that usually governed his mornings. The air in the large bedchamber was freezing, biting at his bare shoulders, but beneath the thick pile of fur blankets, the heat was immense.

He kept his eyes closed for a long moment, simply listening to the quiet, rhythmic sound of her breathing.

Mabel was in his bed.

The profound, earth-shattering reality of it settled deep into his bones. He remembered the wild, desperate chaos of the previous night.

Caelan slowly opened his eyes.

The pale, gray light of early morning was beginning to filter through the narrow, arched window of his chamber. The fire in the stone hearth had burned down to a pile of glowing orange embers.

He turned his head against the linen pillow.

Mabel was already awake. She was lying on her side, facing him, the thick fur blanket pulled securely up to her collarbone. Her hair was a wild, tangled halo against the dark fabric of his bedsheets. She looked incredibly small in his massive bed, yet she dominated the entire room.

She must have woken slowly, Caelan realized, watching the quiet, thoughtful expression on her face.

She was watching him with wide, striking blue eyes.

The fierce, terrifying warlord who commanded the bloodiest borders in the Highlands felt his chest tighten with pure, unfiltered adoration. The corners of his mouth twitched, breaking the harsh, bitter lines of his face. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips.

“Good morning,” Caelan murmured. His voice was a low, sleep-rough gravel that barely disturbed the quiet of the room.

Mabel did not smile back immediately.

A sudden, nervous shadow flickered across her delicate features. She lowered her gaze, her thick eyelashes resting against her pale cheeks. She stared at the center of his bare chest, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her small fingers tightened their grip on the edge of the fur blanket.

“Did ye mean it?” Mabel asked quietly.

Her voice was incredibly fragile, trembling with an insecurity that felt out of place after the profound confessions of the previous night.

“Did I mean what, lass?” Caelan asked, his brow furrowing slightly.