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Caelan set the whetstone down on the mantle. He sheathed the broadsword with a smooth, practiced motion, the metal locking into the leather scabbard with a satisfying click. He turned to face his men, leaning his scarred forearms against the stone mantle.
“I daenae care about the tartans, Duncan,” Caelan said, dropping the dry sarcasm for a moment of blunt honesty. “I daenae care about the ceremonial brooches, the elaborate feasts, or the traditions. I only care about the vows. Once the priest speaks the words, Mabel is mine, and she is fully under the protection of this clan. That is the only thing that matters.”
Duncan’s shoulders slumped slightly, the harsh irritation draining out of him. He tossed the plaid back onto the bed.
“Aye, I ken,” Duncan said quietly. He walked over, picking up his own sword belt from the wooden table. “Frightening yer enemies has always come naturally to ye, Caelan. But ye might find that surviving a marriage, dealing with the feelings of a stubborn MacAllister woman… proves a far greater challenge than any war ye’ve fought.”
Caelan’s mouth twitched, the harsh lines of his scarred face softening at the mention of her. “I am counting on it.”
“I will handle the feast,” Duncan sighed, turning toward the door. “And I will handle the seating arrangements so the MacNabs daenae slit the throats of our border guards over the ale. But I swear to God, Caelan, if ye daenae put a clean shirt on for the ceremony, I will tell Miss Mabel ye purposely tried to ruin her day.”
Caelan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. “Understood.”
Duncan and Rowan filed out of the chamber, their boots echoing down the stone corridor as they began arguing over the patrol rotations.
Caelan waited until the sound faded completely. He stood in the quiet room for a moment, the silence wrapping around him like a blanket. He did not feel the usual crushing weight of isolation. He did not feel the biting chill of the stone walls.
He uncrossed his arms and walked toward the door. He had a patrol to inspect at the eastern gate, but he purposely chose the longer route through the southern corridor. The corridor that passed directly by the solars where the women were working.
Despite the frantic, chaotic atmosphere of the keep as everyone rushed to prepare for the unexpected celebration, Caelan and Mabel had spent the last three days gravitating toward one another. The massive, intimidating fortress suddenly felt incredibly small.
He rounded the corner of the stone stairwell and stopped.
Mabel was standing near the large, arched window at the end of the corridor. She had traded the ivory gown for her usual dark blue woolen dress though her golden hair was still pinned up in elaborate braids. She was holding a stack of folded linens, talking quietly with one of the young kitchen maids.
Caelan stood perfectly still in the shadows of the archway, content to simply watch her.
She smiled at the maid, handing over the linens with a gentle nod. The maid scurried away down the opposite hall. Mabel turned, her skirts swishing softly over the stone floor, and caught sight of him standing in the dark.
Her face lit up with a brilliant, breathless smile that sent a sudden, violent jolt of pure electricity straight into the center of Caelan’s chest.
He stepped out of the shadows, closing the distance between them with long, deliberate strides. He reached out, wrapping his large hand gently around the back of her neck, his fingers sinking into the soft hair at the nape of her neck.
Mabel stepped into his space, tilting her head up.
He kissed her.
It was a slow, deliberate claiming. He pressed his lips firmly against hers, tasting the sweetness of apples and the sharp, addictive heat of her response. Mabel let out a soft sigh, her small hands coming up to grip the lapels of his dark linen tunic. She rose slightly on her toes, leaning the soft weight of her body against his chest, opening her mouth to deepen the kiss without a single second of hesitation.
Caelan slid his other hand securely around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss lacked the desperate, frantic panic of their previous encounters. It was grounded. It was steady.
He broke the kiss slowly, resting his forehead against hers. He kept his eyes closed, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin just beneath her ear.
“Are ye hiding from Duncan?” Mabel whispered, her voice husky and breathless.
Caelan let out a low rumble of amusement, his chest vibrating against hers. “Duncan is currently trying to force me into a ceremonial plaid that weighs more than me armor.”
Mabel laughed softly, the sound incredibly sweet in the empty corridor. Her fingers smoothed over the rough, unlaced edge of his tunic collar. “I told Morag ye wouldnae wear it.”
“I will wear whatever ye want me to wear,” Caelan promised quietly, opening his eyes to look down at her. He saw the faint, bruised look of exhaustion beneath her striking blue eyes. He shifted his grip, pulling her slightly closer. “Are they working ye to the bone?”
“A bit,” Mabel admitted, resting her cheek comfortably against his chest. She listened to the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart. “Morag is acting like she has to personally weave every yard of fabric in the Highlands before Sunday.”
“I can order them to stop,” Caelan offered immediately, his protective instincts flaring to life. “I will banish them to the kitchens. Ye can sleep for the rest of the day.”
Mabel smiled against his shirt. “Daenae dare. If ye interfere with Morag’s schedule, she will likely stab ye with her sewing needle, and I need ye fully intact for the ceremony.”
Caelan smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. He simply stood there, holding her in the middle of the drafty corridor. Nothing dramatic needed to be said.
