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Caelan stared down at her, fascinated by her sheer audacity. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. “Speak it.”

“Every single decision ye make regarding me future,” Mabel stated, her blue eyes blazing with a fierce, protective fire, “must serve Clan MacAllister. Nae yer own political ambitions. Nae the wealth of Clan MacCarron. Ye will act in the best interest of me people, or I will defy every order ye give me.”

The corridor went perfectly silent.

Caelan uncrossed his arms and reached out.

Mabel went rigid the instant his hand closed around her forearm, her breath catching sharply. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, wild and fast. He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer, the sheer, solid mass of his body overwhelming her.

“I have nay ambition other than keeping ye alive, Mabel,” Caelan murmured, his voice a dark, velvet growl right above her ear. “We have a bargain.”

3

The gates of Blackthorn Keep ground open with a deafening screech of iron, the sound slicing sharply through the damp, freezing morning air.

From his vantage point on the upper gallery overlooking the courtyard, Caelan rested his hands flat against the freezing stone parapet. Below, a single rider guided a tired, mud-splattered gelding through the entrance, surrounded by six MacCarron guards with their hands resting uneasily on the hilts of their broadswords.

“Well,” Duncan murmured, stepping up beside Caelan and crossing his thick arms over his leather-clad chest, “I suppose if anyone is going to breach yer impenetrable fortress, it might as well be a man of God. Though I doubt he brought an army hiding under those thick robes.”

Caelan ignored his captain’s dry remark. He watched Father Malcolm dismount slowly. The parish priest was sixty-seven years old, his shoulders heavily stooped beneath the weight of his travel-stained wool, but he moved with a quiet, undeniable purpose that commanded the immediate respect of the guards.

“Have the stable hands see to his horse,” Caelan ordered, his voice a low, rough gravel that barely carried over the wind. “And tell the kitchens to bring hot ale to the Great Hall.”

“Aye, Me Laird,” Duncan grunted. “Shall I have the men pat him down for hidden daggers, or will we trust the cloth today?”

Caelan cast a dark, unamused glare at Duncan. The older warrior merely smirked, turning on his heel to bark the necessary orders down into the courtyard.

Caelan descended the narrow stone stairs, his heavy boots making no sound against the steps. By the time he reached the Great Hall, Father Malcolm was already standing near the central hearth, holding his freezing, weathered hands out toward the roaring peat fire.

Mabel was standing a few feet away from the priest.

Caelan paused in the deep shadows of the archway, his jaw tightening. She wore the simple, dark blue wool gown Morag had provided, her golden-blonde hair braided neatly down her back. She stood perfectly straight, her small hands clasped in front of her. She was playing the part of the resilient heiress perfectly, but from the shadows, Caelan could see the truth. He could see the dark, bruised exhaustion beneath her blue eyes. He could see the slight, continuous tremor in her fingers. She was holding herself together through sheer, stubborn willpower.

“Ye have yer mother’s eyes, lass,” Father Malcolm said gently, stepping away from the fire to take both of Mabel’s small hands in his own. “But ye carry yer father’s iron. He was a proud man. A good man. He died with honor, defending the people he loved.”

Mabel’s chin trembled for a fraction of a second. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting a visible, agonizing battle against her tears, before locking her delicate features back into place.

“Honor daenae keep the cold out, Father,” Mabel whispered, her voice cracking slightly in the cavernous hall. “It daenae rebuild a burned castle, either.”

Father Malcolm smiled sadly, his weathered face creasing with deep compassion. “Nay, it daenae. But it gives ye the solid foundation to rebuild it yerself. William dinnae send ye here to fade away into the shadows. He sent ye here to survive. Ye must hold onto that.”

“I am trying,” Mabel replied softly.

Caelan stepped out of the shadows. His frame immediately drew the attention of both the priest and the lass. Mabel’s posture stiffened the very second she saw him. Her eyes darted toward his face before quickly dropping to the stone floor. The uneasy bargain they had struck the night before hung heavy and thick in the air between them.

“Laird MacCarron,” Father Malcolm greeted, his sharp, perceptive eyes scanning Caelan’s imposing figure. “If ye have a moment, I would speak with ye. Privately.”

Caelan gave a single, curt nod. “Follow me.”

He did not look at Mabel as he strode past her. If he looked at her, he would see the grief, and if he saw the grief, the violent, clawing need to ride out and slaughter the men who had destroyed her home would become impossible to suppress.

He led the priest down the dim corridor and pushed open the heavy door to his solar. The room was suffocatingly warm. Caelan walked directly to a small wooden table, pouring two heavy cups of dark, bitter ale.

“Ye made good time, Malcolm,” Caelan said, holding a cup out to the older man.

“The roads are thick with mud and rumors, Caelan,” Father Malcolm replied, taking the cup with a weary sigh. He dinnae drink immediately. Instead, he stood in the center of the room, looking down at the detailed maps of the glens spread across Caelan’s large oak desk. “News of William’s death spreads faster than the rain. Every parish from here to the coast is whispering about the fall of MacAllister Castle and the heiress who vanished into the night.”

“Let them whisper,” Caelan stated flatly, taking a long drink of the ale. “Blackthorn Keep is sealed. The southern ridge is heavily patrolled. Nay one crosses MacCarron lands without a blade at their throat.”