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“He hasnae heard a single word Rowan has said for the past ten minutes,” Rhea added with a soft laugh, stepping up beside them. “Go, Mabel. The keep is secure. The men will drink until they pass out. Ye have earned yer peace.”

It was not yet midnight when Mabel finally slipped away from the noise of the Great Hall.

The stone corridors of the western wing were freezing and silent. She carried a single wax candle, the small flame guttering in the drafts as she climbed the winding stone stairs. Her heart hammered a rapid rhythm against her ribs.

She reached the door of the Laird’s chambers, pushed the iron latch down, and pushed the door open.

The room was suffocatingly warm. A massive fire roared in the stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the dark furniture and the thick fur blankets on the bed.

Caelan was already there.

He stood near the fire, stripped of his plaid and his linen tunic. He wore only his dark leather trousers, the laces at the waistband hanging loose. The firelight vividly illuminated the silver scars crisscrossing his massive chest and shoulders. He was pouring a cup of water from an iron pitcher, but the absolute second the door clicked shut, he froze.

He set the pitcher down. He turned slowly, his dark eyes dropping to her boots and traveling deliberately up the length of her body.

“Ye are late,” Caelan murmured. His voice was incredibly thick, dropping into a low, predatory register.

Mabel leaned her back against the door. She blew the candle out and set it on the small wooden table beside her. A faint, challenging smile touched her lips.

“It is me wedding too,” Mabel countered softly. “I had to thank yer men for nae burning the rest of the keep down while we were celebrating.”

“They can thank themselves tomorrow,” Caelan said. He did not move toward her. He stood perfectly still in front of the hearth, letting the suffocating tension fill the space between them. “Come here.”

Mabel pushed off the door. She crossed the woven rugs, stopping mere inches from his bare chest. She did not wait for him to initiate. She reached up, pressing her small hands flat against the hot, hard muscle of his chest.

Caelan’s breath hitched.

The absolute second her fingers touched his skin, the rigid, tightly-coiled restraint he had been clinging to for weeks finally snapped.

He moved with blinding speed. He wrapped his massive arms around her waist, jerking her clean off her feet and pulling her flush against him.

“Mine,” Caelan growled directly into her ear.

He backed her forcefully across the room, her feet off the floor, until her spine hit the solid edge of the wardrobe. He crushed his mouth down onto hers.

The kiss was absolute fire. It was devoid of the gentle caution he had shown her in the past. He forced her lips apart, his tongue sweeping deep into her mouth, tasting of dark ale and raw, unadulterated desperation.

Mabel gasped into his mouth, her fingers tangling into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her teeth scraping lightly against his lower lip.

Caelan groaned, a harsh, vibrating sound deep in his chest. His large hands moved frantically down her spine, gripping the heavy fabric of her dress. He tore at the laces of her bodice, lacking patience.

“Wait,” Mabel breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to catch her breath. She pushed his hands away from the ruined laces. “Ye will rip it.”

“I will buy ye a hundred more,” Caelan swore, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and the sensitive column of her throat.

“Stand still,” Mabel ordered softly, her fingers moving quickly to undo the leather knots of his trousers.

Caelan went perfectly rigid. He gripped the edge of the wardrobe on either side of her head, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to let her take control.

Mabel pushed the wool of her dress off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet, leaving her standing in only her thin linen shift. She looked up at him. The sheer hunger in his black eyes made her knees go weak.

Caelan reached out, his calloused fingers gripping the thin hem of the linen shift. He pulled it up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it blindly onto the floorboards.

He stared at her bare body in the firelight. His chest heaved.

“Ye are so incredibly beautiful,” Caelan whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his devotion. “I am terrified I am going to break ye.”

“I am nae made of glass, Caelan,” Mabel said fiercely. She stepped forward, closing the distance, and pressed her bare breasts against the scarred, rough heat of his chest. “I am a MacCarron now. Break me.”