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She realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that she was hopelessly in love with him.

It was not just a physical attraction though the mere thought of his touch made her skin burn. She loved the way he protected his people. She loved the quiet, steadfast honor that dictated his every move. She loved the way he sat in the freezing mud beside her father’s grave, asking for nothing in return.

“Ye are quiet, Mabel,” Callum observed gently, pulling her from her thoughts.

Mabel blinked, forcing a bright smile onto her face. “I am just listening, Callum. It is wonderful to hear so much laughter in this hall. It has been very quiet lately.”

“Well, we aim to fix that,” Callum grinned, reaching over to squeeze Rhea’s hand. “A fortress shouldnae feel like a tomb. It needs life. It needs noise. It needs ridiculous captains running from farm animals.”

“I will murder ye in yer sleep, MacMahon,” Duncan promised sincerely.

The feast continued for another hour, the conversation flowing easily between old war stories, lighthearted teasing, and quiet discussions about the upcoming winter. Mabel found herself relaxing, leaning into her sister’s warmth and allowing the safety of the moment to wash over her.

Yet, no matter how much she tried to focus on the stories, her awareness always returned to Caelan.

Every time she shifted in her seat, she felt his eyes on her. When she reached for her cup, his gaze tracked the movement of her hand. It was an intoxicating, highly dangerous dance. They were saying nothing to each other, yet they were communicating everything.

As the platters of food were finally cleared away by the castle servants, the loud energy in the hall began to settle into a comfortable, sleepy warmth. Rowan stretched his long legs out beneath the table, yawning widely.

“If I eat another bite of Morag’s bread, I will burst,” Rowan declared, rubbing his stomach. “I believe I require a very long sleep. Preferably one that lasts until spring.”

“Ye will be on the training yard at dawn, MacLarren,” Caelan ordered quietly though there was no real heat behind the command.

“Tyrant,” Rowan muttered affectionately, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Goodnight, Miss Mabel. Lady Rhea. Try to survive the captain’s snoring if ye are staying in the eastern wing. It rattles the windowpanes.”

Duncan threw a leftover roll of bread directly at Rowan’s head. Rowan dodged it expertly, laughing as he exited the Great Hall.

Callum stood up next, offering his hand to Rhea. “Come, wife. It has been a long journey, and ye need rest.”

Rhea took his hand, standing gracefully. She leaned down and kissed Mabel’s cheek. “We will talk more tomorrow, little bird. Get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Rhea,” Mabel smiled, squeezing her sister’s fingers. “Goodnight, Callum.”

As her sister and brother-in-law left the hall, Duncan quickly followed, muttering something about inspecting the night watch. Within moments, the massive room was empty, save for Mabel and Caelan.

The silence that descended over the table was immediate and profound.

Mabel sat frozen in her chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The playful, chaotic energy of the feast had vanished, leaving behind the raw, crackling sexual tension that had been building between them all evening. The fire in the hearth popped loudly, making her jump slightly in her seat.

Caelan did not move. He sat at the head of the table, staring at her through the dim candlelight. The relaxed, smiling man from the feast was gone. The Black Laird had returned, his gray eyes fierce and burning with an intensity that made her mouth go dry.

“Ye should go to yer chambers,” Caelan said. His voice was a harsh, strained gravel, barely above a whisper. It sounded as though the words caused him physical pain.

18

“If the wind in this fortress blows any harder, I will be flying back to me own lands without the aid of a horse,” Callum complained loudly. He pulled his thick green tartan tighter around his neck and shivered against the biting chill of the midnight air.

Caelan did not turn away from the stone parapet. He rested his forearms against the freezing mortar, staring out into the pitch-black expanse of the glens. The celebrations in the Great Hall had finally quieted. The keep was asleep, wrapped in a thick blanket of fog that rolled off the distant loch.

“Ye are welcome to go back inside, Callum,” Caelan stated. His voice was a low, rough rumble that barely carried over the howling wind. “I dinnae ask ye to follow me up here.”

“And leave ye to brood in the dark like a solitary gargoyle? Absolutely nae,” Callum replied brightly. He stepped up to the wall beside Caelan, leaning his elbows on the stone and looking out over the dark horizon. “Besides, Rhea kicked me out of the chamber. She said she required time alone with her sister, and me snoring would ruin the atmosphere.”

Caelan’s jaw tightened slightly at the mention of Mabel, but he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the southern ridge.

“The eastern borders are quiet tonight,” Caelan noted, deliberately steering the conversation toward safer, tactical ground. “But the calm will nae last. The future of Clan MacAllister remains uncertain. Fergus Comyn is still gathering his strength, and the other Lairds are waiting to see who makes the first move.”

“Let them wait,” Callum said smoothly. The playful humor faded from the younger laird’s voice, replaced by the tone of a leader who had already survived his own share of wars. “Clan MacAllister is vulnerable, aye, but they are nae defenseless. Nae while she has ye standing in front of her gates.”