Page 58

Caelan gripped the cold stone until his knuckles turned stark white. “Me men are stretched thin. If Comyn marches before the snows hit, the western valley will be difficult to hold without direct support.”

“We will send men,” Callum promised without a single second of hesitation. “Clan MacMahon is still rebuilding, but we will nae let William’s lands fall to the likes of Fergus Comyn. We owe yer fortress that much.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, broken only by the rhythmic snapping of the MacCarron banner high above their heads. Caelan appreciated Callum’s loyalty. The younger laird was a fierce ally, a man who understood the burden of leadership.

Callum turned his head, studying Caelan’s rigid profile in the dim moonlight.

“She fits in here, ye ken,” Callum observed quietly.

Caelan’s chest seized. He knew exactly who Callum was talking about, but he refused to acknowledge it. “Lady Mabel is a guest. She is adjusting to the keep well enough.”

“A guest,” Callum repeated. He let out a dry, knowing chuckle. “Right. Because most guests look at their host as though they are actively trying to set him on fire with their eyes. And most hosts look at their guests as though they are fighting the urge to drag them over the dining table.”

“Ye’ve said enough, MacMahon,” Caelan said, not turning around.

He simply crossed his arms over his broad chest, meeting his stare with easy calm.

“I am merely pointing out the obvious, Caelan,” Callum said. “After watching the two of ye tonight, a blind man could see that neither of ye remains untouched by what has grown between ye. The air in that hall was thick enough to cut with a broadsword every time ye looked in her direction.”

“Ye are seeing things that daenae exist,” Caelan lied, his voice a harsh, strained rasp. He turned his back on Callum, pacing a tight, restless line across the narrow stone walkway. “There is nothing between us. There cannae be anything between us.”

“Why?” Callum challenged, refusing to let the subject drop. “She is beautiful, she is fiercely intelligent, and she clearly cares for ye. What exactly is stopping ye from claiming what ye both obviously want?”

“Me duty!” Caelan roared, the sheer volume of his voice echoing violently off the stone walls.

He stopped pacing, his chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths. The feral, desperate monster he kept locked inside his ribcage clawed frantically at his restraint. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the terrifying darkness back down into the depths of his mind.

“Me duty is to protect her,” Caelan continued. His voice dropped into a hollow, agonizing whisper. “William trusted me to keep her safe. He dinnae trust me to ruin her.”

Callum frowned, his dark eyebrows pulling together in genuine confusion. “How exactly would loving her ruin her?”

Caelan opened his eyes, glaring at the younger laird with a raw, bitter agony. “Look at me, Callum! I am a warlord. I am a killer. Me hands are stained with the blood of hundreds of men. I wake up in the middle of the night reaching for a dagger, listening for the sound of dying men in the shadows. I am covered in darkness.”

Callum remained silent, listening as Caelan finally spoke the terrible fears that had been torturing him for weeks.

“She is light,” Caelan breathed, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. “She is innocent. She deserves a peaceful life, Callum. She deserves a man who can give her a home untouched by violence, nae a monster who brings the horrors of the glens into her bed. Me duty is to protect Mabel, nae to complicate her future with a man carrying as much darkness as I do.”

The wind howled across the battlements, whipping Caelan’s dark hair wildly across his scarred face. He felt empty. He had spoken the absolute truth, laying his own unworthiness bare in the freezing night.

Callum did not argue. The Laird of Clan MacMahon did not offer empty platitudes or tell Caelan that he was a good man. He simply stood against the stone wall, watching Caelan with a quiet, profound understanding.

Callum pushed himself off the parapet. He walked slowly across the walkway, stopping only a few feet away from Caelan.

“Ye are a terrifying man, Caelan MacCarron,” Callum said softly. “And ye carry a heavier burden than anyone in these Highlands should ever have to bear. But ye are also a complete fool.”

Caelan’s jaw locked, his muscles tensing defensively.

“Ye think ye are doing the noble thing,” Callum continued, his voice stripped of its usual playful banter. “Ye think ye are sacrificing yer own happiness to save hers. But sometimes, Caelan, the greatest mistake a man can make is believing he alone knows what is best for the woman he loves.”

Caelan stared at him, the words striking him directly in the center of his chest like a physical blow.

“If she looks at yer darkness and chooses to stand in it beside ye,” Callum advised quietly, “ye have nay right to push her away. Stop deciding her future for her, and start asking her what she actually wants.”

Callum offered a brief, respectful nod. He turned and walked away toward the door of the stairwell, leaving Caelan standing alone in the freezing wind.

The fire in the guest chamber roared cheerfully, casting a warm, golden glow over the thick woven rugs and the dark oak furniture. The harsh, biting chill of the Highlands was shut out, leaving the room feeling like a safe, impenetrable sanctuary.

Mabel sat on the edge of the large four-poster bed, holding a silver-backed hairbrush in her lap. Rhea sat on the plush stool in front of the vanity mirror, humming a soft, familiar tune as she braided a long ribbon into her dark hair.