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Mabel walked back to the bed and sat down, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

“Ye think this is all terribly complicated,” Rhea said, reaching out to gently tuck a loose strand of golden hair behind Mabel’s ear. “But let me tell ye a secret. Love is rarely confusing, little bird. People are. Especially wounded people.”

Mabel frowned, her brow furrowing. “What do ye mean?”

Rhea looked toward the dancing flames in the hearth, her expression turning distant as she recalled her own painful memories.

“When Callum and I first realized we cared for each other,” Rhea began quietly, her voice laced with old sorrow, “he did the exact same thing. He pushed me away. He was cold, he was distant, and he said terrible things to convince me that we had nay future together.”

“Callum?” Mabel asked, genuinely shocked. She thought of the warm, playful man laughing in the Great Hall earlier that evening. “But he adores ye.”

“He does,” Rhea smiled fondly. “But at the time, he convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. He pushed me away for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with how he felt about me. He believed he was protecting me by denying himself the very thing he wanted most in the world.”

Rhea turned her gaze back to Mabel, her dark eyes holding a fierce, uncompromising clarity.

“Men like Callum, and men like Caelan, carry an immense amount of guilt,” Rhea explained softly. “They are lairds. They hold the lives of hundreds of people in their hands. They have seen war, they have lost family, and they bear the responsibility for every drop of blood spilled on their lands.”

Mabel thought of the jagged scar on Caelan’s face. She thought of the tragic story he had shared about his father’s death, the sheer, crushing weight of self-loathing he carried every single day.

“They spend so long carrying that guilt,” Rhea continued, her hand squeezing Mabel’s tightly, “that they eventually convince themselves they are incapable of deserving happiness. They look at a woman they love, and they see only their own darkness. Ye will understand it better in time.”

Mabel’s breath caught in her throat. The pieces of the puzzle suddenly slammed together, forming a painfully clear picture.

He isnae rejecting me, Mabel realized, a profound, aching tenderness blooming in her chest. He is punishing himself. He thinks he is saving me.

“So what do I do?” Mabel whispered, feeling overwhelmed by the revelation. “How do I fight a ghost in his own mind?”

Rhea offered a gentle, reassuring smile. She reached out, cupping Mabel’s cheek with a warm hand.

“Ye stop listening to the ghost,” Rhea advised softly. “Daenae waste yer time trying to understand the harsh words he says when he is terrified. Watch what he does. Watch how he protects ye. Watch how he looks at ye when he thinks no one is paying attention.”

Rhea leaned forward, her dark eyes fierce and encouraging.

“If ye truly love him, Mabel,” Rhea told her, “then ye must be braver than he is. Ye must prove to him that ye are nae afraid of the dark.”

19

“Are ye certain we cannae simply shoot him, Duncan?” Rowan asked loudly, his boots splashing through the shallow puddles of the courtyard. “I am fairly confident an arrow accidentally slipping from the battlements would save us a tremendous amount of unnecessary diplomacy.”

Duncan Fraser did not smile. The captain of the guard stood near the iron chains of the main gates, his arms crossed over his leather armor. His weathered face was set into a deep, uncompromising scowl as he watched the lone rider trot through the entrance of Blackthorn Keep.

“We daenae shoot messengers, MacLarren,” Duncan grunted, his breath pluming in the crisp morning air. “It is bad for our reputation. And we already have enough people whispering that we are bloodthirsty savages.”

“But look at him,” Rowan complained, gesturing widely toward the approaching man. “He is wearing far too much velvet for a Tuesday. And that shade of red is deeply offensive to the eye.”

The rider brought his horse to a halt in the center of the courtyard. He was draped in the unmistakable bold crimson and black colors of Clan Comyn. He sat tall in his saddle, looking down his nose at the mud, the stone walls, and the hardened warriors surrounding him. Two days had passed since Rhea and Callum MacMahon had ridden away to their own lands, taking the warmth and laughter of the keep with them. The peaceful atmosphere they left behind had just shattered.

The messenger unrolled a thick piece of parchment, clearing his throat with a pompous, echoing sound.

“I bear a formal missive for the Laird of Clan MacCarron,” the man announced. His voice was incredibly polished, dripping with an arrogance that made Rowan roll his eyes toward the gray sky. “From the hand of Laird Fergus Comyn.”

Duncan stepped forward, snatching the parchment from the man’s gloved hand with zero reverence. “I will see it delivered.”

“I am instructed to wait for a reply,” the messenger stated stiffly.

“Then ye will wait in the stables,” Duncan replied, turning his broad back on the man. “Sorley, show our honored guest where he can muck out a stall while he waits.”

Rowan snorted a laugh as the massive, scarred guardsman stepped forward with a terrifying grin, grabbing the reins of the messenger’s horse. Duncan did not wait to watch the exchange. He marched directly toward the central keep, Rowan falling into step beside him.