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“We are here,” Fergus announced softly, his voice ringing clearly in the dead quiet of the night air. He looked at Mabel, his dark eyes shining with absolute, undeniable triumph. “This is where everything changes, Mabel. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow morning, me priest arrives from the southern glen. Tomorrow, ye become a Comyn.”

Mabel stared at the dark, imposing stone building, her heart sinking into her stomach.

This was the end of the line. They were miles away from any established road, isolated in the absolute middle of the untamed Highlands. No one knew this place existed. No one was coming.

Fergus dismounted smoothly, his boots hitting the slate with a confident thud. He tossed his heavy leather reins to one of the waiting guards.

“Hold the perimeter,” Fergus ordered sharply, pointing to the dark edge of the tree line surrounding the lodge. “Set up a watch on the southern trail. I daenae want anyone approaching this clearing without me knowing. I will take the girl inside and secure the doors.”

“Aye, Me Laird,” the guard replied immediately, turning his exhausted horse around to begin patrolling the dark edge of the woods.

Fergus walked over to Mabel’s horse. He drew a small, wicked-looking hunting knife from his belt and sliced cleanly through the thick ropes binding her bleeding wrists to the saddle pommel. He grabbed her by the upper arm and dragged her down from the horse.

Mabel stumbled, her numb feet hitting the frozen ground hard. She tried desperately to pull away, throwing her weight backward, but Fergus’ grip was like an iron vice. He hauled her forcefully toward the heavy front doors of the lodge.

“Walk,” Fergus commanded, shoving her roughly up the three stone steps leading to the entrance.

Mabel dragged her feet, her blue eyes darting desperately around the dark clearing, searching for absolutely any possible avenue of escape, but the two heavily armed guards were already patrolling the tree line, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. There was nowhere to run.

Fergus reached the door. Certain that he had won, absolutely confident that his brilliant strategy had perfectly outmaneuvered the most dangerous warlord in the north, he did not even bother to draw his sword. He reached out with his free hand, grabbed the rusted iron ring, and pushed the door forcefully open.

The iron hinges groaned loudly, protesting the movement.

Fergus pushed Mabel roughly inside and stepped confidently through the threshold behind her.

The lodge was silent.

Mabel froze just inside the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.

The interior of the massive stone lodge was not dark.

The large stone hearth at the far end of the room was ablaze. A massive, roaring fire was already burning, the thick logs popping and hissing loudly. The flames cast brilliant, flickering orange light across the long tables, the dusty floorboards, and the thick animal pelts draped over the chairs. The air inside the large room was incredibly thick with heat and the sharp, distinct smell of burning pine.

For one brief, terribly confusing moment, Fergus Comyn stopped dead in his tracks.

He frowned deeply, his dark eyes locking onto the blazing fire. His hand instinctively dropped toward the hilt of his sword at his hip. He had ordered this place abandoned weeks ago. He had told his men to stay clear until the priest arrived. Who lit the fire?

Then, a familiar, terrifyingly calm voice broke the silence of the room.

“Welcome, Fergus.”

30

“Ye are a dead man, MacCarron.”

The door of the hunting lodge had barely slammed shut behind them. Fergus Comyn stood frozen just inside the threshold, the freezing wind still howling against the thick wooden shutters.

Caelan did not draw his broadsword. He simply stood in front of the massive stone hearth, his hands resting casually on his leather belt. The fire cast long, dancing shadows across his bare, scarred chest. He watched with absolute, cold detachment as Fergus’s eyes widened in sheer panic, processing the impossible reality of the warlord waiting in his own safehouse.

Fergus jerked Mabel roughly backward, pulling her flush against his chest. The sharp steel of his dirk flashed in the firelight as he pressed the blade directly against the pale, bruised skin of her throat.

Caelan’s heart slammed against his ribs, but he did not move a single muscle. He locked his dark eyes onto Mabel. Her blonde hair was a tangled, matted mess. Her sleeping shift was torn, heavily stained with freezing mud and dried blood. A vicious, dark purple bruise blossomed across her cheekbone, and her lower lip was split. But beneath the dirt and the terror, her striking blue eyes were clear. She looked at Caelan, and the paralyzing fear vanished from her face, replaced by a fierce, unyielding trust.

Neither man moved. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound inside the gloomy, dust-filled lodge was the heavy crackle of the burning logs in the hearth.

“Ye made one fatal mistake, Fergus,” Caelan said softly. His voice was a low, vibrating gravel that filled the quiet room.

Fergus swallowed hard, his gloved hand trembling slightly around the hilt of the dirk. “I have thirty men surrounding this lodge. Ye are alone in the center of me territory.”