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Father Malcolm lowered his cup. He studied Caelan’s face—the harsh, unyielding set of his jaw, the brutal, jagged scar that caught the firelight, and the cold, impenetrable armor he wore so effortlessly.
“I offered her the condolences of the parishes,” Malcolm said quietly. “She is a remarkably strong lass. She carries the grief of her father and the sudden, terrifying weight of her entire clan without shedding a single tear in that hall.”
“She is William’s daughter,” Caelan muttered, staring at the map. “She kens how to stand her ground.”
“Aye, she does,” Malcolm agreed. He took a slow step closer to the desk. “But I dinnae come here merely to offer prayers for the dead, Caelan. I came to ask what ye intend to do with the living.”
Caelan’s eyes snapped up, flashing with a sudden, defensive heat. “I owe William me life, and I gave me word. I swore to protect her. She is safe here. Nay harm will come to her while she remains under me roof. I will burn the Highlands to ash before I let another man touch her.”
The violence in his voice was… raw, unpolished, and lethal.
“I daenae doubt yer sword, Caelan,” Malcolm said gently. “But I must ask… do ye intend to keep her locked behind these stone walls for the rest of her life?”
Caelan’s grip on the wooden cup tightened fiercely, his knuckles turning stark white. “Every neighboring laird now sees Mabel as the key to claiming Clan MacAllister. She is the rightful heiress. If she walks out of those gates, she will be hunted, captured, and forced into a marriage bed before the week is out. Caution is our only defense.”
“Caution,” Malcolm repeated, the word carrying a soft, sorrowful weight. “Is that what this is? Ye have doubled the guard. Ye have sealed the gates. Ye have turned yer home into a prison.”
“I have turned it into a fortress!” Caelan snarled, slamming the cup down onto the oak desk. The dark ale splashed over the rim, soaking into the parchment maps. “William trusted me to keep her breathing! He died, so she could run, and I will nae let his sacrifice mean nothing!”
The sudden explosion of anger echoed loudly off the stone walls. Caelan stood rigid, his chest heaving, fully expecting the priest to reprimand his temper.
But Malcolm only looked at him with deep, unwavering compassion.
“I stood beside yer father, Caelan, when he first took the mantle of Laird,” Malcolm said softly, his voice cutting through the thick, angry tension in the room. “And I stood beside William when he married Mabel’s mother. They were young men. Fierce, proud, and convinced they could control the world with the edge of a blade. But they both learned a hard truth ye are currently fighting to ignore.”
Caelan clenched his jaw, looking away. “And what truth is that?”
“Protecting someone also means allowing them to breathe,” Malcolm said gently. He reached out, his weathered hand resting lightly on Caelan’s forearm. “Fear has already stolen enough years from yer life, son. Ye have spent a decade burying yer heart in the mud alongside yer father and yer men. Ye punish yerself for the blood on yer hands by denying yerself any trace of light. Daenae drag the lass into the dark with ye.”
Caelan went rigid. He pulled his arm away from the priest’s touch, stepping back into the deep shadows near the hearth.
I am the Black Laird, Caelan thought, a bitter, familiar darkness wrapping tightly around his chest. There is nay light left for me. I am a monster forged in blood, and she has nay business being caged with one.
“Me duty is to keep her safe,” Caelan said aloud, his voice dropping into a harsh, emotionless gravel. “Nothing more.”
Malcolm sighed, a deep, tired sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire glen. He picked up his wooden cup, took a slow sip, and turned toward the door. He paused with his hand resting on the iron latch, looking back over his shoulder.
“Daenae mistake control for protection, Caelan,” the priest warned softly. “If ye cage a bird to save it from the hawks, ye are still the one who stops it from flying.”
The door clicked shut.
Caelan stood alone in the suffocating heat of the solar. He ran a rough, callused hand over his face, his fingers catching on the jagged edge of his scar, the priest’s final words ringing like a heavy iron bell in his mind.
The stone walls of the guest chamber felt as though they were physically closing in on Mabel.
She sat on the edge of the large four-poster bed, staring blankly at the flames dancing in the hearth. The suffocating weight of Father Malcolm’s prayers still pressed heavily against her chest. She needed space. She needed to breathe.
Suddenly, the door swung open with a loud, unapologetic bang.
Mabel jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.
An older woman marched into the room. She was short, stout, and possessed a head of thick, iron-gray hair tucked severely beneath a white linen cap. She carried a wooden tray laden with roasted mutton, thick slices of brown bread, and a jug of watered wine, moving with the unstoppable momentum of a boulder rolling downhill.
Behind her, one of the heavily armed guards stationed in the corridor hastily stepped back, rubbing his shoulder where the door had nearly clipped him.
“Ye could ask me to move, Morag!” the guard muttered defensively.
“If ye were paying attention instead of staring at the floorboards, I wouldnae have to swing the door so hard, Sorley,” the woman snapped back, kicking the door shut with her heel. She marched straight to the small table near the fire and dropped the tray with a loud clatter.
