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Caelan closed the distance, his massive hands reaching out to gently cup her face. He checked her bruised cheek, the split lip, the bleeding scrape on her collarbone where the dirk had pressed. He cataloged every single injury with a fierce, burning protectiveness.

“Did he touch ye?” Caelan demanded softly, his voice trembling for the very first time since the night began. “Are ye hurt anywhere else?”

Mabel shook her head frantically, fresh tears finally spilling over her lashes and cutting clean tracks through the dirt on her face. “Nay. I am fine. Caelan, I am fine.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sheer, overwhelming relief crushed the last remaining fragments of Caelan’s composure.

He pulled her forcefully into his arms.

He wrapped his massive, scarred arms around her small frame, burying his face deep into the tangled, muddy mess of her golden hair. He crushed her flush against his bare chest, uncaring of the freezing wind or the blood staining her shift. Mabel wrapped her arms fiercely around his waist, burying her bruised face into his neck, holding him with absolutely everything she had.

Caelan closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of her skin, feeling the steady, rapid thud of her heartbeat against his own. He was the Black Laird. He had crushed sieges, slaughtered his enemies, and secured his borders.

But as he stood in the muddy courtyard holding the woman he loved, he realized she was the only victory that had ever truly mattered.

EPILOGUE

“Do ye take this man?” Father Malcolm’s voice barely carried over the sharp, rhythmic crack of iron hammers striking stone.

Mabel kept her gaze locked on Caelan.

He stood before her in the center of the ruined courtyard, ignoring the freezing Highland wind. He wore the dark MacCarron plaid draped over his broad shoulder, the silver clan brooch pinning the thick wool securely in place. The deep, violent bruise on his jaw from the final clash with Fergus Comyn had barely faded to a dull purple, and the knuckles of his right hand were still split and wrapped in linen.

He had not taken his eyes off her since she walked out of the keep.

“I do,” Mabel answered. Her voice was steady, cutting clean through the cold air.

It had only been three days since Caelan carried her out of the northern forest. Three days since Fergus Comyn bled out in the mud, severing the threat that had loomed over them for months.

Blackthorn Keep was still fractured. The scent of charred timber hung thick in the courtyard. The western watchtower was blackened by fire, the stones cracked and structurally unstable. Fifty yards away, Rowan and a dozen men were currently rebuilding the shattered postern gate, but they had downed tools an hour earlier to stand at the back of the courtyard for the vows

There was no time to send for noble guests. There were no elaborate banners, no sprawling feasts, and absolutely no political spectacles. They refused to wait another day. They had spent far too much time apart, separated by fear, duty, and the violent realities of war. This was not a performance for the surrounding clans. It was two clans finally becoming one.

“And do ye, Caelan MacCarron, take this woman?” Father Malcolm asked, pulling his heavy cloak tighter against the wind.

“I do,” Caelan said. The dark, vibrating gravel of his voice sent a sudden, electric heat straight down Mabel’s spine.

“Then beneath this open sky and before God, I declare ye bound.” Father Malcolm closed his heavy leather book. “Ye are husband and wife.”

Caelan did not wait for another word. He reached out, his massive hands gripping her waist, and pulled her flush against his chest. He kissed her hard, a deep, claiming pressure that wiped the freezing wind from her mind.

A loud, echoing cheer erupted from the small circle of people standing around them.

Duncan clapped his iron gauntlets together. Isla whistled loudly, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs from Morag. Rhea smiled warmly, standing quietly beside Callum as the courtyard workers briefly paused their hammering to slam their heavy tools against the stone in approval.

The celebration in the Great Hall was brief and unrefined. Ewan dragged two unbroken tables to the center of the room, throwing down massive platters of roasted venison and heavy clay jugs of dark ale.

“Ye look exhausted, lass,” Morag muttered, pressing a steaming cup of mulled wine into Mabel’s hands. “And there is soot on the hem of yer dress. I told Duncan to sweep the courtyard.”

“The courtyard is missing half its paving stones, Morag,” Duncan shot back, pulling out a wooden chair and dropping heavily into it, his chainmail clinking loudly. “Sweeping the dirt willnae fix the fire damage.”

“It is perfect,” Mabel said, gripping the warm iron cup.

She looked across the Hall. Caelan was standing near the massive hearth, speaking quietly with Rowan about the northern border patrols. Even surrounded by his men, commanding the absolute center of the room, his dark eyes continuously tracked back to her.

“He is ready to clear the Hall,” Isla noted quietly, leaning her elbows on the table and grinning at Mabel. “If ye daenae go upstairs soon, he is going to start physically throwing people out the front doors.”

Mabel felt the heat flood her cheeks. “He is discussing the watch.”