Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sleep had been a stranger that night.
Aidan lay awake long after the fire in his chamber had died, staring at the dark line where the wall met the ceiling, the echo of her voice still threading through his thoughts.
He could not shut out the sharpness of her tone, the heat in her words, the look in her eyes when she’d defied him in the stable.
He’d seen fire before, but nothing that burned like her.
He’d tried to reason with himself. Told his mind that she was only his charge, that his duty began and ended with keeping her safe.
But reason had little hold over memory, and his memory was a traitor.
It returned again and again to the curve of her mouth when she’d said freedom, to the way her breath had quickened in the lamplight, to the faint tremor in her hands when she’d finally turned away.
When dawn broke grey and cold, Aidan rose before the bell had sounded. The chill bit at his skin as he dressed, pulling his plaid over his shoulder, fastening the clasp at his chest with a deliberate hand. The weight of the sword at his hip steadied him, as it always did.
There was work to be done. Discipline to restore. A man who could not master his own thoughts had no business commanding others.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of wet earth and pine. The courtyard glistened with the remnants of rain, puddles gathering between the stones. He crossed it in long strides, the chill air cutting through the last of the night’s unrest.
The clang of steel reached him before he saw them. The men were already gathered in the training yard, their breath misting in the morning air, blades flashing as they sparred in pairs.
Aidan paused at the edge of the yard, letting the sight settle him. He’d built these men from nothing—farmers’ sons and drifters and soldiers who’d lost faith. They followed him because he demanded it, because he made them see that order was the only thing between them and ruin.
Today, that order would tighten. He would make sure of it.
“Gather in,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise.
The men straightened at once, stepping back from their partners. The scrape of boots and the ring of metal filled the air as they formed a line. Gordon was among them, tall and broad, his plaid slung loose across his chest, a grin already playing at the corner of his mouth.
Aidan let the silence stretch, his gaze moving over each face. Some were young, barely more than boys. Others had fought beside him for years. All of them knew that silence meant gravity.
“We’ll be changin’ the trainin’ schedule,” he said at last. “From now on, drills will start an hour earlier and run till the noon bell. Nay exceptions. Patrols will double their routes—east tae the forest’s edge, west tae the loch. I want eyes on every ridge between here and the border.”
A murmur rippled through the men. Gordon raised a brow. “Doublin’ patrols, eh? What’s stirred this sudden vigilance?”
Aidan crossed his arms, the motion slow, deliberate. “I ken the Campbells are movin’ faster than we’d like tae believe. They’ve been gatherin’ men under Argyll’s banner, and if they push north, we’ll be their first mark.”
The words settled heavy. He could see the tension in their shoulders, the way their hands shifted unconsciously toward their hilts.
Gordon frowned. “We’ve heard the rumors, aye, but ye think they’ll dare come this far?”
“I think they’ll go where they please until someone reminds them whose land it is,” Aidan said. “And I’ll nae be caught unprepared when they dae.”
He paced before them, the cold air biting at his lungs. “We’ve MacDonald blood under this roof now—all three o’ Keppoch’s daughters. Campbell has reason enough tae test our walls. He’ll think the Camerons too proud tae share shelter with their old rivals.”
Gordon’s grin returned, faint but wry. “So that’s it, then. The laird’s concern is fer the ladies.”
A few of the younger men chuckled under their breath.
Aidan’s gaze snapped to him, cold as steel. “Me concern is fer this clan,” he said, his tone low and edged. “And fer me vow tae keep those women safe while they remain here. I’ll nae fail in it.”
The laughter died instantly. Even Gordon’s smile faded, replaced by a look of respect tinged with apology.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I ken ye willnae.”
Aidan nodded once, satisfied, then turned to the line again. “The MacDonald lasses are our guests, nae our burden. They’re tae be treated with courtesy, but dinnae mistake that fer leniency. If any harm comes tae them—whether by enemy hand or our own neglect—it’ll be a stain we’ll never wash away.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the ranks.
He let the silence linger, the weight of his words sinking in.
Duty had always been the only thing that steadied him, the only truth that never shifted beneath his feet.
But as he looked out across the field, his mind betrayed him again as it flashed to the stable and the faint tremor in Catherine MacDonald’s voice when she’d spoken.
Aidan exhaled, forcing the thought down. “Back tae it,” he said curtly. “Pair off. I’ll take the first round.”
The men obeyed, scattering into groups. Steel rang out once more, the rhythm of battle returning to the yard.
He saw her standing in the stable, her hair loose and gleaming in the lantern light, her lips parted in anger, her eyes alive with something fierce enough to unmake him. He could almost hear her voice again, that mix of defiance and trembling—Freedom.
The word had struck him like a blade. It unsettled him. Worse, it tempted him.
He forced the thought away and focused on the clang of swords. The sound steadied him. The scent of steel and sweat and earth grounded him. This was where he belonged, where there was order, where there was purpose.
“Ye should rest,” Gordon said after a while, his tone half-serious. “Ye’ve nae slept, I can see it.”
“I’ll sleep when the Campbells are gone.”
“Or when the lass stops hauntin’ yer thoughts.”
Aidan turned his head sharply, but Gordon was already grinning, stepping back out of reach. “Just an observation, me laird.”
“Then observe from the far end o’ the field.”
Gordon laughed and retreated, calling for one of the men to spar.
Aidan stayed where he was, watching the precision of their strikes, the sweat on their brows, the discipline he’d drilled into every muscle. Yet even as he watched, his mind drifted again to her. To her defiance. Her voice. The way she’d looked at him like he was both her savior and her tormentor.
He had spent a lifetime controlling himself, but control was beginning to feel less like armor and more like a cage.
The clang of steel grew louder, sharper. One of the men stumbled, thrown back by his partner’s strike, and Aidan stepped forward instinctively. “Balance!” he barked. “Ye fight on uneven ground, ye die on it.”
The man corrected his stance at once.
Aidan nodded, but his jaw remained tight. He couldn’t afford distraction. And yet, beneath the discipline, something restless stirred that had nothing to do with war or loyalty or duty.
The hall was alive that night. Lanterns burned bright along the walls, casting gold across stone and steel.
The scent of roasted venison and spiced wine drifted through the air, mingling with laughter and the low hum of pipes.
For the first time since the MacDonalds’ arrival, Achnacarry felt less like a fortress and more like a home.
Aidan sat at the high table, half turned toward the crowd below.
The benches were packed with men from the guard, women from the kitchens, even a few shepherds and farmers from the nearby glen.
It was rare to open the hall to so many, but rare too was a day that hadn’t ended in blood or worry.
After weeks of tension, his people needed this and so did he.
Yet when his gaze found Catherine MacDonald across the room, standing with her sisters near the hearth, his pulse betrayed him.
She wore pale blue, a gown simple but finely cut, the color pulling the storm light straight from her eyes.
Her hair was pinned in loose curls, a few rebellious strands falling against her cheek.
She laughed at something Alyson said, and for a heartbeat, the sound cut through every other noise in the hall.
Aidan reached for his cup, more out of habit than thirst. The wine did little to steady him.
Gordon leaned in from his left, voice low. “Ye’ve nae heard a word I’ve said, have ye?”
“I’ve heard enough,” Aidan replied.
“Then repeat it.”
He didn’t.
Gordon followed his gaze, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Ah. I see where yer attention’s gone.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “Mind yer tongue.”
Gordon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, aye. Just observin’.”
“Observe elsewhere.”
He turned away, but not fast enough to miss Gordon’s quiet chuckle. The man had survived three campaigns under his command and not once had he learned when to stop.
Aidan forced himself to look elsewhere, to focus on the talk of the men beside him, but every few breaths his attention betrayed him, drifting back to where she stood.
A man stepped toward her, saying something that drew a polite smile to her lips.
Aidan recognized him at once—Bruce, laird MacInnis’s son sent last winter to learn the art of command.
The lad, a good young man and warrior, was no more than five-and-twenty, broad-shouldered and bright-eyed, all charm and unearned confidence, too eager by half and far too fond of his own voice.
He was leaning close now, gesturing animatedly with his cup, grinning like a man who’d never known caution. Catherine tilted her head, listening with that keen intelligence that always cut sharper than it seemed.
Aidan felt the muscle in his jaw tense and stood before he thought better of it. The motion drew more attention than he intended. Heads turned as he descended the steps from the dais, but he didn’t stop until he reached the table near the hearth.
Catherine looked up as he approached, her smile fading to something unreadable. “Laird Cameron.”
“Lady Catherine.” He inclined his head, his voice even. “I see ye’ve met Bruce MacInnis.”
“Aye,” she said. “He was just tellin’ me how he bested one o’ yer men in the field last week.”
“Was he now?” Aidan’s gaze flicked to Bruce.
The young man straightened, his grin faltering slightly. “Aye, me laird. Just a friendly spar. Thought tae share a tale.”
“Ye didnae mention,” Aidan said, tone mild, “that ye slipped on the mud right before that and near cut yer own boot clean off.”
Catherine’s brows lifted, her lips twitching. Bruce flushed scarlet.
“Ah—well, aye, that happened,” he admitted. “But I recovered.”
“Barely,” Aidan murmured.
Catherine’s laugh escaped before she could stop it, quiet but unmistakable. She pressed a hand to her mouth, turning slightly toward Bruce in an attempt at apology. “I’m sorry, that was cruel.”
Bruce recovered quickly, flashing his boyish smile again. “Nay offense taken, me lady. I’ll earn a truer story next time.”
“See that ye dae,” Aidan said dryly.
The lad nodded and made a hasty excuse to refill his cup, retreating toward the crowd.
Catherine watched him go, then turned back, eyes narrowing. “Ye enjoy humiliatin’ yer men before an audience, then?”
“I enjoy accuracy.”
She folded her arms, unimpressed. “Accuracy or control? Ye’ve a habit o’ correctin’ every man who speaks more than two words in yer presence.”
He met her gaze, steady and unflinching. “And ye’ve a habit o’ challengin’ every man who breathes near ye.”
Her chin lifted. “Only the ones who think they can silence me.”
The music swelled again, laughter rolling through the hall, but for Aidan the noise dimmed. She stood close enough that he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume beneath the smoke. Her eyes were sharp, daring him to push harder.
“Ye ken, Lady Catherine,” he said quietly, “there’s a difference between speakin’ yer mind and testin’ yer host’s patience.”
“And there’s a difference,” she returned, “between protectin’ a guest and commandin’ her.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “If I were commandin’ ye, lass, ye’d ken it.”
Her breath caught, just slightly. Then she smiled. “Ye mistake me fer someone easily led.”
“Nay mistake,” he said.
A servant passed with a jug of wine, the faint clink of metal breaking the spell. Catherine stepped back first, her smile returning like a blade drawn slow. “Enjoy commandin’ yer patience, laird,” she said. “Ye’ll be needin’ it.”
He inclined his head, voice low. “And ye’ll be needin’ restraint, me lady. God grant ye some.”
“I’ll make dae wi’ what I have,” she said, already turning away, her skirts whispering against the stone.
Aidan watched her go, the blue of her gown vanishing into the glow of the hearth. The din of the hall returned in a rush of music and laughter, but it all sounded distant now, as though the world had slipped out of step.
He exhaled slowly, the ghost of her scent still clinging to the air. She had a way of turning every exchange into a battlefield, and he, fool that he was, kept walking into the fire willingly.
He lifted his cup, took a long drink, and let the wine burn down the ache she’d left behind.
The night carried on, the hall alive with song and revelry, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her—the proud tilt of her chin, the defiance in her eyes, the quiet tremor in her breath when he’d come too close. Catherine MacDonald was another kind of danger altogether.
And as the candles burned low, he realized with a sinking certainty that this was a battle he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.