Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Campbell castle
The road to Campbell’s stronghold wound like a vein through the dying heather, narrow and slick with thaw.
The wind cut sharp from the west, carrying the scent of peat smoke and sea rot, but Edwin barely felt the cold.
His pulse was too quick, his mind too full.
He rode with his shoulders tight, his gloved hands fixed on the reins until his knuckles ached.
He had imagined the journey since the battle at Glen Spean Corridor —every turn, every word, every look he would give the man waiting at its end. The plan had played in his head so often that it felt less like invention and more like memory. He told himself that meant fate was on his side.
A line of watch fires marked the ridge ahead. Beyond them, Campbell lands stretched wide, a sprawl of black pine and smoke-stained stone. The keep itself rose from the hill like a thing that had clawed its way out of the earth, its towers narrow and sharp against the pale sky.
Edwin’s mouth curved. It was an ugly fortress, but it would serve.
Two guards stepped forward as he approached the gate, spears crossing.
“Name and purpose,” one barked.
“Edwin MacLeod,” he said smoothly, pulling his cloak aside so they could see the gold clasp that marked him of minor lairdship. “I bring word fer Laird Campbell. He’s expectin’ me.”
The men exchanged a look but said nothing more. One disappeared into the courtyard while the other gestured him to wait.
Edwin did not like waiting, but he kept still, face composed, the picture of patience. Rage, he had long learned, was a tool best hidden until the strike.
At last the gate creaked open. “The laird’s in council,” the guard said gruffly.
Edwin urged his horse forward. He thought of Keppoch’s halls, of Catherine’s laughter echoing against white stone and clean air, and a hot, twisting ache moved through him. She should have been his already.
They had mocked him for wanting her, for calling her betrothed when her brother had made no public promise.
But what did words matter? He had earned her through devotion, through patience, through the quiet certainty that she was meant to belong to him.
And then that bastard Cameron had appeared from nowhere, all pride and cold heroics, ruining everything.
Edwin’s teeth clenched. He could still see the moment she’d been torn from him. She’d looked back once, eyes wide and wild, and he’d known he’d remember that look forever.
Inside the keep, the air was heavy with smoke and old stone.
A servant led him through narrow corridors to a chamber where a dozen men stood around a long table.
Maps were spread across it, the ink still fresh in some places.
Laird Campbell stood at the head, his hair gone iron-grey, his face sharp as the hills that bore his name.
“MacLeod,” the laird said, his tone wary.
Edwin bowed just enough to feign respect. “Laird, I bring an offer. If ye’ll hear it.”
Campbell studied him for a long moment before motioning the others away. The men filed out, their murmurs fading until the door shut behind them. Silence settled, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
“Speak, then,” Campbell said. “And make it worth the ride.”
Edwin stepped forward, his boots echoing on the flagstones. “Ye’ve been gatherin’ strength under Argyll’s banner,” he began. “Men say ye mean tae push east before summer. I’d offer me sword tae the cause and more, if ye’ll take it.”
Campbell’s eyes narrowed. “More?”
Edwin smiled, slow and deliberate. “Aye. Information, and a connection ye’ve long desired but ne’er managed tae secure.”
That earned a flicker of interest. The old man leaned back in his chair, one brow lifting. “And what would that be?”
“The MacDonalds o’ Keppoch.”
Campbell’s expression changed at once. The name still held bitterness. “They’re a stubborn breed. Stood their ground even when their walls were burnin’.”
“Then let me speak fer ye,” Edwin said. “They’ll listen this time.”
“And why would they?”
Edwin’s smile sharpened. “Because I mean tae marry one o’ them.”
That drew a low, humorless laugh from the laird. “Dae ye now? And which daughter has agreed tae that?”
“Catherine MacDonald,” Edwin said, letting the name hang in the air like a promise. “She was mine once, in all but name. The match was understood, if nae signed. Then the Camerons meddled—spirited her away after an ambush gone wrong. They claim it was tae keep her safe. I say it was theft.”
Campbell’s gaze turned speculative. “So ye’d have me help ye steal her back.”
“Aye,” Edwin said easily. “And in return, I pledge me loyalty tae Argyll’s pact. Me men, me land, all I ken o’ Keppoch’s borders. Ye’ll gain what ye’ve wanted fer years—an open road intae MacDonald country, and an ally who kens every inch o’ it.”
Campbell said nothing. The firelight threw his shadow across the wall, long and bent. Finally, he nodded once. “Ye’re ambitious, MacLeod. I’ll grant ye that.”
Edwin met his eyes, unblinking. “Help me bring her home. When she’s mine, the MacDonalds will nae be able tae refuse the tie. Ye’ll have what ye seek without liftin’ a blade.”
Campbell’s gaze drifted to the map on the table, tracing a line with one finger. “Keppoch’s daughter,” he murmured. “A clever move. Their faither’s gone. A marriage would anchor them—and through them, me.” He looked up, eyes sharp. “Aye. It could work.”
Edwin’s chest tightened, victory blooming like heat in his veins. “Then ye’ll back me?”
“I will,” Campbell said slowly. “But quietly. Ye’ll keep this pact between us until I say otherwise. If word spreads that Campbell and MacLeod plot together, it’ll stir the glens before we’re ready.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Then here’s what ye’ll dae first.” Campbell tapped the map where Keppoch’s keep lay marked. “Ye’ll send a letter tae Tòrr MacDonald. Ask formally fer his sister’s hand. He’s a proud lad—he’ll answer, one way or another. Either we’ve his blessing, or we’ve his defiance, and both will serve.”
Edwin frowned. “Ye think he’ll agree tae such terms?”
Campbell’s grin was thin. “I think men are easier tae move when they believe they’ve chosen the path themselves. Let him refuse. It gives ye cause tae act. And when ye act, ye’ll have me shadow at yer back.”
It was simple, subtle, and cruel enough to work.
Edwin nodded slowly. “Aye. I’ll write the letter this night.”
“Good.” Campbell’s voice softened, almost thoughtful. “If ye mean tae claim the lass, see that ye dae it cleanly. Women have a way o’ complicatin’ war when their hearts get involved.”
Edwin’s smile was thin as glass. “Her heart’s already mine. She only needs remindin’.”
Campbell studied him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he rose. “Then we’re agreed. Go rest. Ye’ll have a horse and rider tae carry yer message by dawn.”
Edwin inclined his head and turned toward the door. The corridor beyond was dark and narrow, the stone cold against his hand as he trailed it along the wall.
She thought herself safe behind Cameron’s walls, thought she’d escaped him.
But there was no escaping what was owed.
He would send the letter. He would play the obedient suitor, the wronged man seeking justice.
He would write with all the charm that had once made her blush, the same lies wrapped in gentleness.
And when Tòrr refused, as he surely would, he would have his excuse to ride north again. He would tear down every gate between them. And this time, when he came for her, there would be no one left to stand in his way.
The laughter from the hall had followed Catherine down the corridor long after she’d left it behind, a fading echo swallowed by stone.
The air beyond the feast had been cooler, still scented faintly with smoke and wine, but it felt quieter.
She could still feel the heat of the room on her skin, the hum of music in her pulse.
The conversation—his voice—lingered like a brand she could not scrub clean.
Her chamber had been warm when she entered, the fire burning low in the grate, shadows swaying softly along the walls.
Her sisters had still been at the feast, but she had fled long before them, unable to bear the effort it took to keep her hands folded and her eyes steady when all she could think of was the shape of Aidan’s face in the firelight and how near she had been to reaching for him.
The bath had helped, at first. The water had been warm and fragrant with heather oil, her hair unbound and heavy down her back. For a time she had let herself sink into it, eyes closed, breath steady.
But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the calm broke apart. His voice returned, low and quiet.
If I were commandin’ ye, lass, ye’d ken it.
Her pulse quickened again. “Arrogant bastard,” she muttered into the dark, though it came out softer than she meant.
Sleep would not come, her mind would not still.
With a huff, she threw the blanket aside and stood, wrapping her shawl over her shoulders.
She hesitated before opening the door. The chill met her at once, raising gooseflesh along her arms, but the quiet pulled at her, a strange restlessness that would not let her stay.
Her bare feet moved lightly over the rushes, her skirts whispering as she went. The torches in the corridor burned low, casting long shadows along the walls. Somewhere deeper within the keep, she could hear the distant drip of water, the faint rattle of wind through narrow windows.
She didn’t know where she meant to go. She only knew she couldn’t stay still with her thoughts like that, circling the same place over and over until it ached.
The hall curved, narrowing into a smaller passage. The walls there were older, the air damp with age. She ran her hand along the stone, feeling the roughness beneath her fingers. It grounded her, kept her from thinking too much of what she’d left behind in the great hall.
A sound reached her then. It was faint at first, swallowed by the night. A low, guttural noise, only half human. It came again, longer this time, drawn out into a soft groan.
Catherine froze. The corridor stretched empty before her, the torches guttering. She turned her head slowly, straining to listen. The sound came again, quieter, but close.
It came from somewhere ahead.
Her heart gave a nervous flutter, though curiosity rose quick to meet it. She told herself it was probably nothing, perhaps one of the men drunk and snoring in the wrong corridor. Still, she found her feet moving forward.
The sound came again, unmistakable now. It was a muffled groan that made the fine hairs along her neck lift.
Catherine stopped at a turn in the passage, her breath shallow.
The noise came from behind a closed door at the far end.
A line of light glowed faintly beneath it, flickering gold against the stone floor.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. Logic told her to turn back. To leave whatever fool or ghost haunted this hour to his own misery. But a stubborn, reckless spark kept her rooted.
She took a step. Then another. The air grew warmer as she neared, heavy with the faint scent of wax and something metallic, almost like iron. She lifted a hand and knocked once, sharply.
No answer. She waited. The silence pressed closer.
“Is anyone there?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
Still nothing. Her heart drummed hard against her ribs. She reached for the latch. It gave easily, the door swinging inward with a soft groan of hinges.
Catherine stepped inside, her breath shallow. “Hello?”
No reply. Her eyes darted to the corners, but they were empty. The bed was unmade, a cloak thrown over a chair, a half-drained cup on the table. The groan came again, faint but clear this time, from somewhere behind her.
Catherine spun, heart hammering. “Who’s there?”
The silence that followed was louder than the sound had been. For a long moment she stood still, every sense straining. Then she heard footsteps. Not close but moving beyond the corridor.
Her pulse jumped. She turned, pulling the door open again, and slipped into the passage. The cold hit her full in the chest, but she hardly felt it. Her hands were shaking now, though whether from fear or embarrassment she couldn’t tell.
She told herself she’d imagined it. That the sound had been the wind, the wooden beams settling, some trick of the fire. The last thing she needed was to be found wandering the laird’s halls at midnight, chasing phantoms.
She drew her shawl tighter and started back the way she’d come. But before she had gone five steps, another sound broke the quiet. A soft thud. Then a whisper of movement, like cloth dragging over stone.
Catherine stopped dead, breath caught in her throat. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
The corridor seemed darker, the torches flickering weakly in their sconces. The sound came again, from behind this time. She turned, every muscle tight.
“Show yerself,” she said, though the edge of her voice trembled.
Nothing. Only the hollow echo of her own words returning.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She took a step back, then another, until her shoulder brushed the wall. The shadows stretched long before her, shifting as if they breathed.
She gathered her skirts and ran. The corridor blurred around her, the cold biting at her ankles, the sound of her footsteps a frantic rhythm against the stone. Every flicker of light felt like pursuit, every creak like something reaching after her.
Cold seized her spine. The air seemed to move behind her, faster now, almost keeping pace. She didn’t dare look back.
And just as she reached the turn toward another corridor, a soft, low whisper, close enough to feel against her ear, broke the silence.
“Catherine.”