Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Her name hung in the dark like a curse. Catherine froze where she stood, the sound still coiling around her ear. She hadn’t imagined it. The whisper had breath in it, weight, warmth. Her pulse thrummed against her throat, sharp and uneven.
She turned slowly, her hand clutching the edge of her shawl. The corridor stretched empty, the torchlight flickering weakly over the stone. No shadow moved. No figure stepped forward. Only the echo of her own breath, too loud in the silence.
Her mouth went dry. “Who’s there?”
The quiet deepened until it pressed on her skin. She backed away one step, then another, until her hand found the latch of the nearest door. She didn’t care whose room it was. Anywhere was safer than standing in the open with that voice still whispering through her mind.
Her fingers fumbled for the handle. She pulled. The door gave an inch, and then stopped.
A hand had closed over hers. She barely had time to gasp before it caught her wrist, turning her sharply around. The movement was swift, controlled, and the next breath she drew hit solid warmth instead of cold air.
Aidan Cameron stood before her, his chest bare, the shadows of the corridor gliding over the hard planes of muscle and the dark line of a scar near his shoulder. His hair was damp, his skin glistened faintly in the torchlight, and for a heartbeat she could not think, only stare.
“L—Laird Cameron,” she stammered, before the sound of her own voice reminded her who she was. “What in God’s name—”
“What are ye daein’ in me corridor?” His tone was low, roughened by something that wasn’t anger alone. He released her wrist but did not step back. “This wing’s off limits tae guests. Ye’ve nay business here.”
“Yer corridor?” She blinked, words struggling to catch up with the reality before her. “I didnae ken the castle was divided by ownership.”
“It is when the walls hide half-dressed men who’d rather nae be surprised in the middle o’ the night.”
Her eyes flicked to his bare chest again before she could stop them. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint trace of soap and smoke. She jerked her gaze upward, lifting her chin as though defiance might cool the flush rising up her neck.
“I dinnae make a habit o’ wanderin’ where I’m nae welcome,” she said sharply. “But I heard a sound. Groaning. I thought someone was hurt.”
“Ye thought right,” he said quietly.
The admission stole the next retort from her lips. Her eyes narrowed. “Then ye were the one making that noise.”
He exhaled through his nose, something close to a grim smile crossing his face. “I’ll nae deny it.”
She hesitated, torn between indignation and something she couldn’t quite name. “Then perhaps next time ye should sound less like a ghost. I near ran meself mad tryin’ tae find where it came from.”
Aidan’s mouth curved faintly. “A ghost, was it?”
“I thought the keep haunted,” she said, crossing her arms, though her hands were still trembling.
His gaze flicked over her face, slow and measuring. “So ye were followin’ the sound.”
“Aye. Curiosity’s a curse, they say.”
“A dangerous one,” he murmured. “Especially here.”
She wanted to snap that danger never frightened her, but the almost intimate way he said it unraveled her tongue. The air between them felt too alive.
Her pulse jumped again. “And what, exactly, were ye daein’ tae make such a noise?” she asked, her tone sliding toward challenge.
He arched a brow. “Dae ye really want tae ken?”
Her chin lifted another inch. “I wouldnae ask if I didnae.”
He studied her for a long, unreadable moment, then turned without another word.
The torchlight grazed his back as he moved, and Catherine’s breath caught.
Three long gashes ran from shoulder to waist, pale against his skin but still angry and raw.
The marks had half healed, the edges darkened, as though they’d been torn open.
Catherine forgot to speak. The silence that followed was unbearable. She stepped closer before she realized it, her voice unsteady but strong enough to carry.
“When did that happen?” Her voice came out softer than she intended, too close to concern, far from the sharpness she usually wore like armor.
Aidan didn’t answer at once. He braced his hand against the wall, his head bowed as though the question itself carried weight. The firelight shuddered across his back, tracing the dark, uneven ridges of the wound. Catherine took another step forward before sense could stop her.
She reached out slowly, her fingers hovering above the deepest cut. The skin there was warm and flushed, the edges glossy where the ointment had already been spread. She hesitated, breath caught somewhere between her ribs, then she touched him.
Her fingertips barely grazed the wound, but he still flinched. The sound that left him was low, a half-swallowed groan that curled through the air like smoke.
Catherine’s stomach twisted. She pulled her hand back an inch, startled by the intimacy of the sound. “Daes it pain ye?” she asked quietly.
“Aye,” he said, after a breath. “It daes.”
The words were blunt but not angry. If anything, they sounded tired, stripped of the sharp edge she’d come to expect from him. He straightened slowly, but didn’t turn, his breath steadying before he spoke again. “It’s an old wound. A blade I should’ve dodged, years back. Never quite healed right.”
Catherine frowned. “And ye’ve done naethin’ about it since?”
“The healer did what he could. The rest… I learned tae live with.” He turned his head slightly, enough that she could see the faint curve of his jaw, the shadows cutting deep beneath his cheekbone. “The skin there’s… sensitive. The poultice helps, when I’ve sense enough tae use it.”
She could see the half-empty jar on the table, its rim smeared with salve. He must have been trying to reach the farthest wound himself when she’d heard him groan. The thought of him alone, struggling in silence rather than asking for help, struck her with an unexpected pang.
“Ye should’ve called fer someone,” she said.
“I didnae want tae wake the castle.”
Her lips tightened. “Or ye didnae want anyone tae ken ye were hurt.”
He didn’t answer that. His shoulders shifted slightly under the flickering light, a wordless admission.
She stood still, watching the slow rise and fall of his breath, the faint tremor in his arm where the muscle still tensed against the pain. Then she moved without thinking—past pride, past propriety.
“Let me,” she said.
Aidan turned then, his gaze catching hers. His eyes were dark in the half-light, unreadable. “Let ye what?”
“Help,” she said simply. “Ye cannae reach the far side. It’ll fester if ye leave it.”
He watched her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching thin. “Catherine,” he said finally, his tone quieter now. “Ye dinnae need tae trouble yerself.”
“Trouble?” She arched a brow, stepping closer. “Ye call a few minutes o’ decency trouble?”
“I call it unnecessary.”
Her temper sparked, quick and hot. “And I call it foolish pride. D’ye think yerself immortal?”
“I think I ken me limits.”
“Aye,” she said dryly. “And apparently they end where yer back begins.”
That earned her a faint, reluctant breath of laughter. “Ye’ve a sharp tongue, lass.”
She crossed her arms, standing her ground. “And ye’ve a stubborn head. A dangerous mix, if ever there was one.”
Aidan turned slightly, not enough for her to see his full face, but enough that the light caught the angle of his jaw. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without looking at her, he replied, “I can manage.”
She frowned. “Ye call that managing?”
“I’ve done worse.”
“I dinnae doubt it,” she said, her tone rising despite herself. “But ye’ll tear it open again if ye keep at it alone.”
His shoulders tensed, the muscle shifting beneath the wounded skin. “I said dinnae trouble yerself, Catherine. Go back tae yer room.”
There was no bite in the words, no anger—only a quiet authority that left no space for argument. Still, the stubbornness in her flared. “Ye think I’d stand here and watch ye ruin it further? I’ve nay desire tae clean up the mess when ye fall faint in the corridor tomorrow.”
He glanced over his shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “Ye’re bold, I’ll grant ye that.”
“I’m right,” she countered.
Aidan exhaled slowly, a sound half sigh, half surrender. “Perhaps. But still—I’ll see tae it.”
The finality in his tone silenced her. The air between them felt heavier with every breath, thick with all the words she could not say. A tremor of defiance stirred in her chest, but pride held it still. She wanted to speak, to argue, to reclaim the balance he had taken from her. But nothing came.
“As ye wish, me laird,” she said at last, her voice cooler now.
He turned then, fully this time. His gaze found hers in the wavering light, steady and unreadable. For a heartbeat she thought she saw something else in it, something that didn’t belong to command or pride, but it vanished before she could name it.
Catherine pulled her hand back from the wound, from him, from the moment that had almost become something else. The warmth left her fingers at once, replaced by the sting of chill air. She stepped away, gathering her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“Try nae tae make it worse,” she said, though the words that once again came softer than she intended.
“I’ll manage,” he repeated, his voice low.
“I’m sure ye will.” She forced a faint, sharp smile, the kind that always kept her pride intact, and turned toward the door. The latch felt cold beneath her hand.
But before she could open it, his voice stopped her. “Catherine.”
She turned slightly, her profile caught in the dim light. “Aye?”
His expression had changed again, the hint of warmth replaced by something guarded, something hard. “Ye shouldnae be on this side o’ the castle again.”
Her brow knit. “Is that an order?”
“A warning,” he said. “This wing’s meant fer me men and me. The servants dinnae come here after dark. There’s nay reason fer ye tae wander these halls.”
“I see.” Her tone was measured, even, though the edge of humiliation pressed at her chest. “And if I choose tae ignore that warning?”
He met her gaze without flinching. “Then ye’ll have me tae answer tae.”
The words hung there, quiet and heavy. She drew herself up, her chin tilting in defiance even as her pulse betrayed her. “I dinnae take kindly tae being told where I may or may nae walk, laird. But I’ll spare ye the trouble o’ scolding me again. Goodnight.”
Aidan’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing more, as she turned away. The torches along the walls burned low, their flames bent by the draft that wound through the keep. She didn’t look back, though she could feel his gaze on her like heat against her spine.
Her steps echoed softly as she walked, the sound swallowed by stone. When she reached the turn toward her own chamber, she paused, her hand resting against the wall. The silence of the hall pressed close, as though the castle itself had been listening.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
Her hands still trembled faintly. She told herself it was from anger at his arrogance, his refusal to let her help, but the lie did not sit easily.
It wasn’t anger alone that lingered. It was the sound of his voice when he’d said her name.
It was the memory of his breath catching when she’d touched him.
It was something she could neither name nor deny.
She shook her head, trying to chase the thought away. “Fool,” she whispered to herself. “Absolute fool.”
By the time she reached her own door, her heartbeat had steadied, though her mind had not. She slipped inside, the warmth of her chamber closing around her like a sigh. The fire burned low, its glow soft against the walls.
She loosened her shawl and sat at the edge of her bed, staring at her hands. They still smelled faintly of the salve, sharp and clean, stubborn as the memory it carried. She rubbed them together, hard enough to burn, but the scent would not fade.
Outside, the wind rose again, sweeping through the eaves of the castle like a warning. Catherine pulled the blanket over her lap and looked toward the fire.
She had gone to his corridor seeking the source of a sound, some restless curiosity that had driven her into the dark.
What she had found instead was something she couldn’t explain—a glimpse of the man behind the laird, the quiet ache beneath the steel.
It had unsettled her more than any ghost could.
Still, as she sat there, she couldn’t help but hear his voice again, carrying that same impossible command. Ye shouldnae be on this side o’ the castle again.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she should keep her distance. But deep down, beneath pride and sense, a quieter thought whispered back. She would go where she pleased. And if the laird thought otherwise, he would have to learn that ghosts were not the only things that wandered Achnacarry after dark.