Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Morning crept into the room like a hesitant guest. Pale light slid between the curtains, settling over the embers in the hearth, the folds of Catherine’s gown draped over the chair, the loose strands of hair that clung to her cheek.
She had not slept. Her body had rested, perhaps, but her mind had not known peace since she’d left his corridor.
She lay on her side, staring at the faint shimmer of dawn along the window’s edge. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw it again—the glow of the fire against his skin, the slow turn of his head when she’d spoken his name, the weight of his warning. She could still hear his voice, low and rough.
Then ye’ll have me tae answer tae.
Catherine pulled the blanket higher, pressing her face into the pillow, as if she could bury the memory beneath the linen.
She was foolish to think of him at all. But something in her had shifted the night before, quiet and deep, like the movement of water beneath ice.
She could not name it, but she felt it in her chest with every breath.
A knock at the door startled her. She sat up quickly, tugging her shawl around her shoulders.
“Come in,” she called, her voice rasping from disuse.
The door opened to reveal Marian, her maid, carrying a small tray with a steaming basin and folded linen. “Good mornin’, milady,” the girl said, setting the tray down by the washstand. “Ye’re awake early.”
Catherine managed a faint smile. “Aye. Couldnae sleep.”
Marian turned, taking in her pale face, the tired smudge beneath her eyes. “Is somethin’ troublin’ ye?”
Catherine hesitated. She could lie, say she’d slept poorly, that the wind had kept her up, but Marian’s gaze was too steady, too kind. The girl had a way of seeing past pretense, quiet and knowing.
“Only a surprise,” Catherine said finally. “I… met the laird last night.”
Marian froze halfway through wringing out a cloth. “The laird?”
“Aye.” Catherine tried to sound casual, as though it were nothing at all. “I’d wandered further than I meant tae. Heard a noise and thought someone hurt. Turned out it was him.”
Marian’s brows shot up. “In the men’s wing?”
Catherine’s cheeks warmed. “I didnae ken it was forbidden. I got turned around.”
The maid bit back a smile, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Och, it is, me lady. The laird’s temper is well enough kent that most folk keep tae their own halls after dark. What did he say tae ye?”
Catherine’s mouth twisted. “He was… vexed.”
“I can imagine,” Marian said, her tone careful. “He’s a strict man.”
“Strict?” The word tasted strange on her tongue. “Ye think him strict?”
Marian looked at her, puzzled. “Aye. He’s cold as the sea in winter, they say. Distant. Even his men keep a space when he walks by. He rules wi’ a sharp word and a colder stare.”
Catherine blinked, stunned by the certainty in her tone. Cold? The man she’d seen last night had been anything but cold. His eyes had burned when he’d spoken, his breath had trembled against her hand, his voice had carried heat even when he’d whispered warnings.
She must have looked too surprised, because Marian tilted her head. “Did he nae seem that way tae ye?”
“I—” Catherine caught herself, straightening her back. “Perhaps I misread him. I’ve scarce kent him long enough tae tell.”
But even as she said it, her mind rebelled.
The Aidan Cameron she knew—or thought she did—was a man of sharp control, aye, but not of frost. There had been warmth in him, though buried deep.
A flicker, quick and dangerous, that surfaced only when he forgot himself.
Cold men did not look at a woman as he had looked at her.
Cold men did not bleed warmth through silence.
Marian, mistaking her quiet for unease, went on. “He’s fair, though. I’ll grant him that. But there’s nay tenderness in him. Some say he’s that way because o’ the war. Others… because he’s lost somethin’ he cannae replace.”
Catherine frowned. “Lost somethin’?”
The maid shrugged, dipping the cloth into the basin. “A woman, maybe. There’s always talk, though none can prove a word. He’s kept tae himself since before I came tae Achnacarry. The only stories that linger are o’ his youth, and they’re all the same.”
Catherine arched a brow. “And what sort o’ stories are those?”
Marian hesitated, as if deciding whether to speak. “O’ a man who once smiled too easily. Who drank, fought, and chased skirts like the rest o’ them.”
The words landed heavier than Catherine expected. “Ye mean tae say the laird was a rake.”
Marian blushed, busying herself with the cloth. “Aye, me lady. Before he took his father’s place. They say the women o’ Lochaber wept when he swore himself tae duty.”
Catherine sat very still, her heart thudding a little too loud.
Aidan Cameron—a rake. The image didn’t fit.
The man she’d met was all discipline and distance, the kind who measured every breath.
Yet something in her remembered the faint curve of his mouth when he’d teased her, the glint in his eyes when she’d dared him to answer her temper with his own. Perhaps the stories weren’t lies.
“I see,” she said at last, her voice too even to be natural. “Thank ye fer tellin’ me.”
Marian hesitated. “Ye’re sure ye’re all right, me lady?”
Catherine forced a smile. “Perfectly. Just… tired.”
The maid nodded, unconvinced, and went back to her work. The room filled with small sounds—the drip of water from the cloth, the soft crackle of fire. Catherine rose and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside.
The morning outside was grey and wet. Mist hung low over the glen, softening the sharp line of the pines. She could see the courtyard from there, the men already gathering for their drills, their swords glinting faintly through the fog. Somewhere among them, Aidan would be moving,
The thought made her pulse quicken. She hated that it did.
A rake. The word pricked at her pride. She didn’t know why it stung so sharply, but it did. Perhaps because it made her feel na?ve. Foolish, for thinking she’d glimpsed something rare behind his silence.
But he daesnae look at others like that.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass with wide eyes, pale cheeks, the faintest shadow of exhaustion beneath them.
Ye’ve gone soft, Catherine, she told herself. One word from him and ye’ve fergotten every sense ye ever had.
Behind her, Marian cleared her throat softly. “Would ye like me tae bring breakfast up, me lady? Ye dinnae look as if ye’d fancy the hall this mornin’.”
Catherine let the curtain fall, her composure snapping back into place. “Aye, bring it here. I’ve nay desire tae be stared at while I eat.”
“As ye wish.”
When Marian left, the room felt larger, emptier. Catherine stood for a long moment before the hearth, her mind circling the same thoughts again and again. She tried to summon anger at his arrogance, at his order that she stay away from his wing, but what came instead was confusion.
He had not looked at her with coldness. He had looked at her like a man at war with himself. And perhaps she was at war too, caught between wanting to forget and wanting to know more.
She sat by the fire and pressed her palms together, willing the heat to settle her. Her hands still carried the faint scent of herbs from the salve, stubborn as memory.
A rake. The word would not leave her.
It brought back memories of how her brothers had spoken of him once, before the war. Aidan Cameron—loud in the taverns, quick with his laughter, a man who could turn any gathering into chaos. The man who had looked at her last night was someone else entirely.
Something had changed him. She could see it now in the way his gaze never lingered, the way he hid his pain behind precision. Whatever he’d been before, it was buried deep.
She shouldn’t care. She told herself that again and again. But care had crept into her thoughts slowly, like ivy through stone, and now it was impossible to pull free.
The door opened again, Marian returning with a small tray of bread, fruit, and tea. She set it down and lingered a moment, twisting her apron between her fingers. “If ye’ll forgive me sayin’ so, me lady,” she said, “ye dinnae seem yerself today.”
Catherine arched a brow. “And what would ye ken o’ meself, Marian?”
The maid smiled faintly. “Enough tae see when somethin’s shifted.”
Catherine huffed out a laugh, though it held no real amusement. “Shifted? Nay. Just restless, I suppose. Too much time spent thinkin’ o’ ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
She reached for her cup of tea, letting the steam brush her face. “Aye. The kind that haunt castles.”
Marian blinked, then laughed softly. “Ye’ve a poet’s tongue, me lady.”
“Never thought o’ meself as such,” Catherine said, taking a sip.
She could still feel the ghost of his warmth where her hand had touched his back, the faint tremor in his voice when he’d told her to go.
Something cold and tender wound through Catherine’s chest. She didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. The image of him as a rake blurred at the edges. In its place rose another: a man scarred by something deeper than pride.
“Thank ye, Marian,” she said softly.
The maid nodded. “Will ye be wantin’ anythin’ else?”
“Please just tell me sisters I didnae rest well, so I will be joinin’ them a bit later.”
When the door shut again, the silence returned, but it felt different now. Heavier.
Cold, Marian had said. Distant. But Catherine had felt the opposite. She’d seen the crack in his armor, the ache beneath the command. And maybe that was worse, because now she could not pretend she hadn’t.
“Cold,” she whispered, the word soft and scornful. “If only.”
The wind caught the edge of the curtain, fluttering it like a sigh. She straightened her shoulders and forced the heat in her chest into something steadier. Whatever he’d been—rake, soldier, ghost—it was no concern of hers.
Or so she told herself, even as she turned her gaze back to the courtyard, searching for a glimpse of him in the mist.