Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The rain had not stopped for three days.
It came down in sheets that blurred the mountains and turned the courtyard to mirrors of mud and slate, each drop ringing softly against the stone like the slow beating of a drum.
The air smelled of damp pine and iron; the hearths burned day and night, but the smoke only clung heavier to the walls.
Every corridor of Achnacarry felt swollen with silence and restlessness alike, the sort of silence that frayed even the calmest temper.
Catherine had never been one for confinement.
She could bear danger better than idleness; fear sharpened her, but waiting dulled her to the bone.
By the third afternoon she had memorized every crack in the ceiling of the solar, every ripple of water trailing down the glass.
Alyson had taken to sewing, Sofia to reading prayers aloud in her soft, hesitant voice.
Catherine had taken to pacing back and forth, until even the maid had started muttering that the floorboards would give way beneath her.
By dusk she could stand it no longer.
Catherine pulled on her cloak, drew the hood close, and slipped through the side door before anyone could stop her. The air outside hit her like a blessing—cold, wet, clean. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, thin and grey, the kind that softened the edges of things rather than drowned them.
She followed the narrow stone walk that wound behind the kitchens and down toward the lower terraces. The wind tugged at her hood, threading its fingers through the loose strands of her hair, but she only laughed under her breath and tightened the knot of her cloak.
For a while she wandered beneath the dripping eaves, content simply to move. Water gathered in the folds of her skirts, heavy but not unpleasant. The stillness of the keep behind her was already fading into memory. Here, even the storm felt alive.
She rounded the corner near the orchard when a sound split the quiet—a sharp cry, half shout, half whinny.
The unmistakable panic of a horse. Another shout followed, deeper, human, then the dull thud of hooves striking wood.
Catherine froze, heart jolting. Instinct propelled her before thought could intervene.
She gathered her skirts and ran toward the stables.
The air inside was thick with the smell of hay and fear.
One of the horses was rearing, its hooves pounding against the stall boards with frantic strength.
The other animals stamped and snorted, their eyes rolling white in the dim light.
Rain blew in through the half-open door, turning the floor to slick mud.
And there he was. Aidan stood inside the largest stall, his plaid soaked through, one hand raised in futile command.
The horse before him—a tall, dark mare with a white blaze down her face—snorted and tossed her head, ears flat, muscles quivering beneath the sheen of sweat and rain. No stable boy was in sight.
“Me laird,” Catherine said, breathless as she stepped through the doorway. “What’s happened?”
He turned sharply at the sound of her voice. “Ye shouldnae be out in this.” The words were half a growl, half a warning, but behind them was an unguarded flash of relief, quickly hidden. “The beast spooked. I sent the lads away before someone got trampled.”
Catherine’s gaze darted from him to the mare, who struck the ground again with her foreleg, sides heaving. “What frightened her?”
“Thunder, likely. Or her own shadow.” He tried to move nearer, speaking low, steady, but the mare reared again, eyes wild.
Aidan held his ground, though she could see the muscle jump in his jaw.
“She gets like this when the storms come. Has a mind o’ her own.
I can never calm her, nae even on good days. ”
The wind rattled the shutters, and the mare snorted harder, throwing her head as if to break the halter. Catherine stepped forward, the hem of her cloak brushing the straw. “And yet ye stand here still.”
He shot her a glance, the kind that could have cut stone. “Aye. She’d hurt herself if I didnae. But dinnae come closer. She’s half mad wi’ fear.”
Catherine ignored him. “What’s her name?”
“She daesnae have one.”
That stopped her. “Daesnae have—? Ye keep a creature like this and never name her?”
“She bit the last man who tried badly.” His tone was dry, strained. “I thought it safer tae leave her be.”
Catherine shook her head, her hood slipping back as she studied the trembling animal. “All beings should have a name, even the untamed.” She took another slow step forward.
“Catherine,” he warned. “Stay back. I mean it.”
But she was already moving, her hand raised slightly, her voice soft. “Easy now, lass. Ye’re nae alone.” The mare’s ears flicked toward her. “Aye, that’s it. Beautiful thing, ye are. Nay one’s goin’ tae hurt ye.”
The horse tossed its head again, but its eyes softened, the wildness dimming into wary attention.
Catherine moved carefully, her boots sinking into the damp straw.
She could feel Aidan’s stare burning into her, but she didn’t look his way.
Her world had narrowed to the sound of the mare’s breathing, the tremor of her flanks, the faint shimmer of fear that hung in the air between them.
“Catherine,” he said again, lower this time, as if afraid to break whatever spell was forming. “She’ll strike.”
“She willnae.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “She’s just frightened. Ye can see it in her eyes.”
“Frightened things hit hardest.”
She smiled faintly, though her heart hammered. “So dae proud men, I’ve noticed.”
That earned half a sigh from him, but he did not move closer. Rain hissed against the roof. The mare’s breath came harsh and uneven, yet when Catherine reached the edge of the stall, she did not rear again. Her nostrils flared, her gaze fixed on Catherine’s outstretched hand.
“There now,” Catherine murmured. “Ye’ve been alone too long, havenae ye?
” She inched forward until her fingers brushed the damp velvet of the mare’s muzzle.
The animal shuddered once, as if uncertain whether to flee or lean closer.
Catherine’s palm steadied, her touch light but sure. “Shh. It’s all right.”
Aidan stared, unmoving. The same horse that had nearly kicked through the wall minutes before now stood trembling but still, her breath hot against Catherine’s wrist. The mare blinked once, then lowered her head.
Catherine ran her hand along the smooth line of her neck, speaking softly, nonsense words threaded with calm.
“There,” she whispered. “See? Naethin’ tae fear.”
The stall fell silent except for the rhythm of the rain.
Catherine turned her head slightly, meeting Aidan’s gaze over the curve of the horse’s shoulder.
The look on his face stopped her breath.
It wasn’t surprise alone—it was something deeper, rawer.
He looked as though the ground had shifted beneath him and he was not sure yet where to stand.
“How—” he began, but the word broke, uncharacteristically unsteady. He tried again. “How did ye dae that?”
Catherine blinked at him, still stroking the mare’s neck. The animal’s breath came slow now, warm and damp against her palm, as if it had forgotten the storm altogether. “I dinnae ken,” she said softly. “I’ve always been able tae. Since I was a child.”
Aidan’s brow furrowed. “Always?”
She nodded, a small smile flickering over her lips. “Aye. I used tae sneak away from me tutors and sit in the stables back home. Me faither said I had the stubbornness of a stallion meself, so perhaps they recognized one of their own.”
Aidan’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes remained fixed on her. “And ye can calm any o’ them? Just like that?”
Catherine’s smile turned wistful. “Nae, nae all. But most. Some creatures listen better than people. They dinnae demand explanations—they only need patience. A gentle hand. And a bit o’ pride, I suppose.”
He tilted his head, watching her with that same unreadable expression. “And yer family? What dae they make o’ it?”
Her fingers stilled for a heartbeat. “They think it’s nonsense,” she said finally.
“A jest. Alyson says I only flatter beasts because I cannae flatter men. Michael laughs. Tòrr says I’ve too soft a heart.
” She glanced up, her voice quiet but steady.
“They forget softness daesnae mean weakness. Sometimes it means ye simply refuse tae give up.”
Something in Aidan’s face shifted, subtle as a shadow passing across the light. “They’re wrong,” he said. “What ye did just now—it’s nae nonsense. I’ve seen seasoned riders try and fail tae calm that mare. Ye stepped in like ye were born tae it.”
Catherine looked away before the warmth rising to her cheeks could betray her. “I only listened. Perhaps that’s what she needed.”
“Perhaps that’s what most o’ us need,” he murmured.
Catherine felt the flutter of something in her chest, a delicate tremor. She let her hand drift once more along the mare’s neck, grounding herself in the rhythm of the creature’s breath.
“Well,” she said at last, forcing lightness into her tone, “since ye’ve witnessed me miracle, ye must dae yer part now.”
Aidan’s brow arched. “And what part would that be?”
“She cannae go on nameless. Find her one.”
He hesitated, then huffed a laugh. “I dinnae ken if I’ve the imagination fer it.”
“Then try,” she said, her eyes glinting. “Even a laird can stretch his mind when commanded.”
He gave her a long look, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Ye’ve a dangerous tongue, Lady Catherine.”
“So I’ve been told.” She turned back toward the door, gathering her damp cloak around her shoulders. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve done enough fer one day. I’ll leave ye tae think on names while I return tae me chamber.”