Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first sound that morning was the horn.
Low, distant, and wrong. It rolled through the fog like thunder, dragging Aidan from his bed before dawn had even broken. The tavern was still dark, the embers in the hearth cold. He sat there on the edge of the narrow bed, listening. Then the sound came again.
He was on his feet before thought could catch up.
Outside his window, the sky was just beginning to pale, a cold gray light bleeding over the hills.
The village was waking in fits and starts—boots on mud, voices rising, the thud of doors thrown open.
He grabbed his sword belt from the chair, fastened the buckle with a practiced jerk, and was down the stairs before his men could knock.
Bruce was already in the common room, half-dressed, when Aidan descended. “A rider’s come from the keep,” he said, breath clouding in the chill. “Says it’s urgent.”
Aidan’s pulse steadied to a cold rhythm. “Where is he?”
“Outside.”
The moment Aidan stepped into the morning air, the rider dismounted and dropped to one knee.
His plaid was soaked, his face streaked with wind and travel.
“Fergive me, laird,” he said, breathless.
“Message from the Council at Achnacarry. It’s the MacKinnons.
They’ve sent word that Bruce’s clan has been attacked.
Three farms burned, one captured. They’re askin’ fer help. ”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “When?”
“Last night, before the storm cleared. Word reached us through Glenfinnan.”
Bruce swore under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. His clan under siege while he slept under another man’s roof.
Aidan felt the tension snap into command. “Mount up. We ride fer the castle at once.”
He turned to the rider. “Wake Gordon. Tell him tae prepare. And send two riders ahead tae the gate. The rest o’ the men stay here and protect the MacDonald lasses.”
The messenger nodded and ran. Bruce followed him toward the stables. Aidan paused, glancing east where the horizon was breaking open, streaked red through the fog. The color bled across the clouds like blood through water.
It was going to be a long day.
By the time they reached Achnacarry, the sun had fully risen.
The keep loomed through the morning haze, its walls slick with dew, the air thick with the smell of peat smoke and damp stone.
The horns had gone silent, replaced by the steady noise of preparation.
Men shouted orders across the yard, boots thudding over the drawbridge as supply carts rolled in.
Aidan dismounted before the horse had stopped moving. His stride carried him through the courtyard and up the steps two at a time. The great hall was already half-filled when he entered, the Council gathered around the long table.
Gordon looked up from the parchment in his hands. “We’ve confirmed the reports, me laird. The attacks came from the west.”
Aidan’s eyes cut to Bruce. “Dae ye ken who’d risk this?”
Bruce’s face was pale but steady. “If it’s Loch Duin, then it’s retribution. Me faither drove them off that land years ago. But they’ve been waitin’ fer a chance tae strike back.”
“They picked a coward’s way tae dae it,” Aidan said darkly. “Hittin’ farmers instead o’ fightin’ men.”
“Aye,” Gordon said. “But the damage is done. The MacKinnon lines are stretched thin, and if they dinnae get help, they’ll break.”
Aidan took the message from the table, scanning the cramped ink. The words were rushed, written in the hand of a man who’d seen blood that day. He didn’t need to read more than a few lines to know what had to be done.
He looked up. “We’ll send a band tae reinforce them. Fifty men, well-armed. Bruce, ye’ll go wi’ them. Ye ken the land better than any o’ us.”
Bruce’s head snapped up. “Me laird, if ye’ll allow—”
“I’m nae askin’,” Aidan cut in. “Ye’re still under me command, aye, but those are yer people. Ye’ll lead the relief and make sure the raids stop.”
Bruce said nothing. Then he nodded, shoulders squaring. “Aye, me laird. I’ll go.”
“Good,” Aidan said. “Gordon, choose the men yerself. I want them mounted and ready before the next bell. They’ll take the east road through Glen Loy—it’s slower, but safer. The rain’s still softenin’ the ridges.”
The men began to move, chairs scraping, boots echoing across the hall. But Aidan didn’t sit. He stayed standing at the head of the table, hands braced on the rough oak, gaze fixed on the fire.
It had been weeks since any true quiet had touched the Highlands. The rain had stopped, but the air still carried its heaviness. He could feel it even now, pressing against his skull.
And through it all, one thought threaded through the rest: Catherine. She was still in the village.
He’d left her there only hours ago. He’d told himself it would be safer that way. That the village was well-guarded, that the danger lay elsewhere. But the part of him that still felt the heat of her voice didn’t believe it.
Duty, he told himself again. Focus on that.
He straightened, forcing the tension from his shoulders. “See that they’re provisioned,” he said to Gordon, voice clipped. “And have the messenger fed and rested before he rides back tae Glenfinnan.”
“Aye, me laird,” Gordon said.
Aidan turned toward the doors, intent on checking the yard before departure—but then, faint and out of place, came another horn. This one was closer.
He froze, head snapping toward the sound. The hall fell silent. Then, another blast, louder this time.
Then the cry from the watchtower—“Riders at the gate!”
Aidan’s hand went to his sword as he strode toward the courtyard. “Open the postern only,” he ordered. “I want eyes on them before they’re allowed through.”
The guards swung the smaller gate wide enough for view but not passage. The morning mist parted, revealing a line of riders at the base of the hill—five, maybe six, cloaked in dark tartan. At their head rode Edwin MacLeod.
Aidan’s pulse went still. The man’s smirk was visible even at distance. He sat tall in the saddle, arrogance draped over him like armor, his men fanned out behind him with deliberate ease.
Aidan stepped forward until the iron bars of the gate caught the light between them. “What in God’s name are ye daein’ on me lands, MacLeod?”
Edwin reined his horse closer, just enough that the steam from its nostrils curled through the bars. “A pleasure tae see ye too, Cameron. I’d hoped tae find ye home.”
“State yer purpose and be quick.”
Edwin’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “I think ye ken me purpose.”
Aidan’s jaw hardened. “If ye’re here tae talk o’ alliances, speak tae me Council.”
“I’m nae here fer alliances.” His voice dropped. “I’m here fer Lady Catherine.”
The words hung like frost between them.
Aidan’s hand tightened on the hilt at his side. “She’s made her answer plain enough.”
Edwin’s eyes glittered, catching the morning light. “Aye, she said nay. But she’s stubborn. A woman’s mind changes when she’s reminded what’s good fer her.”
Aidan took a step closer, his voice dropping to steel. “Ye’ll watch yer tongue.”
“I’d rather watch her come home.”
“Ye’re mistaken if ye think she’s goin’ anywhere wi’ ye.”
Edwin tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “And ye’re mistaken if ye think I came unprepared tae change that.”
Aidan’s tone sharpened. “Ye’ve two breaths tae explain yerself before I have me men drive ye off me land.”
“Drive us off?” Edwin laughed softly. “Och, I thought ye might say that, which is why I prepared.” He leaned forward in the saddle, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, me laird—dae ye ken what happens when wet wood finally catches flame?”
Aidan frowned. “What are ye talkin’ about?”
“It burns slower,” Edwin said, his grin widening, “but it makes more smoke.”
Aidan’s blood ran cold. The meaning struck him before the smell did—the faint acrid sting of burning peat carried on the wind. He turned sharply toward the east. Beyond the rise, in the direction of the village, a column of gray smoke was unfurling against the pale sky.
The sound that tore through Aidan’s chest wasn’t human. He was already shouting orders before the guards had time to breathe. “Sound the horn! Bruce, tae me! Mount the riders—now!”
Panic rippled through the yard as men scrambled to obey. Gordon appeared at his side, half-dressed, sword in hand. “What is it?”
“The village,” Aidan snapped. “It’s burnin’.”
He turned back, but Edwin was already wheeling his horse. The bastard’s smirk lingered even as he rode away, his laughter faint over the pounding of hooves.
Aidan’s vision narrowed. The world reduced itself to heat, smoke, and the image of her face. He didn’t think. He only moved. By the time his horse was brought around, the men were ready. Fifty strong, armor hastily strapped, eyes wide with alarm.
“Ride,” Aidan said.
He spurred his horse down the slope, the thunder of hooves splitting the morning air. The gates of Achnacarry opened wide, the banner snapping in the wind. The cold air cut at his face as they tore across the field, smoke thickening ahead.
He could smell it now—burned thatch, scorched timber, the sickening scent of ruin. Every stride carried him closer to it, to the thought he couldn’t bear to voice.
Catherine.
Please, God—let her be alive.
Wind tore at Aidan’s cloak as his horse thundered through the wet grass, the scent of fire clawing its way into his lungs.
The village was still half a mile off, the smoke curling thick above the trees like a signal from hell itself.
Behind him, the pounding of hooves came like a heartbeat—his men, close, steady, ready.
Then he heard shouts from the rear gate.
He twisted in the saddle just in time to see it: flame erupting at the walls of Achnacarry.
“Fire!” Gordon’s voice carried from behind.