Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The kitchen was already warm when Catherine slipped inside, though the sun had barely cleared the hills.
A soft haze of flour and light hung in the air, catching in the beams that fell through the small window over the hearth.
Someone had left a pot of porridge to simmer, the scent of oats and cinnamon wrapping around her as she crossed the flagstones.
Outside, she could hear the distant clatter of hooves as the men prepared the horses for the day.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. The cooks had finished their morning work hours ago, leaving the room empty except for the quiet creak of the rafters and the occasional pop from the fire. It was peaceful.
Catherine brushed her palms over her skirts and exhaled. She’d gone there to do something for the horses before her thoughts swallowed her whole.
If she stood still for too long, she would start thinking about the night before again.
About his hands on her face, his breath against her neck, the way her knees had almost given out when he had said her name.
The memory burned behind her eyelids, vivid and unbearable.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his expression in those final seconds—the war inside him, the way he’d stepped back as if the distance were the only thing keeping them both from ruin.
She shook her head quickly, muttering under her breath. “Enough.”
The horses, she reminded herself. Treats. That was why she was here.
Her gaze landed on the row of shelves along the far wall, stacked high with jars and sacks. Somewhere up there, she knew, was the jar of oats she’d seen the day before. It was perfect to busy her hands. Something that did not involve thinking about the taste of Aidan Cameron’s mouth.
The jar sat just out of reach.
Catherine looked around for a stool and spotted one tucked by the hearth. It was old, a bit uneven at the legs, but it would do. She dragged it across the flagstones, the sound sharp in the quiet, and climbed onto it, steadying herself with one hand against the shelf.
She stretched up, fingers brushing the cool glass. Almost there.
The stool wobbled beneath her. She shifted her weight and bit her lip, willing it to stay still long enough to reach. The jar tilted toward her fingertips.
“Come on, just a little—”
“Catherine?”
The voice came from behind her, low and familiar, and so unexpected that the world seemed to jolt sideways. The stool tilted sharply.
She gasped, fingers closing around the jar just as her balance gave out. For one terrifying instant she was weightless, but then a pair of arms caught her, strong and certain, pulling her against a chest she knew far too well.
The impact stole her breath. The jar stayed miraculously intact in her hands, though she clutched it like a shield against the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, her heartbeat drumming in wild rhythm with his.
Aidan’s arm was firm around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, the effortless strength in him making her feel both small and unsteady. His plaid brushed her skirts, his scent of pine clinging to him, grounding and dizzying all at once.
She blinked up at him, her lips parted, her voice lost somewhere between shock and something she dared not name. The nearness was unbearable and his breath touched her temple when he spoke, his heartbeat steady and too close, a rhythm she felt rather than heard.
“Ye’ve a talent fer findin’ trouble,” he said quietly, his tone caught between amusement and something far more dangerous.
“I—I was just—” She looked at the jar in her hands, her voice stammering out faster than she could think. “I was reachin’— I couldnae find a ladder— it was the only way tae—”
He didn’t move. His eyes flicked briefly to the jar, then back to her face. She was still in his arms.
Catherine swallowed hard. “Ye can put me down now.”
Aidan’s gaze lingered, as if he were making sure she was unharmed. Then, slowly, he lowered her to her feet. The air between them shifted as soon as he let go, leaving her oddly unsteady.
She tried to step back, but the hem of her skirt caught against his boot. He reached instinctively to steady her again, and his hand brushed her arm. The contact sent heat straight to her chest.
“Thank ye,” she said quickly, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Fer catchin’ me. And fer nae lettin’ the jar fall, because that would’ve been a shame. I was only tryin’ tae—”
“Catherine.”
Her name, spoken like that, the sound of it sliding through the air, was enough to stop her mid-babble. She realized she was still gripping the jar as if it might save her life.
He looked at it, then at her. “Ye could have asked fer help.”
“I dinnae need help,” she said, too quickly, then winced. “Well, apparently I did, but that’s nae the point. I just—wanted tae keep busy. The horses like oats.”
His brow lifted slightly. “At dawn?”
“I woke early,” she said, clutching the jar tighter. “Couldnae sleep.”
Their eyes met then, and the words she didn’t say hung between them like smoke. He couldn’t have slept either; she could tell by the faint shadows under his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breath seemed to slow when she spoke.
Neither of them moved. The sunlight reached through the small window, catching on the glass of the jar,. It painted light across his jaw, across the scar that traced just below his ear. He had shaved that morning.
“Ye shouldnae be climbin’ things like that,” he said finally. His tone was mild, but there was a note under it, something almost protective.
“I’ll try tae remember that next time,” she said, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He took a slow breath, as if deciding whether to say more, then stepped past her toward the storage room at the back of the kitchen. She caught the faint brush of his sleeve as he moved, and it sent her pulse leaping all over again.
The memory of the previous night rose before she could stop it—the warmth of his mouth, the way he’d said her name, the trembling of her own hands as she’d felt him start to lose control.
It wasn’t just the kiss that haunted her.
It was the look in his eyes when he’d pulled away, the way he’d whispered Catherine like a man begging forgiveness.
She swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.
He had kissed her as if he couldn’t stop himself. And then he had stopped. That, somehow, had hurt worse than if he hadn’t.
Her cheeks burned. She turned toward the counter, setting the jar down carefully and pretending to focus on it. The glass slipped a little in her fingers, still slick from her nervous grip. “Right,” she muttered to herself. “Back tae work.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already moving. “Thank ye again,” she said quickly, walking toward the door so fast she nearly tripped on the edge of the rug. “Fer the catch. And the lecture.”
He called after her, but she didn’t look back.
Her heart was hammering too hard, her skin too warm. She needed air.
Outside, the morning sun had climbed higher, bright enough to make her squint. She drew in a breath of cold, sharp air and pressed her hand to her chest, half expecting to feel his heartbeat there instead of her own.
It was ridiculous, she told herself. Completely ridiculous.
The horses nickered softly from their stalls as she approached. She set the jar down and began measuring oats into a small bucket, her hands finally finding something steady to do. The rhythm helped. So did the smell of hay and warm earth.
But no matter how hard she tried to think of anything else, her mind kept circling back to the way he had looked at her in that kitchen. The warmth in his eyes. The quiet he carried with him. The restraint that somehow felt more intimate than any touch.
And somewhere inside her, something trembled again.
By evening, every time Catherine blinked, she still felt the moment his arms had closed around her, the quiet strength of them, the sound of his breath steady and close against her ear.
The image had followed her through the day like a ghost through the stables, through the courtyard, even through the few sentences she’d managed to exchange with her sisters.
She’d spent the better part of an hour scrubbing the stalls with more determination than sense, hoping the work would chase away the heat that rose in her chest whenever she remembered how he’d looked at her afterward. It hadn’t worked.
By the time supper came, her hands still smelled faintly of hay and soap, and her stomach churned with a strange mix of dread and anticipation.
The great hall was warm, the fire burning low behind the table, the smell of roasted venison curling through the air. The men were already seated when she entered, Gordon laughing at something someone had said, a few of the guards clapping one another on the shoulder as they shared a jug of ale.
And there, at the head of the table, sat Aidan. Catherine’s breath caught before she could stop it. He looked the same as always, but she couldn’t see him now without feeling that pull somewhere deep inside her.
She told herself to be sensible. To keep her distance. So she did what any sensible woman would do when faced with the man she could not stop thinking about: she found the chair farthest from him and sat in it.
It was only a few seats down from him, but it was as far as she could get. Perfect. Safe.
She was reaching for the bread when his voice carried through the hum of conversation.
“Ye’ve taken a liking tae that seat, I see.”
Catherine froze. Slowly, she looked up.
Aidan was watching her from across the length of polished oak, one eyebrow raised, his mouth curved just enough to make her wish she could throw the bread at it.
“I’ve taken a liking because it is peaceful. here,” she said evenly, tearing a piece of crust with unnecessary precision.