Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The afternoon light had begun to sink low over the ridges, slanting gold across the valley as they rode back toward Achnacarry.
The air was still heavy with sea salt, the kind that clung to skin and stayed even after the wind turned colder.
Catherine rode beside him in silence, her hair unbound, the sun glinting in loose strands that caught against the curve of her neck.
Each time she shifted in the saddle, he felt it like a pull beneath his ribs—an echo of what had passed between them on the shore, the warmth of her breath, the tremor of her voice when she whispered his name as though it were a secret she had kept too long.
He should not have touched her. He knew that.
He knew it in the same way he knew that night must always give way to day, that there were some things a man could not keep, no matter how fiercely he might wish to.
And yet as they rode, the memory lived inside him like a fever, every heartbeat returning him to the rhythm of her body, the taste of her mouth, the way her hands had clung to him.
He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight, reins coiled around his gloved hand until his knuckles whitened.
She did not look at him in an obvious way, but he could feel her eyes now and again—the quiet curiosity of a woman who had begun to see past the armor he had spent years building.
He almost wished she would speak, that she would say something sharp or mocking, anything to break the silence.
But she didn’t. Perhaps she understood that words could do little against the tide of what now bound them.
The nearer they drew to the castle, the heavier the air grew.
Aidan could already see the stone towers rising from the trees, stern and gray against the late light.
Duty pressed down on him like a blade at his throat, and the letter in his coat felt heavier than any weapon he had ever carried.
He knew what it meant. Trouble. More than that—war.
And she, the woman riding beside him was the spark.
They reached the gates of Achnacarry as the sun dipped behind the hills, the light burnishing the stone towers with a faint, amber glow. The guards at the gate straightened at the sight of him.
“Laird Cameron!” one of them called, voice rough with relief. “We thought ye’d be gone till nightfall.”
Aidan gave a curt nod but didn’t slow. His gaze swept the yard—men hauling water barrels, stable boys rushing forward to take the reins, the flutter of banners. All of it felt distant, muffled beneath the pounding in his chest.
He pulled his horse to a halt in front of the steps.
The animal snorted, tossing its head, restless from the long ride.
Aidan swung down in one smooth motion, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud.
The movement jarred the ache in his muscles, a reminder of her touch, still ghosting across his skin, his pulse still unsteady from what they’d shared.
“Take him tae the stable,” he said, nodding toward his horse, his tone clipped enough to cut through the noise of the yard. “Make sure he’s fed and watered.”
The lad nodded and hurried off.
Catherine had stopped beside him, still mounted, her fingers resting lightly on the reins.
The wind lifted a strand of her hair, brushing it against her cheek.
There was a faint flush still on her skin from the ride, from the memory of the shore.
She looked down at him as if searching for some trace of what had been between them only hours before.
He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Ye should rest,” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “It’s been a long day.”
Her brows drew together. “Aidan—”
But he was already turning away, climbing the stone steps two at a time, every line of his body rigid with restraint. The guards stepped aside, murmuring something about the messenger who’d arrived earlier, but he barely heard them.
Behind him, he caught the faint sound of her dismounting, the low murmur of her voice as she spoke to one of the maids who had come running from the doorway. He did not look back. If he had, he might have gone to her again, might have said the words he had no right to say.
The hall loomed before him, dark and solemn.
As he crossed the threshold, the noise of the courtyard faded, swallowed by the stillness inside.
He stood there a moment, letting the cool air of the stone wrap around him like armor, until the last trace of warmth from her presence began to fade from his skin.
Only then did he move, his voice carrying low and steady through the space.
“Call the Council,” he said. “At once.”
The echo of his command lingered as he crossed the hall, the sound of his own footsteps ringing too loud against the stone. Servants moved quickly, vanishing through side doors, their whispers carrying like the rustle of dry leaves.
Aidan barely noticed them. The weight of the letter in his coat seemed to burn against his chest, a reminder of everything waiting to be faced.
By the time the fire was stoked and the chairs drawn around the long oak table, the men were already filing in, one after another, their voices low and expectant.
He took his place at the head, the mask of command settling over him once more.
Aidan laid the letter on the table, smoothing the crumpled parchment with a steady hand.
“From MacLeod,” he said. “Delivered earlier today.”
Gordon leaned forward. “What daes the bastard want now?”
Aidan’s voice stayed even. “He claims an alliance with Campbell. Says the king will back his claim tae Catherine MacDonald. He means tae take her by force if need be.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Someone cursed under his breath. Another muttered that this was what came of harboring MacDonald blood under a Cameron roof.
“She’s nay cause fer this,” Aidan said quietly.
“Aye, but she draws it tae us,” one of the older men replied. “The lass brings trouble, me laird. Ye ken it. MacLeod, Campbell—it’s all the same. Every man that wants her is asking fer a piece o’ what’s ours. Ye’ve risked enough fer her kind.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. He felt the heat rise in him, the instinct to strike back, to silence the man where he stood. Instead, he only said, “Mind yer words in me hall.”
The man fell silent, but the air remained thick with judgment.
They spoke of strategies, of moving the sisters south before the next assault, of writing to Tòrr MacDonald.
Aidan heard the words but scarcely listened.
His mind kept circling the same thought—that every choice he made now would tear at something he could not repair.
By the time the meeting ended, dusk had settled.
The torches along the walls burned low, their smoke curling upward into the rafters.
The men filed out one by one, leaving Aidan alone with the parchment and the echo of their warnings.
He stood there for a long while, staring at the flames, the heat biting against his palms.
He had known loss before, but nothing had ever hollowed him quite like this sense of having something precious within reach and knowing he must let it go.
He had told himself that what happened on the shore was madness, a moment born of fear and tenderness, never to be repeated. But the lie sat sour in his throat.
When at last he left the hall, he went to find the MacDonald sisters.
They were in the solar, the glow of the hearth touching their faces.
Alyson was mending a torn hem; Sofia sat beside her, braiding a cord.
Catherine stood near the window, arms folded, gaze turned toward the hills as if she could still see the sea beyond them.
When she turned, her eyes caught his, and for a moment, the rest of the room disappeared.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll nae take much o’ yer time.”
Alyson and Sofia rose immediately. The quiet in the room deepened. Aidan forced the words out evenly, each one heavier than the last.
“I’ve just come from the Council. There was a letter from MacLeod that makes it clear he’s nae finished with this.
He’s joined hands wi’ Campbell, and the king’s name is behind them both.
I cannae risk ye three here any longer. Tòrr and I agreed—if danger reached this close, ye’d be sent south tae Perth, tae the Lowlands. It’s time.”
Alyson’s sewing fell from her lap. “Ye mean fer us tae leave at once?”
“Aye. Before dawn tomorrow.”
Sofia exchanged a look with her sister. “And what o’ us? Dae we have a say in this?”
Aidan’s gaze shifted to Catherine, who hadn’t spoken, only watched him in silence, her eyes steady enough to burn straight through him.
“It’s nae a request,” he said, though the words scraped his throat raw. “I’ve written tae Tòrr already.”
No one moved. The only sound was the hiss of the fire. Catherine’s face was unreadable—too calm, too still. He wished she would rage, that she would shout at him, anything to make it easier to turn away. Instead, she only nodded once, curt and quiet.
“Then I suppose there’s little more tae say.”
He inclined his head, turned on his heel, and left before the tremor in his voice could betray him. He had made it halfway down the corridor before he heard her steps behind him.
“Aidan,” she called, and the sound of his name on her tongue nearly undid him.
He stopped but didn’t turn. “Ye should be packin’.”
“Dae ye truly mean it?” Her voice broke through the still air. “Ye’ll send me away after all that’s happened? After—”
He turned then, sharply. The corridor was dim, the light from the sconces gilding the edges of her hair. “Aye. I mean it.”
She stepped closer. “Is that what this is, then? A dismissal? Ye’d rather see me gone than risk what folk might say?”
His chest tightened. “It’s nae about what they say.”
“Then what is it about?” she demanded. “Tell me, because I cannae understand how a man can look at me the way ye dae—how he can touch me as if he’d die without it—and then speak like I’m naught but a burden.”
He closed the space between them before he could think better of it. “Ye think this is easy fer me? That I want tae watch ye ride away while I stay here tae fight off the men comin’ fer ye? Christ, Catherine—ye’ve nay notion what that daes tae me.”
Her eyes glistened, fierce and unyielding. “Then dinnae dae it.”
He almost reached for her then. His hand lifted halfway before he caught himself, fingers curling into a fist. “I have tae. If ye stay, they’ll come again, and next time I might nae be there tae stop them.”
“I dinnae need ye tae stop them.”
“Aye, ye dae,” he said, softer now. “I’ll protect ye till me last breath, but I cannae keep ye here.”
She shook her head. “I’ll nae be sent away like some pawn in yer wars.”
He stepped closer still, the heat of her body reaching him. “If I were any other man, I’d keep ye here. I’d damn the world fer it. But I’m nae just a man tae ye, Catherine—I’m the laird o’ this clan, and that means I have tae choose me people over me heart.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind outside pressed against the stone walls, low and steady. He saw the hurt in her eyes then, the same hurt he felt tearing through himself, and knew there was nothing he could say that would ease it.
She drew a breath, unsteady. “Then I hope yer people ken the price they’ll pay fer it.”
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She turned, her skirts brushing the stone as she walked away. He watched her go until the shadows swallowed her, each step echoing like a blow.
When the silence returned, he leaned back against the wall, pressing his hand over his heart as if he could still the ache there. The scent of her lingered in the corridor, faint and salt-sweet, a ghost of everything he had just lost.
He stayed there long after the torches had burned low, until the cold began to bite through his clothes.
He told himself it was the right choice—that sending her away was the only way to keep her safe—but the words rang hollow in the dark.
Every part of him knew the truth: that he had already lost her, and that the emptiness waiting for him would be worse than any wound he’d ever borne in battle.
He closed his eyes, drawing a long breath, and for a fleeting instant he let himself remember her as she had been that morning as the sunlight had touched her skin, her hand against his chest, the whisper of his name caught between their mouths.
It was a cruel mercy, that memory, burning bright enough to light the dark but never enough to warm it.
When at last he straightened, he turned toward the window at the end of the corridor.
The last of the day’s light had gone, leaving only the reflection of his own face in the glass.
He barely recognized the man staring back—a man who had chosen duty over love and would pay for it with every quiet hour that followed.