Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The wind that swept down from the northern hills carried the stench of iron and smoke.
To most, it smelled of war. To Edwin MacLeod, it smelled like triumph waiting to be taken.
He stood at the edge of the camp, boots sunk into the black mud, watching the fires burn low across the valley.
Men moved like shadows between the tents, Campbell men and his own, gathering steel, tightening straps, sharpening blades until the air itself hummed with the promise of blood.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
It had taken months of whispers, coin, and cunning to get them there, but at last the pieces had fallen into place.
The men thought him a man wronged, an heir cheated of his bride, a noble robbed of his due by Cameron’s arrogance.
And why shouldn’t they? He had written his tale well, every word laced with half-truths and grief. Even the king had pitied him.
He reached into his coat and drew out the letter.
The seal of the English king glimmered faintly in the firelight, red wax catching the gold.
His fingers traced it with something close to reverence.
“By royal decree,” it read, “the betrothal between Edwin MacLeod and Lady Catherine MacDonald is hereby recognized and upheld under English law.”
He folded it again, tucking it back against his chest as if it were scripture. She would have to obey.
A sound behind him broke his reverie—footsteps in the mud, the jingle of chainmail. He didn’t turn until he heard the voice.
“Ye’re enjoyin’ the view?”
Laird Campbell fell into step at his shoulder, broad and grim, the shadow of his hood cutting his face in half. There was a hunger in the man’s grin, the sort that liked steel and the smell of horses. “Fine sight, is it nae? Men ready, banners up, blades glintin’. Good day fer takin’ what’s yers.”
Edwin’s smile widened. “Aye, it is.”
Campbell chuckled, a low, cruel sound. “Ye think Cameron’ll hand the lass over wi’out a fight?”
“He will if he values his walls,” Edwin said. His tone was calm, confident. Inside, he burned. “He took what was mine. He kens I’ll have her back—or I’ll burn his castle tae the ground around her.”
Campbell spat into the dirt. “I hope ye’re right. I’ve nay fondness fer Cameron or his kind.”
Edwin glanced sideways at him, studying the man’s profile. Campbell was useful, that was all. A blunt instrument. The kind that didn’t ask too many questions so long as there was gold at the end of it. Let him have his war; Edwin had other prizes in mind.
The image of Catherine’s face, pale in the torchlight of Achnacarry, her mouth set in defiance even as her eyes had betrayed her fear, rose unbidden.
He had seen that fear before. It had thrilled him then; it thrilled him still.
She could fight all she liked, deny what she owed him, but in the end she would understand. She belonged to him.
“She’ll come quietly,” he said, almost to himself. “Once she sees the truth.”
Campbell gave a harsh laugh. “Aye? Women like that never come quietly.”
Edwin’s smile didn’t falter. “They all dae, given time.”
The laird’s laughter died off. He looked at Edwin sidelong, perhaps catching a glimpse of something colder than ambition in his eyes.
Beyond them, the first light of dawn began to spread thinly across the sky, pale and brittle. The camp stirred to life—the sound of men shouting orders, the clang of steel, the groan of wagons being loaded. A flock of crows took flight from the trees, their cries cutting through the stillness.
Edwin straightened his coat, the wind snapping the edge of his cloak. “Ready the men,” he said. “We ride within the hour.”
Campbell grunted his assent and turned away to bark orders.
Edwin watched the horizon a moment longer, his thoughts drifting north—to Achnacarry, to the woman who had defied him, to the fire that would soon rise from Cameron’s lands.
“Ye’ll see,” he murmured under his breath. “Ye’ll see what it costs tae deny me.”
The wind caught the words and carried them off, scattering them like ash across the morning.
Night had fallen heavy over Achnacarry, wrapping the castle in stillness.
The corridors were dark but for the low burn of the torches, their light flickering along the stone like restless ghosts.
In his office, the air was thick with smoke and silence.
Aidan sat behind the desk, a half-empty bottle before him, the faint burn of whisky already tracing a slow path down his throat.
He wasn’t drunk. It took more than that to numb a man like him.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing unsteady light across the maps spread out before him.
He’d been staring at them for hours without seeing a single line.
His mind kept straying elsewhere—to the road that wound south toward Perth, to the small group of riders that would be halfway through the glen by then, to the woman who had turned once in the saddle before vanishing from sight.
He could still see her hair catching the light, the way she’d lifted her chin, proud even in leaving. That look would haunt him more than any battlefield ever could.
A knock came at the door.
“Come,” Aidan said, his voice rough.
The door creaked open, and Gordon stepped inside. The man’s face was half in shadow, his expression unreadable. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the frame, arms crossed.
“So this is how ye mean tae spend yer nights now?” he said.
Aidan gave a short, humorless laugh. “If I had the time tae waste, aye, maybe. But there’s nay such thing as peace long enough fer a man tae drink himself quiet.”
Gordon’s gaze flicked to the bottle, then to Aidan’s face. “Ye call that quiet?”
Aidan leaned back in his chair, the light catching on the edge of his jaw. “It’s quieter than thinkin’.”
Gordon said nothing for a moment, then crossed the room and poured himself a drink from the same bottle, the amber liquid sloshing softly into the glass. “The men say ye’ve barely spoken a word since the Council. Is that true?”
Aidan’s mouth tightened. “Since when dae I answer tae gossip?”
Gordon sat across from him, the chair creaking under his weight. “Since it stopped bein’ gossip. Ye’ve a war brewin’, Aidan. And ye’re here starin’ at maps ye dinnae need tae read.”
Aidan’s eyes drifted to the fire. “I ken what I’m lookin’ at.”
“Dae ye?” Gordon’s tone softened, though his gaze stayed sharp. “Because from where I stand, it looks like ye’re seein’ ghosts instead o’ strategy.”
Aidan didn’t answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hiss of the fire. Finally, he reached for the bottle again and refilled his glass. “If ghosts are what’s left tae lead me, then so be it.”
Gordon studied him quietly. “Ye’ve sent her away, Aidan. Ye’ve done what ye thought was right. But ye cannae fight the battle comin’ with half yer heart buried on that road.”
Aidan’s jaw flexed. “I did what needed tae be done.”
“And what about what ye wanted?”
Aidan looked up sharply, meeting his friend’s gaze. “What I wanted,” he said, his voice low, “daesnae matter.”
The words came out harder than he meant, but there was no taking them back. He tipped the glass to his lips again, the whisky biting clean and hot.
“Ye should talk tae Tòrr,” Gordon said after a moment. “He’ll want tae ken what happened.”
“I will,” Aidan said.
“When?”
“When he gets here.”
Gordon frowned. “He’s comin’ here?”
“Aye,” Aidan said, setting the glass down. “He left two days ago wi’ a band o’ his men. Should reach the glen by dawn tomorrow. Said he had word o’ movements near the border. MacLeod’s likely stirrin’ again.”
Gordon exhaled slowly. “Then it begins.”
Aidan nodded. “It always daes.”
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The fire had burned low, the room bathed in a dim, amber glow. Gordon finished his drink and rose, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink.
“Try tae get some sleep,” he said, though his tone made it sound more like a command than advice.
Aidan gave a small, dry smile. “I’ll sleep when the noise outside stops.”
Gordon studied him for a moment longer, then nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
The silence returned, heavier than before. Aidan sat there, staring at the flames until his eyes blurred. The maps before him blurred too, all lines and borders fading into the same meaningless scrawl. He could no longer tell one from another.
He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his hand. The firelight caught the ring on his finger—the crest of his clan—and he turned it once, as though the motion could steady him.
He thought of her again. Of the sound of her voice, soft and unguarded when she’d said his name. Of the warmth of her skin beneath his hand. Of the way she had looked at him when he had told her she had to go, so heartbreakingly calm, as if she had already known he’d choose duty over her.
He had never hated himself more.
He tipped his head back, closing his eyes. The quiet roared around him. He had sent her away to keep her safe, and yet every mile she rode felt like a piece of him stripped away.
Somewhere beyond the walls, a gust of wind passed through the courtyard, making the torches flicker. It sounded almost like a whisper—her whisper.
Aidan opened his eyes. For a moment, he could almost see her standing there again, framed by firelight, looking at him like she saw everything he tried to hide.
He reached for the glass again but stopped halfway. His hand lingered in the air, trembling slightly before curling into a fist.
He didn’t drink. Instead, he sat there and listened to the fire crackle and the wind move through the stones, and he let himself feel the ache, the longing, the quiet ruin of what he’d chosen.