Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The clang of steel rang across the courtyard, sharp and unrelenting.
It cut through the morning fog, echoing off the stone walls of Achnacarry like the sound of war already begun.
Aidan stood at the edge of the training grounds, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the men before him.
Sweat and breath rose in the cold air, the steady rhythm of blades striking, shields locking, boots grinding through dirt.
It should have steadied him. It usually did. But today, even the sight of order could not quiet the disquiet that lived in him.
He had been awake since before dawn, long before the first horn had sounded to summon the men.
He’d walked the walls in the half-light, watching the mist burn off the valley, feeling the weight of what was coming settle deeper on his shoulders.
The world was moving toward fire again, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Only brace for it, and pray his people did the same.
“Move faster on the pivot,” he said, his voice carrying across the grounds. “If ye hesitate, ye’re dead before ye swing. Again.”
The men obeyed, the rhythm quickening. Aidan’s sharp eye caught every flaw, every moment of hesitation. He barked corrections, calm but cutting, the kind of authority that left no room for argument. Around him, the captains watched in silence, waiting for his word.
Gordon stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on the men. “They’re better than they were,” he said.
“They’ll need tae be,” Aidan replied. His gaze didn’t move from the field.
“We’ve already called fer the evacuation o’ the villages near the border.
The women and children left before sunrise.
Once the scouts return, I want a watch stationed in the northern wood.
If MacLeod means tae move, he’ll dae it through the valleys. ”
“Aye,” Gordon said. “And if he’s marchin’ with Campbell, they’ll bring more than a handful.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “Let them. The ground’s ours. They’ll bleed before they cross it.”
The conversation went on in short, efficient bursts on defensive lines, supply routes, scouting positions.
He gave orders easily, his voice steady, his expression carved from stone.
But under it all, beneath every measured word, his mind kept drifting.
Every time the wind shifted, he thought he could hear hooves—her horse’s hooves—returning through the mist.
He pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t afford it.
“Me laird!”
The shout came from the gate. A young guard broke from his post, breathless. “There’s a rider comin’ from the south!”
Every sound in the courtyard seemed to fall away. The clang of steel, the bark of orders—all of it dulled under the sudden, ringing pulse in Aidan’s ears. He turned sharply. “Who is it?”
“Cannae say, me laird. But they’re ridin’ fast.”
Aidan was already moving. His stride lengthened, purposeful, cutting through the men who stepped back as he passed. Gordon called after him, but he didn’t slow. The sound of hooves grew louder, and something in him knew before he saw her.
He reached the gates just as the rider burst through the mist. The horse came to a halt in a spray of mud and breath, its flanks streaked with sweat, its coat shining dark beneath the gray sky. And atop her—cloak thrown back, hair whipped loose, cheeks flushed with cold—was Catherine.
For a moment, Aidan could do nothing but stare. The breath left him as if he’d taken a blow.
“Christ,” Gordon muttered somewhere behind him, but Aidan barely heard.
The world had gone still. The only sound left was the dull thunder of his own heartbeat.
She burst through the gate in a spray of earth and breath, pulling the mare to a stop so hard the beast reared and snorted, steam rising from its flanks. She stood there motionless, framed by the gray morning light, the wildness of her hair catching the wind.
It hit him like a blade to the chest.
Catherine swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the mud. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes burning bright with something fierce and alive. She looked straight at him, unflinching, as if the miles between them had never been real.
Aidan couldn’t breathe. His throat closed around her name.
“What are ye daein’?” The words came out rough, uneven. He took a step toward her before he realized it, every instinct in him torn between fury and disbelief, between the urge to pull her close and the need to keep her safe.
Her chin lifted. “What I should’ve done from the start,” she said. “Be here.”
The steady sound of her voice hit him harder than any weapon.
Aidan’s heart twisted. Relief came first, sharp and staggering, followed too quickly by the ache he’d carried since the moment she’d ridden away.
He had spent hours convincing himself she was gone for her own good, that he’d done right by sending her from him.
And now she stood before him, alive, stubborn as ever, undoing every bit of sense he had left.
“Ye shouldnae have come back,” he said at last, his voice low, almost broken, the steel in it barely holding. “Christ, Catherine, ye shouldnae have.”
But even as he said it, he knew he didn’t mean it. The sight of her was both his punishment and his salvation.
“I couldnae stay away,” she answered. “Ye think I could sit safe in Perth while ye fight fer everythin’ that matters? I’ll nae be hidden while ye bleed fer me.”
Her words struck him like a flame to tinder. He closed the distance between them before he knew he’d moved, his voice low, tight. “Dae ye ken what ye’ve done? If MacLeod’s movin’, this is the first place he’ll strike. Ye’ve ridden straight back intae danger.”
“I’ve ridden home,” she said, unwavering. “If danger’s here, then I’ll face it wi’ ye.”
The courtyard had gone silent behind them. Every man watched in stillness, as if afraid to breathe.
Aidan looked at her and something inside him broke. He saw the mud splashed on her cloak, the tremble in her fingers from cold, the defiance in her gaze that had always undone him. She was wild and stubborn and so goddamned brave, and he loved her for it, though he’d never dared to say the words.
“Come,” he said roughly, his hand closing around her arm before she could argue. His palm was warm through the damp fabric of her sleeve, his grip firm but not cruel—steady, like he was afraid that if he let go, she might vanish again into the mist. “Ye’re cold from the ride.”
Catherine didn’t answer. Her breath came in small, uneven draws, the flush of the journey still high on her cheeks. Aidan’s jaw tightened as he turned, leading her across the yard.
The men parted without a word. Every face lowered, every sound swallowed by the weight of the moment. The echo of their boots on the stone steps was the only thing that filled the silence and their two steady heartbeats moving through a sea of quiet eyes.
Inside, the air shifted. Warmer, aye, but charged in a way that scraped at his control. He didn’t speak as they climbed the stairs. The sound of her breathing followed him, catching now and then as if she were trying to keep her composure. It made something inside him twist painfully, that sound.
When they reached her chamber, he pushed the door open and stood aside for her to enter. The room felt colder than he remembered, as though her absence had seeped into the very stone. A few half-packed belongings sat by the hearth where she had left them; the ashes there were gray, lifeless.
Aidan crossed the room without hesitation, shrugging off his gloves. He crouched before the hearth, his movements quiet. His hands, those hands that had once wielded a sword like an extension of himself, now moved with surprising care as he stacked the kindling and struck the flint.
The first sparks flared weakly, catching on the dry twigs. He coaxed them to life with a breath, and soon a thin tongue of flame rose, then another, until the fire began to crackle, light spilling across the chamber walls.
Behind him, he could hear her shifting, could feel her watching. Her breathing had slowed but not steadied. He imagined her hands, cold and slightly trembling, as she stood there, uncertain whether to speak or simply to watch him burn with all the words he hadn’t said.
He stayed crouched a moment longer, staring into the flames.
The light flickered over his face, throwing the angles of his jaw into sharp relief, catching in the strands of his dark hair.
His shirt clung faintly to his back from the heat of his work, and the smell of smoke and pine resin filled the air, thick and intimate.
When he finally straightened, he looked at her.
Really looked. The fire behind him made her skin glow, the travel-stained cloak slipping from her shoulders, revealing the curve of her throat, the rise and fall of her breath.
His heart stuttered, his restraint thinning with every second that passed between them.
“Ye’re frozen,” he said quietly, though the words came rough in his throat. “Sit by the fire.”
But it wasn’t command so much as confession. It was his way of saying he’d missed her, that her coldness was his doing, that that was the only way he knew how to make it right.
And as she moved closer to the hearth, the shadows bent around them both, the silence between them no longer empty but trembling with all that had been waiting to be said.
“Ye shouldnae have come back,” he said again, quieter this time. “I sent ye away fer a reason.”
“I ken,” she said softly. “But I’m here now. And I dinnae regret it.”
He turned to her then, and something in his control faltered. The sight of her was too much. He took a slow step toward her, his voice rough.
“Ye think this is easy fer me? Every mile ye rode away, I told meself I was protectin’ ye. Every mile, I hated meself fer it. I can fight a thousand men, Catherine, but I cannae fight the thought o’ ye in harm’s way.”
Her eyes shone in the firelight. “And what o’ the harm ye did by sendin’ me away?”
He stopped just in front of her, their breath mingling in the stillness. “Aye,” he said hoarsely. “I did that. And I’d take it back if I could.”
The fire popped softly in the hearth. His gaze drifted down to her hands, small and cold where they gripped her cloak. He reached out and took them gently in his own, rubbing warmth into her fingers.
“It might be wrong,” he said slowly, “but I’d rather ken ye’re safe where I can see ye than wonder if ye’re alive and cursed fer it. Let the world judge me fer it—I’ll bear it. But I’ll nae send ye away again.”
Catherine’s breath caught, her eyes searching his. “Ye’d keep me here? Even if it puts ye at risk?”
“I’ve been at risk since the day I brought ye here.” His voice dropped, deep and quiet. “The danger’s worth it.”
The room seemed to shrink around them. The light from the fire painted her skin gold, her eyes dark and wet. Aidan’s hand moved to her cheek before he could stop it, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. Her breath shuddered against his fingers, and he felt it like a plea.
Neither spoke and the world outside the door ceased to exist.
She lifted her face toward him, and his resolve frayed. He could see the question in her eyes, the same one that burned in him: how much longer could they hold against it?
“Catherine…” His voice was a rasp, barely a sound.
“Aidan,” she whispered.
The space between them vanished until her breath brushed his lips. His hand trembled as it found the curve of her jaw, his thumb tracing the place where her pulse beat beneath her skin. He could feel it, wild and alive, echoing his own.
The fire cracked behind them, casting them both in gold, the light shimmering across her face as though the world itself were holding its breath. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. Every thought, every duty, every reason to stay away, burned away under the heat of what stood between them.
Her lips parted just slightly as he leaned closer. Catherine’s eyes widened, searching his, and for one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then his hand fell away, and the world came rushing back.