Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Morning light pressed faintly through the narrow window of Aidan’s office, the kind of pale gold that softened every edge except the one that lived between them.
Catherine stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath, her fingers brushing the inside of his wrist as though she could not help herself, as though her body had grown accustomed to seeking his without permission.
He cupped her cheek with a hand that was far steadier than he felt, his thumb tracing the soft line where her pulse fluttered fast and warm beneath her skin. “If Tòrr finds me like this,” he whispered, voice low enough to barely stir the air, “I’ll nae survive the mornin’.”
Her smile was small but bright, the kind that always made something inside him unravel. “Then dinnae get caught,” she murmured, and before he could respond, she rose on her toes and kissed him.
It was a quiet kiss, a stolen one, the soft, lingering kind that lived between heartbeats, as if they both knew how fragile these moments were.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer for a breath, for one more taste, for something he could carry with him once the world began to burn again.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor.
Aidan broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, pressing his forehead to hers for a brief heartbeat before he stepped back. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “Wait until I call ye.”
She nodded, though her eyes lingered on him in a way that made him want to stay, consequences be damned.
He slipped out the door, closing it just enough to hide her. Catherine held her breath as his shadow moved across the light spilling under the frame. A moment later, his voice came low, rough with the kind of amusement he never let anyone else hear.
“Ye’re clear, lass,” he said. “Come quick afore one o’ them turns the corner.”
She cracked the door open, slipping into the hall as lightly as a whispered prayer. Aidan shook his head when she nearly ran straight into his chest, his hand catching her elbow, steadying her.
They both stifled quiet laughter, and for an instant the war, the fear, the weight of everything waiting outside the office walls faded. Then a distant horn sounded from the courtyard, low and grim.
The lightness between them dimmed at once.
Aidan’s hand fell from her arm. Her smile faded. The air shifted back into something tight and heavy and waiting. Without a word, they walked toward the hall.
The hall still smelled of smoke from the night before.
The fire burned low in the hearth, its light washing over steel and shadow alike, catching the glint of mail where Aidan’s men stood gathered beneath the banners.
The air was thick with too many voices, too much movement, yet somehow the silence beneath it all was louder.
It had been only a day since Tòrr and Michael arrived, their tempers barely held in check, their presence a reminder of every promise Aidan had made and now had to keep.
Catherine had sat quietly at the far table while they spoke of patrols and alliances, her eyes fixed on the flames, her fingers restless in her lap.
She hadn’t said a word, but Aidan had felt her there, like the faint warmth of a fire one could not step away from.
He was just about to dismiss the Council when the heavy doors burst open.
A guard stumbled through, mud streaked up his legs, his breath ragged. “They’re here,” he gasped, voice cracking. “MacLeod riders. Hundreds o’ them—the banners bear Campbell’s mark as well.”
For one suspended heartbeat, no one moved. Then the hall erupted.
Chairs scraped against stone. Men shouted for arms, for orders, for someone to tell them it wasn’t true. The sound built into a wave, crashing through the room. Aidan rose slowly, though his pulse thundered in his throat.
“Silence.” The word cut through everything.
The noise fell away, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the distant echo of boots in the corridor. He looked toward the messenger, whose face had gone pale beneath the grime.
“How close?”
“Less than two miles, me laird. They’ll reach the outer walls afore the next bell.”
Tòrr swore under his breath. Michael reached for his sword. Catherine stood, one hand gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
Aidan saw all of it—the fear, the readiness, the disbelief—but none of it touched his face.
“Gordon,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Get the outer gates barred and archers on the ramparts. Then, take twenty men tae the east wall—I want eyes on every ridge. Tòrr, Michael, with me.”
The orders fell from him like blade strikes, clean and final. Men snapped to attention, scattering toward the door. The sudden motion sent a gust of cold air swirling through the room, fluttering Catherine’s loose hair.
He turned toward her then, though he shouldn’t have.
“Stay inside,” he said quietly. “Help the healers. Dinnae step beyond the hall.”
Her eyes lifted to his, defiant even through fear. “Ye think I’ll stand idle while others bleed?”
“It’s nae a question, Catherine.” His voice hardened, though the sight of her standing there, flushed with determination, nearly broke the edge of it. “I’ll nae argue it. Nae taenight.”
Tòrr’s gaze cut sharply between them. “Ye’ll stay where ye’s told.”
Catherine’s mouth opened, but before she could speak, a sound came, a low, distant rumble, like thunder rolling down the glen. The first signal horn.
The hall seemed to tilt.
“Move,” Aidan said.
Men surged for the doors, the clang of armor echoing through the chamber. Catherine stepped back as the flood of bodies swept past her, her skirts brushing the mud already tracked across the floor. Aidan waited only long enough to see the healers begin clearing the tables for the wounded.
He caught her gaze once more. There were words he wanted to say, things he had no right to speak. Instead, he gave her the smallest nod, the kind that might have been a promise if the world were not on fire.
Then he turned and strode for the doors.
The wind cut low through the courtyard, carrying the metallic tang of rain and steel. It curled beneath his cloak and along the back of his neck, biting cold enough to wake the pulse in his jaw.
He paused beneath the archway, letting the weight of the air settle against his chest. The keep behind him was still alive with noise. Then, through it all, he heard the sound he couldn’t seem to forget: her voice, carrying from the great hall.
He shouldn’t have turned back, but he did.
Through the half-open doors he caught a glimpse of Catherine, bent beside the hearth light, a strip of linen in her hands, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair coming loose down her back.
When Tòrr called her name, she lifted her head.
Aidan saw the exhaustion in her eyes, and something else beneath it—the quiet kind of courage that had no business looking as fragile as it did.
Then she briefly turned and looked at him, before turning back to her brother.
Tòrr was standing near her, Michael beside him, both watching every movement with the suspicion of men who already sensed too much.
Aidan did not have time to worry about that right then, so he straightened, forcing his voice low and calm.
“See tae the gates,” he’d told Gordon, loud enough for the hall to hear. “And keep the women inside.”
Then he turned away, pretending he hadn’t noticed the way Catherine’s fingers stilled, as if she’d wanted to say something more.
The doors shut behind him with a dull thud.
He drew a breath that felt like stone in his throat and started across the yard.
The men straightened as he passed, every torch flare painting brief light.
He kept his pace even, his hand tight around the hilt at his belt.
Inside, the noise of the hall faded, replaced by the hum of rain on the roofs, the creak of leather, the distant roll of thunder crawling down the glen.
He’d been in enough battles to know the waiting was the worst part.
The stillness before everything broke. But that night the silence pressed heavier than it should have.
Because behind the stone and the smoke and the walls built to keep danger out, there was a woman he could not stop thinking about, and the thought of losing her felt far too close to weakness.
So he forced the breath out through his teeth, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the dark, as men moved along the walls.
Gordon barked orders at the gatehouse, his voice cutting through the wind.
Every step Aidan took felt heavier than the last, though his face betrayed none of it.
Out there, he was laird first—not the man who’d kissed her only moments ago, not the fool who still felt the shape of her mouth when he breathed.
“Any word from the scouts?” he asked, striding toward the parapet.
Bruce met him halfway, face pale beneath the torchlight. “Aye. MacLeod banners. They’re close — a mile, maybe less. Campbell’s colors among them, though nae sight o’ the man himself.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “He’ll wait until the blood’s drawn, then swoop in tae claim what’s left.”
“Aye,” Bruce said grimly.
“Then we’ll make sure there’s naught fer him tae claim.”
He turned, calling for his captains. The orders came fast, clipped—hold the western flank, close the north wall gates, set archers above the stables.
He spoke like a man carved from steel, but beneath it, the old heat stirred, that thing he’d spent years mastering, the raw, reckless anger that made his blood hum whenever someone threatened what was his.
By the time the horn sounded, the courtyard had gone silent. Every man waited, eyes fixed on the black line of the forest. Then—movement. Shadows in the trees. The low thunder of hooves.
“Archers!” Aidan’s command rang out.