Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Hands caught her bridle, jerking her mount sideways, nearly unseating her. Catherine’s cry tore from her throat as she lashed out with her whip, striking across a man’s arm. He cursed, but another surged forward, a hand clamping on her cloak, dragging.
For one breathless instant, her strength failed her.
Fear clawed sharp up her spine, a cold terror she despised, her mind flashing to the thought of being shut inside, carried off beyond her brothers’ reach, beyond even Aidan’s sword.
The world spun with the certainty that if they succeeded, if they bound her and bore her away, she would vanish into Edwin’s hands and no one would ever see her free again “Release me!” she shouted, slamming her elbow back with all her strength.
It cracked against a jaw; the man staggered but did not let go.
Another caught her waist, hauling her bodily from the saddle.
She struck the ground hard, the breath slammed from her lungs in a rush that left her gasping, her chest heaving for air that would not come.
Pain shot up her side where she had landed, sharp and biting, and the taste of iron rose in her mouth where her teeth had caught her lip.
Mud clung thick and cold, soaking through her skirts until the weight of it dragged at her legs like chains.
Still, she fought, thrashing wild, nails clawing at any skin she could reach, boots lashing out with furious kicks. The men grunted with each blow, but their hands did not loosen.
“I’ll nae go wi’ ye!” she spat, voice torn, ragged, her words laced with as much fire as she could muster. Better they remember her teeth and her claws than think of her to be some helpless lamb dragged meekly to the slaughter.
One man grunted as her heel caught his shin. “Lass, dinnae fight. ’Tis what’s right. Ye ken it well enough.”
“What’s right?” She spat the words, twisting in his grip. “Edwin’s obsession is nae right. He is a coward, and ye’re worse fer serving him!”
But they only tightened their hold, dragging her across the ground toward the waiting road. There stood a carriage, black against the pale mist. Its door gaped wide, its wheels mired in the mud, horses stamping as though impatient for her.
Terror surged sharp through her chest, but she bit it down, refusing them her scream. They would not have her fear. She raked her nails down one man’s cheek until blood welled, then slammed her boot hard against another’s knee. He cursed, staggered, yet still they hauled her onward.
Her sisters’ cries rose faint behind her, muffled by the clash of battle. Catherine’s own voice ripped raw from her throat. “Aidan!”
For an instant the world blurred in blood, steel and smoke, and she feared he would not hear. Feared she would vanish into the maw of that carriage, carried off like some spoil of war, while he fought blind to her fate.
Then she saw him. Through the churn of men and beasts he broke forward, his blade carving space as easily as breath. Blood streaked his arm, his face fierce as thunder, his horse plunging through the melee like a creature of the storm.
He came for her. Her captors faltered, hesitation flashing in their eyes as Aidan’s mount bore down on them. His voice split the din, cold and merciless.
“Touch her again and die.”
Steel dripped red in his hand. His gaze burned with a fury so sharp it might have cleaved stone. There was nothing civil or lairdly in him now; only raw, ruthless power, every inch of him a man shaped by battle. Catherine’s breath caught, not from fear but from the sight of him.
The men’s grips slackened. Catherine tore herself free, stumbling back into the churn of mud and hooves, her cloak heavy with filth, breath ragged. Aidan’s horse loomed before her, a living wall of muscle and fire, blocking the carriage, cutting her captors off.
Aidan leaned low in the saddle, his sword leveled steady. “She is nae yers tae take,” he said, voice iron. “Nae now. Nae ever.”
The MacLeod men shifted, uncertain, the weight of his command breaking through their bravado. The carriage horses screamed, rearing against their harness as the stench of blood thickened.
Catherine pressed her palm against the earth to steady herself, fury and relief battling inside her chest until she thought she might choke on both.
She would not thank him here, before these men.
And yet when her eyes met his—dark, burning still with the fire of battle—something inside her twisted dangerously.
He stood a few paces away, breath rising hard against the rain, his plaid torn and heavy with mud, dark hair plastered to his brow.
The veins along his forearm were stark beneath the slick of blood, his sword still dripping from the fight.
His chest rose and fell with slow, measured control, the kind that made every movement seem deliberate, lethal, beautiful.
He looked every inch the laird her brothers trusted, and yet something in his gaze was not command but possession, a raw protectiveness that rooted her where she knelt. She told herself it was only shock that made her tremble, only exhaustion that made her breath catch, but she knew better.
She forced herself upright, chin high, though her skirts clung sodden with mud. “Ye’ll ne’er claim me, Edwin,” she spat into the chaos, knowing he must hear though she could not see his face. “Nae wi’ vows. Nae wi’ force. Nae ever.”
Aidan shifted his sword higher, the promise of violence carved into every line of him. And Catherine, trembling yet unbroken, stood behind the shield of his fury, her pride the only armor she had left.
The clash around them had thinned, the MacLeod ambush faltering now that Aidan’s wrath had cut through their line. Still, Edwin pressed forward, breaking through the knot of men as though carried by pride alone. His face was flushed, his jaw hard, his eyes fixed not on Aidan but on her.
“Catherine,” he called, his voice strained yet steady, “ye ken this is folly. Ye were meant fer me. Our faithers drew the contract themselves and the promise remains. Yer braither will see it honored soon enough. This match was made tae bind our clans, nae tae be cast aside fer some Cameron interloper.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears, the weight of his words colder than the rain. “Drawn,” she said, her tone like steel, “aye—but nae signed. And ye ken well what that means, Edwin. A promise without me word is worth less than the mud beneath yer boots.”
His expression hardened, pride curdling into fury. “The MacDonalds ken o’ our courtship. Yer family has always approved.”
Catherine’s hands trembled on the reins. “Approved? I ken naething o’ approval.”
A growl low in Aidan’s throat turned the air heavy.
He shifted his horse forward, placing himself fully between her and Edwin.
His sword gleamed red in the dim light, his voice colder than the mountain streams in spring.
“Ye heard her. She is nae yers. And I’ll gut ye where ye stand if ye dare reach again. ”
Edwin sneered. “A fine show. But I dinnae fear ye, Cameron. Ye hide behind yer blade because ye’ve naught else tae offer her.”
Steel rang as Aidan swung down from his horse in one clean motion, boots striking earth with a thud that rattled Catherine’s bones. He leveled his sword in both hands, stance wide, steady. “Then test it.”
The words cracked like thunder.
Edwin drew his blade at last, its edge catching the dull light, and lunged.
Catherine’s breath caught. She wanted to turn away, to shield herself from the sight, but her eyes would not release them.
The two men circled, blades clashing, sparks leaping from the edge of steel.
Aidan moved with a precision that was frightening, his every strike measured, his body coiled power and restraint.
Edwin fought with rage alone, his swings wild, his footing slipping on mud churned by hooves and blood.
Her heart pounded, each clash ringing through her chest. The world narrowed to the sound of their blades, to the sight of Aidan’s shoulders flexing with strength, to Edwin’s face contorting with the strain of pride crumbling under weight of skill.
It did not last long. Aidan drove forward with a final strike that sent Edwin’s blade skittering from his grasp. In a breath he had him down, his boot on Edwin’s chest, sword angled toward his throat.
The MacLeod men stilled, their eyes fixed on the scene, their courage faltering.
Catherine’s stomach lurched. Aidan stood over Edwin like some dark vision of judgment, steady as stone, his sword poised with lethal grace.
He looked like the perfect portrait of the calm, merciless executioner, every line of him cut with purpose, every breath measured as if the world itself bowed to his will.
He would do it. She saw the resolve in his eyes, cold and unwavering.
One swift thrust and Edwin’s obsession would end there in the mud.
And though the sight chilled her to the marrow, something else stirred beneath the fear, an unwilling tremor that came from the sheer power of him, from the terrible certainty that when Aidan Cameron gave himself to a cause, nothing on earth could stand in his way.
Her pride urged her to let it happen. Edwin had humiliated her, sought to claim her as if she were coin or cattle.
He deserved whatever fate the edge of Aidan’s sword might give him.
And yet, her heart rebelled. Blood already soaked the ground, men already lay still.
Another life would not free her; it would only bind her name tighter to this madness.
Her voice tore from her throat before she could stop it. “Dinnae!”
Aidan’s head snapped toward her, dark eyes blazing. His sword hovered still at Edwin’s throat, the muscle in his arm taut. “He would’ve taken ye,” he growled, his voice low enough that it thrummed in her bones. “He still would if I let him breathe.”
Catherine stepped forward, skirts heavy with mud, chin high despite the tremor in her chest. “And what then? Shall me name be stained wi’ his blood, carried on every whisper across the glens?
Shall I be kent nae as Catherine MacDonald but as the cause o’ Laird Edwin MacLeod’s death?
Ye ken fine what tale his clan would spin. ”
Aidan’s jaw flexed, his eyes still locked on her. He held that sword steady another heartbeat, two, as though he weighed her words against the satisfaction of his blade.
At last, he lowered it, slow, reluctant, fury written in every line of his frame. “If this is what ye prefer,” he said, his voice rough, “then I’ll stay me hand. But ken this, Catherine—he’ll try again.”
Her breath came sharp, her pride the only shield against the storm raging inside her. She lifted her chin. “Then let him. He’ll find I bite as hard as I burn.”
Something unreadable flickered in Aidan’s eyes before he turned, shoving Edwin back into the mud with a boot to the chest. His voice rang out, cold as iron. “Be gone, MacLeod. Yer claim is dust. Go crawl back tae yer lands afore I change me mind.”
Edwin staggered to his feet, mud streaking his plaid, his pride more wounded than his body.
His gaze cut once more to Catherine, still fevered, still clinging to his delusion.
“Ye’ll regret this,” he spat, though the threat rang hollow against the weight of his defeat.
He gathered his men with a sharp gesture, retreating toward the road.
The carriage creaked, wheels groaning, as the horses turned to carry them away into the mist.
Silence settled heavy in the glen, broken only by the ragged breaths of men and the restless stamping of weary mounts. Catherine’s pulse still raced, her palms damp against the sodden fabric of her skirts. Relief and fury warred within her until she thought her chest might split.
Aidan turned, his blade still dripping red, his chest rising hard beneath the weight of his soaked plaid. For a long moment he only looked at her, as though counting the beats of her breath, making certain she was still standing.
Then he stepped closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Ye’re unhurt?”
Her lips parted, but the words caught. She forced a nod. “Aye. Only… shaken.”
His gaze swept over her, taking in the torn edge of her cloak, the mud on her cheek. “Shaken’s allowed,” he said quietly. “Alive’s what matters.”
Catherine stared at him, the warmth of his nearness cutting through the chill like a brand. There was blood on his jaw, a faint tremor in his hand where his sword hung low. For a heartbeat she thought he might reach for her, but he only gave a short nod and turned away, calling his men to order.
“Mount up,” he commanded, his tone back to iron. “We’re finished here.”
The birlinn waited at the shore, its mast stark against the mist. Catherine moved stiffly toward her horse, her sisters drawn close to either side of her.
Alyson’s face was pale, her silence taut with unshed words, while Sofia’s hand trembled in hers.
Catherine’s own legs shook as she set her boot to the stirrup, but she forced steel into her spine as she swung back into the saddle.
She would not let them see her break.
The line of riders re-formed, the wounded gathered, the dead left behind.
Slowly they made their way down toward the loch.
Catherine kept her eyes forward, her chin high, though her mind whirled with all she dared not speak—her hatred for Edwin, her unwilling admiration for Aidan’s fury, her shame at her own fear.
When at last they reached the water, the birlinn’s hull gleamed dark and steady, ropes creaking as the men prepared it for boarding.
Catherine drew a long breath, salt and pine mingling in the air.
This was it—the true leaving. Once the oars struck water, Keppoch and all she had known would lie behind her.
And ahead was Achnacarry. Cameron lands. Aidan’s keep.