Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The birlinn had rocked like a beast in its sleep. For hours, the water had heaved beneath them, the oars dipping in and out of the water with a rhythm that burrowed into Catherine’s bones until she thought she would never hear silence again.
She had hated every moment of it.
Not because of the water, despite having little fondness for the thing, but because Aidan Cameron had stood at the helm the entire crossing, silent and still as if carved from the very stones they sailed past. He had not once looked at her.
Not when she stumbled over the planks as the boat pitched, not when the spray soaked her cloak through, not even when Sofia had grown pale from the rocking and Catherine had steadied her with a hand that trembled for reasons she refused to name.
He had stood there, hands firm on the tiller, eyes on the horizon, his jaw set in that cool, unreadable line that made her want to throw something heavy at it.
She told herself she didn’t care. He was her brother’s friend, her reluctant escort, nothing more. But the longer his silence stretched, the more it clawed at her chest.
The battle had been for her. The men who had bled in the glen had done so because of her name, her defiance, her refusal to let Edwin MacLeod speak her fate aloud as though it were a promise already sealed.
Aidan had been the one to save her, to stand between her and that cursed carriage. And now he would not even look at her.
When they finally reached shore, Catherine’s legs trembled as they met the earth again.
She hid it with movement, gathering her skirts, helping Sofia down, pretending the weight in her limbs was nothing but exhaustion.
Aidan barked orders to his men, and she hated that even his voice seemed untouched by the chaos of what had come before.
By the time they mounted their horses again, dusk had begun to fall.
The journey through the glen was quieter this time, save for the distant roll of thunder that warned of rain.
Catherine’s body ached from the long hours of travel, but she refused to show it.
Aidan rode ahead, his shoulders straight, the dark plaid sweeping behind him like a shadow she could not shake.
Each time she tried to speak—to say something sharp, anything that would force him to turn and meet her eyes—the words caught. Pride sealed them behind her teeth. He would not see her reaching. He would not have that power.
When the towers of Achnacarry rose at last through the mist, the sight caught her breath despite herself. The keep stood against the dark like something born of the mountain, stone stacked high into the low clouds, the peaks of its turrets shrouded in rain.
Sofia gasped softly beside her. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Alyson smiled faintly. “It’s safe.”
Catherine swallowed the words that came to her tongue, something wry and proud, and forced her tone light instead. “Aye. Safe enough tae drown in one’s boredom.”
The great gates creaked open as they approached. Aidan rode through first, his men fanning out behind him, the MacDonald sisters following close. The courtyard was wide, the stones slick with rain. Servants hurried, bowing as the laird dismounted.
Catherine swung from her horse before any man could offer her a hand, though her boots nearly slipped on the wet stone.
Her pride steadied her where balance did not.
The servants moved quickly, taking the reins, guiding the horses toward the stables.
Aidan gave a few clipped instructions, his tone all business, all command. Still he did not look at her.
The sting of it was ridiculous, and she hated herself for feeling it.
A steward bowed before them, ushering the sisters toward the inner hall.
The air inside was warmer, heavy with the scent of pine smoke and heather.
Catherine’s eyes swept the place—massive beams of oak overhead, stone floors worn smooth by generations of Camerons, banners in deep red and black fluttering faintly in the draft.
It was grand, she supposed. Impressive in that cold way that suited its laird. But something in her twisted at the sight. She could feel his presence in every inch of the place, his restraint. It was infuriating.
The steward led them up a wide stair toward the guest chambers.
Catherine trailed slightly behind her sisters, her gaze skimming the shadows below where Aidan spoke with one of his men near the fire.
He stood half-turned, head bent, one hand resting at his sword hilt as though he could not quite let go of battle.
The light caught the side of his face, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the firm line of his mouth as he gave another order.
Still, not once did he glance up. The ache in her chest flared sharp.
By the time they reached the landing, Catherine’s temper was a living thing. Every step echoed the memory of his indifference, every flicker of torchlight seemed to mock her. She could feel the heat of her own pulse beneath her skin. When she heard his voice below again, something in her snapped.
She turned on her heel when they reached their rooms.
“Dinnae wait,” she said to her sisters, her tone too bright to be safe. “I should like tae thank our host.”
Alyson frowned. “Catherine—”
But she was already halfway down the stairs.
Aidan looked up only when her shadow fell across the stone. “Ye should be resting,” he said. His tone was even, distant.
Catherine smiled sweetly, though her blood hummed like struck steel. “I thought it polite tae offer me gratitude, me laird.”
His brow lifted, wary now. “Is that so?”
“Aye.” She swept her gaze around the vast hall, letting it linger on the banners, the weapons gleaming along the walls, the massive hearth that could have swallowed her whole. “Ye’ve built quite the fortress, havenae ye? Grand enough tae make a man feel mighty indeed.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Aidan’s eyes fixed on her, cold and steady. He said nothing, only watched her with that quiet stillness that made every heartbeat feel like a challenge. Then, slowly, he crossed the distance between them.
“Ye’ve a bold tongue, Lady Catherine,” he said. “Too bold, perhaps, fer a woman who nearly cost the lives o’ me men.”
“If yer men were so easily undone by one woman’s troubles, perhaps they’re nae the warriors ye boast them tae be.”
His gaze darkened. “Careful, lass.”
Her cheeks flamed. She hated that he could make her feel anything at all—anger, humiliation, the strange pulse that thrummed beneath both. She turned sharply, her skirts snapping around her legs.
“Enjoy yer grand castle, me laird,” she said without looking back. “May it keep ye company.”
And she was gone, her footsteps echoing up the stairs, her heart a wild drum against her ribs as she ascended the stairs.
Catherine reached her chamber and closed the door behind her, pressing her palms to the wood as if to hold herself upright.
The room was warm, the fire already lit, but she felt cold.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the window’s dark glass, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes too bright, mouth tight with fury.
She hated him. She hated his calm, his restraint, the way he could make her burn with a single look and then pretend she was nothing at all.
And yet, beneath the fury, something small and frightened trembled inside her. She pressed her hand to her chest, felt her heart hammer against her palm, and whispered, barely audible, “Ye’ll nae see me break.”
Then she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and let the fire warm her face until the tremor in her hands was gone.
The echo of her footsteps haunted the hall long after she vanished up the stairs. The sound was soft at first, fading beneath the hiss of the hearth, but it lingered in Aidan’s mind, sharp as a blade drawn too slowly.
He stared at the space she’d left behind—the shadow of her skirts still burning in his vision, the faint trace of her voice curling through the air like smoke. The words she’d thrown at him still hung between the stone walls, bright as sparks from a dying fire.
His jaw flexed. She’d come at him like a storm, all wit and fury, her chin high, her eyes alive with fire he hadn’t known how to quench. And part of him hadn’t wanted to.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his brow, the motion rough. He could still smell her, a hint of rain and the faint sweetness that had clung to her.
“That went well,” came a voice from behind.
Aidan’s head turned, slow, controlled. Gordon, his right hand, leaned against one of the pillars, arms crossed, the ghost of a grin playing at his mouth. Of course he’d been there through the whole damned thing. The man had the instincts of a wolfhound when it came to scenting trouble.
“Ye’ve a talent, me laird,” Gordon went on, his tone half amusement, half exasperation. “It’s nae every day a woman looks ready tae throttle ye after ye’re providing her shelter.”
Aidan’s gaze narrowed. “If she wishes tae throttle me, she’ll need better aim.”
Gordon chuckled. “Aye, well. I’d say she’d gotten under yer skin if I didnae ken any better.”
The words hung in the air like the echo of a struck bell.
Aidan turned fully toward the fire, resting one hand on the edge of the mantle. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished metal of a nearby shield, his eyes tired but steady. The face of a man who’d seen too much war to be undone by one sharp-tongued lass. Or so he told himself.
Aidan’s fingers stilled against the stone.
He didn’t answer. He could have said no, but the word stuck fast behind his teeth.
Because every time he thought of her and the wild, furious way she’d looked at him in the glen, the sound of her voice when she’d called his name, his chest tightened in a way he didn’t like.
He forced a breath through his teeth, the words rising before he could stop them.
“Edwin MacLeod brought his men against us in the glen,” he said, his tone low, controlled only by habit.
“Came riding like a fool, claiming the MacDonald lass was promised tae him. If I hadnae been there, he’d have dragged her off. ”
Gordon’s expression shifted, the faint grin slipping. “Christ above,” he muttered. “Is she unharmed?”
“Aye,” Aidan said, though the word felt heavy on his tongue. “Nae a scratch on her, but three o’ our men were near cut down by her temper.” His jaw tightened, the muscle flickering as he stared into the fire. “Her sharp tongue and his wounded pride made a battlefield o’ the glen.”
Gordon crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “Then it’s worse than gossip made it. The men said ye rode in like a storm, but I thought it was Campbell’s doing. What dae ye plan tae dae?”
“Double the watch. Strengthen the outer patrols. Make sure the MacDonald sisters remain in the keep where they belong.” Aidan’s voice hardened. “And pray that woman stays out o’ me path before her recklessness bleeds me men again.”
Gordon’s mouth quirked, though not quite a smile. “Aye. Reckless, proud, and sharp o’ tongue. Sounds just the sort ye never could abide.”
Aidan shot him a look that would have silenced a lesser man. “She’s a MacDonald. Me charge and the sister o’ a friend that has become a brother tae me. That’s all that matters.”
The other man laughed under his breath, unbothered. “Aye, me laird. Though if I were tae wager, I’d say the lass has already made herself a thorn in yer thoughts. Ye’ve nae glared this hard since the last time a horse bit ye.”
Aidan exhaled slowly through his nose, tamping down the heat that flared behind his ribs. “Enough.”
Gordon held up his hands, though the spark in his eyes lingered. “Aye. Enough. I’ll see tae the patrols.” He turned toward the door, but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “And laird—mind ye, thorns draw blood because men cannae keep from touchin’ them.”
Aidan didn’t answer. He only watched Gordon as he left, the echo of his footsteps fading into the corridor. Silence fell heavy once more, broken only by the crackle of fire and the distant murmur of voices upstairs.
He should have been proud. His people were safe. His men had followed him without question. Another threat had been beaten back.
He’d felt something raw and violent, something that no amount of discipline could name. A need to protect her, to silence her trembling, to prove to himself that she was safe because he had made it so. And beneath it all, something darker, hungrier.
He’d sworn once that nothing would shake him again. That no woman, no memory, no wound of the past would find its way beneath his armor. The world had taken too much already. And yet one slip of a MacDonald lass had managed to tear through him like a blade through silk.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the thought down, sealing it tight. She was his friend’s sister. His responsibility. That was all. Duty first. Always.
He straightened, the decision solidifying like iron in his chest. Tomorrow, he would ride the perimeter himself, speak with the captains, remind the men what was expected.
The MacDonalds would be treated as guests, nothing more.
He would see to their safety, ensure their comfort, and keep his distance.