Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The clang of steel rang sharp in the courtyard, echoing off the stone as blades met and broke apart again. Rain slicked the ground, softening the earth beneath his boots. Aidan stepped through the mud with the measured patience of a man who’d fought too many battles to waste energy on haste.
“Again,” he ordered, voice even.
The two soldiers facing him hesitated, breath steaming in the chill.
One’s grip slipped, the other faltered on his footing, and both earned a glare that needed no words.
Aidan lowered his sword only when their forms returned to readiness.
Training kept the men steady, and himself steadier.
Routine dulled what the mind would otherwise dwell on.
The weight of the past days pressed harder than any rain.
The road from Keppoch to Achnacarry had been long, dangerous, and full of tempers—one temper in particular.
Catherine MacDonald had a way of cutting through his patience like no blade ever had.
He could still hear the sharpness in her tongue, the heat in her gaze when she’d spoken to him as if she were mistress of the keep rather than guest in it.
A door creaked somewhere behind him. He turned as one of the stable lads hurried into the yard, hair plastered to his brow. “Me laird,” the boy said, ducking a bow. “Forgive me—Lady Catherine’s in the stables.”
Aidan frowned. “At this hour?”
“Aye, sir. Said she wanted tae feed the mare, Rosie.” The boy shifted uneasily.
Aidan exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp.
He handed off his sword, stripped the damp training tunic from his back, and pulled on a clean shirt from the rack near the armory door.
The linen clung cold against his skin, rain still sheeting down his shoulders as he fastened the ties.
He tugged his plaid over one arm, the familiar weight settling across him like armor.
Beneath the irritation was something else, an undercurrent. She had been through enough; yet if she thought herself beyond his word in his own hall, she’d learn otherwise. He crossed the yard toward the stables, the wind lifting the edge of his plaid, the rain beating steady against stone.
The door creaked open beneath his hand. Warmth hit him first: the smell of hay and damp hide, the faint tang of iron from the tack hooks along the wall. Shadows flickered low across the beams where a single lantern burned. The air was thick with quietness, humming rather than echoing.
He took a step inside, boots sinking into packed earth.
She was there. Standing beside the mare’s stall, head bent, her hair half fallen from its pins.
The lamplight brushed along the curve of her cheek, the pale sweep of her throat, the loosened strands glinting gold where the flame touched.
Her shawl hung loose around her shoulders, and her soft, steady voice threaded through the quiet.
“Ye remember me, dinnae ye?” she murmured to the horse, her hand sliding through its mane. “Good girl. Ye were the only one who didnae falter, even when the men did.”
Aidan paused in the shadowed doorway, something tight stirring behind his ribs. He should have called out. Instead, he watched.
The mare’s ears flicked forward as Catherine plucked a carrot from the bucket and held it out. The sound of teeth crunching filled the space between them.
“See? Grateful,” she whispered. “Nicer than yer laird.”
Aidan’s jaw clenched.
She leaned against the stall, the rhythm of her voice low and unguarded, as if the stable itself were sanctuary.
“I dinnae ken what manner o’ man he is,” she went on, and his brows rose at hearing his own name traded so freely to beasts.
“One moment he’s charging intae battle, the next he’s lecturing me like a nursemaid.
Ye should’ve seen the way he looked at me, Rosie.
All calm and cold, as if I were some fool child who needed taming. ”
Aidan crossed his arms. Calm and cold, she said. She had no notion how little calm he’d felt since she’d stepped into his hall.
Her tone sharpened. “And who speaks like that? Tae a lady, nay less?”
He nearly smiled at that—nearly. Her outrage suited her far too well.
When she sighed again, softer this time, he caught a trace of weariness in it. “He’s nay gentleman,” she muttered. “He’s the kind who thinks himself above courtesy. Always talkin’ o’ duty and safety and honor—yet cannae manage a shred o’ decency when speakin’ tae a woman.”
He bit back a huff. She’d called him worse, and yet every insult from her lips lodged itself deeper than it should.
Still, he didn’t move or speak. He watched her fingers move through the horse’s mane with a tenderness that unsettled him more than her anger ever had.
The mare’s breath rose warm against her cheek.
“Ye ken what the worst part is?” she whispered. “He believes he’s right. Every word that falls from that smug mouth o’ his comes with the certainty that the world agrees. He could burn down heaven itself, and folk would still call it reason.”
Aidan’s brows lifted. Smug mouth, indeed.
He should have walked away then. Should have left her to her grievances and let her think him deaf to them.
But something in the quiet sway of her voice, or the lamplight tracing the curve of her jaw, held him fast. He’d seen women weep and rage, but not like this.
There was fire in her and sorrow both, wrapped so tightly he doubted she even knew which burned hotter.
She bent her head again, laughter trembling faintly under her breath. “Ye’re the only creature in this place wi’ sense enough tae listen without lecturin’.”
That did it.
He straightened from the beam, stepping forward before the thought could settle and cleared his throat.
The sound of his boot against straw was deliberate, a quiet warning before he spoke.
Her shoulders stiffened, and when she froze, he caught the faint tremor in her breath.
The carrot fell from her hand, striking the floor with a dull thud.
She turned slowly, eyes wide, the lamplight catching them like flame against dark water. He had to force the tension from his own stance. It wasn’t anger, though there was some of that. It was something else, heavier, sharper.
Aidan crossed the last few steps between them, stopping just short of the light. Rain beaded on his plaid, sliding down the curve of his jaw. The fire in her eyes met the quiet in his.
“Tell me, Lady Catherine,” he said, voice low, steady, dangerous only in its calm, “now that ye’ve reached me stables, have ye plans tae complain about me tae every creature that breathes? Mare, hound, human?”
Catherine straightened, gathering what was left of her dignity and throwing it around her like armor. “I’m nae complainin’,” she said, though her voice came sharper than she intended. “I state facts. There’s a difference.”
Aidan stepped closer, straw crunching beneath his boots. He could still feel the faint tremor in the air from when she’d turned, the way her breath had caught before finding her words. “Aye? And what fact were ye informin’ the beast o’? That I’m cold as loch water and cursed beyond redemption?”
Her jaw tightened. “I might’ve mentioned it.”
“Might’ve,” he echoed, his tone mild, though the flicker in his chest was anything but. The sight of her, defiant, was a kind of torment he hadn’t known existed until now.
She lifted her chin. “If ye dinnae wish tae be spoken o’ poorly, me laird, perhaps ye should act in a more decent manner.”
That earned a flicker of amusement from him, quick and dangerous.
“Aye. I’ll bear that in mind.” He took another step, close enough for the lantern’s light to catch the faint shimmer of rain still clinging to her hair.
“But I find it curious that ye’d sneak down here in the middle o’ the night tae whisper yer grievances tae a horse. ”
“I did nae sneak.”
“Nay? Then what would ye call it?”
“Freedom,” she shot back.
The word struck him clean through, bold and bright. He saw it in the lift of her chin, in the way the word lingered between them like a challenge. His shoulders stilled, breath caught halfway to speech.
Aidan tilted his head slightly, his voice quieter now. “And is that what ye’re after here, Catherine MacDonald? Freedom?”
Her name left his mouth before he could stop it. He heard how it sounded soft and rough all at once and felt the heat of it sink between them.
“I’m after peace,” she said finally, though he caught the quiver in it. “And ye seem tae take offense at that as well.”
He let out a slow breath, something halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Peace,” he repeated. “Aye. Ye’ve a strange way o’ findin’ it.”
Her eyes flashed. “And what would ye ken o’ peace? Ye look like a man who’s forgotten what the word means.”
He really looked at her then, and for the first time that evening, he stopped guarding his voice. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Maybe I have.”
The truth hung there, naked and simple. He hadn’t meant to give it, but it was out now, and her face changed when she heard it. He saw the shift, how her anger faltered, how pity threatened to take its place, and hated that it almost did.
She turned away first, brushing straw from her skirts.
“Ye shouldnae be here.”
“I dinnae answer tae ye.”
He took another step, slow, deliberate. “And yet ye’re standin’ in me stable, speakin’ tae me horse.”
“She carried me here,” she said sharply. “She’s earned me thanks.”
“And ye’ve given it. Two carrots’ worth, if I’m countin’ right.” The words came easy, too easy, and the faint smile tugging at his mouth was one he shouldn’t have allowed.
Catherine spun toward him, temper flashing bright as flint. “If ye came tae scold me, ye can save yer breath. I’m tired o’ men tellin’ me what I can and cannae dae.”
“I’m nae here tae scold ye.”
“Then what are ye here fer?”
His silence stretched between them, heavier than speech.
The lantern’s glow caught her eyes, turning them to polished amber.
He could hear her breathing, quick and uneven, could almost feel the heat rising from her skin.
He didn’t know when the air had thickened, only that it had, and that it carried her scent—rain and lavender and defiance.
“Well?” she pressed, her voice softer now.
“I heard voices,” he said simply. “Thought there might be trouble.”
She laughed, low and breathless. “And found me instead. That must have been a disappointment.”
His mouth twitched. “I wouldnae call ye a disappointment, lass.”
He hadn’t meant for the word to sound that low and rough, threaded with heat, but her breath caught as if she’d felt it.
“Dinnae call me lass.”
He raised a brow. “Ye prefer Catherine, then?”
“I prefer silence.”
“Then perhaps ye shouldnae provoke conversation.”
Her glare should have burned him. It only made him want to step closer. “Ye’re insufferable.”
“I’ve been told.”
That drew an involuntary sound from him, half chuckle, half groan. He dragged a hand down his face, a vain attempt to steady himself. “Ye’ll nae let go, will ye?”
“Nae while I’ve breath left.”
The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it. “Then God help us both.”
For a long moment they simply stared, locked there in the charged quiet. Rosie shifted behind her, straw rustling, but neither of them moved. He could feel her pulse in the air, could feel his own matching it, louder than reason.
“Go back tae bed, lass,” he said softly. “It’s late.”
Her lips parted, not with obedience but defiance. “Ye’ve a strange way o’ congratulatin’ a woman fer survivin’ a day that nearly killed her.”
He exhaled, slow, his voice dropping low. “Ye think so?”
“I think ye’ve a heart carved o’ stone.”
“Better stone than fire.”
The words escaped before he could stop them, and the moment they did, he saw how she heard them. Her breath hitched, her lashes lowered, and for a heartbeat the air between them turned molten.
“I dinnae understand ye,” she whispered.
“Ye’re nae meant tae.” He meant to sound dismissive, but it came out softer than he liked, frayed at the edges by something he couldn’t hold back. He could see it in her face too—the confusion, the pull, the same restless energy that lived under his own skin when she was near.
Her pulse stumbled. He saw it in the hollow of her throat, the rise and fall that betrayed her composure. He shouldn’t have noticed. He shouldn’t have wanted to.
“I’ll nae apologize fer speakin’ me mind,” she said finally, chin lifting in that proud way that both maddened and moved him.
“I’d expect naethin’ less.”
“Good. Then ye ken I mean it when I say ye’re the most exasperatin’ man I’ve ever met.”
His mouth curved despite himself. “I’ll take that as praise.”
“It wasnae meant as such.”
“Then I’ll take it anyway.”
The sight of her standing there, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with fury and something dangerously close to wanting was more than he’d bargained for. She spun toward the door, and he let her go, though every part of him felt the loss as she stepped away.
“G’night,” she muttered.
A quiet laugh, low and rough, escaped from his lips, curling through the air like smoke. “Sleep well, Catherine.”
Her name lingered as she turned, and though she didn’t look back, he watched her until the door opened and the night air rushed in. The sound of rain swallowed her steps, and the faint whisper of her skirts faded down the path toward the keep.
For a long while, he stood there among the horses, the echo of her voice still clinging to the rafters. His hands flexed once at his sides before he let them fall.
Better stone than fire, he’d said. God help him, he’d meant it.
Because fire like that didn’t burn clean—it consumed. And if he wasn’t careful, she’d be the end of every bit of reason he had left.