Chapter 11 #2
But before she could take a step, the mare jerked suddenly, her hooves striking the stall boards again, head tossing as if some unseen fear had returned. A startled whinny cut through the stable.
“Easy,” Catherine said, spinning back. “Easy, lass.”
Aidan cursed under his breath and reached for the halter, but the horse sidestepped, striking the wall again. Catherine moved faster, slipping between them before he could protest. Her hand found the mare’s flank, firm and steady. “Shh. It’s all right. Ye’re safe.”
The mare shivered violently, then slowly eased, her wild eyes softening once more. Catherine felt the tremor fade beneath her palm until the air settled again into the low hum of rain.
She exhaled a shaky breath, pushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “Seems she’s nae ready tae be left alone after all.”
Aidan’s voice was quiet. “Then I suppose ye’ll stay?”
She glanced toward the door, toward the curtain of rain beyond. “If I leave, she’ll work herself mad again. And ye cannae ask the stable lads tae sit up all night.” She sighed, half to herself. “So aye. I’ll stay.”
Something like unguarded admiration flickered through his expression. “Ye’re soaked through,” he said. “Ye’ll catch a cold.”
“I’ve weathered worse.”
“Ye dinnae have tae prove bravery in me stable, Catherine.”
She looked at him then, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who said I was tryin’ tae prove anything? Perhaps I simply prefer the company o’ creatures who ken sense when they hear it.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fiery wee thing.”
“Stubborn laird.”
He smiled, the first honest smile she’d seen on him in days. “Then I’ll nae leave ye here alone. I’ll keep ye company.”
“Ye dinnae—”
“I’ll nae hear otherwise,” he said, already pulling a rough wool blanket from a hook and shaking it free of dust. “If ye’re set on playin’ guardian tae this creature, I’ll at least ensure ye dinnae fall asleep against the wall and freeze before dawn.”
Catherine opened her mouth to argue but stopped when he spread the blanket over the straw beside the stall. “Fine,” she said finally, folding her arms. “But only until she settles.”
“Aye, until then.”
He sank down beside the stall door, back against the wooden beam, his long frame folding with the kind of ease that came from years of campfires and cold nights. Catherine hesitated, then lowered herself beside him, keeping a careful hand on the mare’s neck as she sat.
The stable quieted. The rain was a constant whisper overhead, mingling with the low breathing of the horses and the occasional crackle from the lantern. For a while neither spoke, but Catherine could feel his presence beside her—warm, steady, grounding.
Her mind wandered as it always did when silence grew too deep.
She thought of her family, of the endless rain pressing against the keep walls, of the ache in her chest she had tried so hard not to name.
She thought, too, of the strange way Aidan’s voice had softened when he had told her she was special.
No one had said that to her in a very long time.
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. His head was bowed slightly, his hair damp, the shadows cutting strong lines across his face. He looked less like a laird now and more like a man worn by too many nights like this.
“Ye dinnae trust many people, dae ye?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer at once. “Trust is earned,” he said finally. “And it’s cost me dearly before.”
Catherine nodded. “Aye. I ken the feeling.”
He turned to her then, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Ye? Ye seem like ye’d trust a storm tae carry ye home.”
She huffed a small laugh. “I trust meself. That’s all.”
“And yet here ye sit, soaked tae the bone, guardin’ a creature that isnae yers.”
Her gaze softened. “Maybe that’s the difference between us. Ye see what ye own; I see what needs help.”
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then looked away again. “Ye’re an impossible woman, Catherine MacDonald.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She leaned her head back against the beam, listening to the rhythm of the rain. The mare had drifted into calm, her breathing slow, her eyelids drooping. Catherine reached up to smooth the last strand of her mane before letting her hand fall to her lap.
“Ye can sleep now,” she whispered to the horse, though part of her knew the words weren’t only for the animal.
Aidan shifted beside her, his shoulder brushing hers for the briefest instant. The touch was accidental, harmless, yet it sent a pulse of awareness through her that she could not quite swallow.
She should have moved away. Instead, she stayed still.
Minutes passed, perhaps hours. The storm outside dulled to a soft patter, the lantern’s flame flickering low.
Catherine’s eyelids grew heavy, her body sinking into the quiet rhythm of warmth beside her.
Aidan’s breathing slowed, deep and even, and before long the sound of it merged with her own.
She drifted between waking and sleep, her thoughts hazy, her senses full of the scent of rain and hay and the faint musk of plaid wool.
At some point, she felt him move just enough to draw the blanket higher around her shoulders.
She wanted to protest, to tell him she didn’t need his kindness, but her lips never quite formed the words.