Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aidan woke to the faintest breath against his throat.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was—only the scent of hay and the quiet rhythm of rain still whispering beyond the stable roof.
His arm was heavy, his body warm. Then the realization came slowly, like dawn breaking through fog.
There was someone soft and warm in his arms, breathing against him.
Catherine. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep beside her, but her nearness had been disarming, steadying. Now she was there, tucked against him, her cheek resting against his chest, his hand lying across her waist as though his body had claimed hers without his permission.
Aidan froze, pulse hammering against his ribs. He didn’t dare move but she stirred. Her lashes fluttered, brushing against his collar. He felt the smallest shift of breath, a sigh, a whisper of movement as her eyes opened.
For one suspended heartbeat, they looked at each other. Her pupils wide, lips parted, the space between them no more than a breath. The light was pale and silver, seeping through the cracks in the door, touching her face like something sacred.
If he moved, he could have kissed her. God help him, he wanted to.
But Catherine gasped softly, her hand pressing to his chest as she jolted upright. “Saints,” she breathed, her voice unsteady. “We fell asleep.”
Aidan sat up more slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “So it would seem.”
Her hair had come loose, curling damp against her shoulders, her cloak slipping down her arm. She caught sight of how close they still were and turned crimson. “We—ye—ye shouldnae have—”
He raised an eyebrow, still half dazed from sleep. “Shouldnae have what, lass? Slept?”
Her glare returned faster than her composure. “Slept like that.”
“Ye were cold,” he said simply, voice rough from the night. “Would ye rather I’d left ye tae freeze?”
Her mouth opened, then shut again. “I dinnae freeze easily.”
“Apparently ye sleep easy enough.” His lips twitched despite himself.
Her eyes flashed. “Ye find this amusing?”
“Aye,” he said. “A bit.”
“Then ye’re a fool.”
“Perhaps.” He pushed to his feet, brushing straw from his plaid. “But a warm one.”
She stared at him for a long moment, caught between fury and mortification, before finally gathering her cloak and standing. “I’m goin’ tae take a bath,” she muttered. “And if ye’ve any sense left in that thick skull o’ yers, ye’ll forget this happened.”
“I’ve nay doubt I’ll try,” he said quietly, watching her.
Catherine threw him a sharp look over her shoulder, cheeks still pink. “Dinnae look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ye’re thinkin’ somethin’ ye shouldnae.”
He smiled faintly. “I was thinkin’ I’ve never seen a woman calm a horse faster than she can lose her own temper.”
She made a sound dangerously close to a growl. “Good day, me laird.”
And with that, she swept out of the stable, her cloak trailing through the straw, her head held high.
Aidan stood for a moment longer, the sound of her footsteps fading into the courtyard.
Then he exhaled hard, rubbing the back of his neck.
He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen, hadn’t meant to look at her that way, hadn’t meant to fall asleep holding her like something he couldn’t let go of. But it had happened all the same.
God help him, she was Tòrr MacDonald’s sister. Michael’s sister. The lass he’d sworn to protect, not want. And yet when she’d looked up at him in the firelight, all fire and defiance and trembling breath, every vow he’d ever made had felt like ash.
He’d fought through war, through loss, through the kind of hunger that breaks men, but nothing had prepared him for the guilt that came twined with desire, for the ache that felt like betrayal even when he’d done nothing at all.
He left the stable a few minutes later, the early morning mist clinging to his shoulders.
The rain had stopped at last, leaving the air cold and clean.
The keep loomed above him, smoke curling from the chimneys.
As he climbed the steps to the great hall, the weight of the world returned with each stride.
Whatever fragile peace the night had brought vanished the moment he crossed the threshold.
Inside, Bruce and Gordon were waiting near the hearth, both of them looking far too awake for his liking.
“Me laird,” Bruce said, stepping forward. “We were just about tae send someone fer ye.”
“Why?” Aidan asked. “Has somethin’ happened?”
“Ye tell us,” Gordon said with a grin that meant trouble. “We went lookin’ fer ye at dawn. Ye werenae in yer chamber.”
Aidan gave him a flat look. “I was in the stable.”
“The stable,” Gordon repeated slowly. “All night?”
“Aye.”
Bruce cleared his throat, wisely changing the subject. “This arrived while ye were gone.” He held out a folded parchment, sealed with the red wax of Clan MacDonald.
Aidan took it, his pulse quickening. “From Tòrr?”
Bruce nodded. Aidan broke the seal and scanned the first lines. The familiar handwriting tightened something in his chest. Letters from Tòrr rarely carried good news.
“What is it?” Gordon asked. “Bad?”
Aidan didn’t answer right away. His eyes caught on the words that made his stomach turn cold.
Braither Aidan,
I trust the women have reached ye safely. I write now wi’ a matter that concerns Catherine. She has received a proposal from Laird Edwin MacLeod.
Aidan’s grip tightened around the paper. He kept reading, jaw clenched.
I am nae fond o’ the match, but I wouldnae stand in her way if she chooses it fer herself. I ask that ye speak with her. If it is a love match, she shall have me blessing.
The letter ended with Tòrr’s seal and signature. Nothing more.
“Tòrr wants tae ken if Catherine’ll marry Edwin MacLeod,” Aidan folded it slowly, his knuckles whitening.
“Edwin MacLeod?” Bruce asked carefully. “Wasnae he the lad who—”
“Aye,” Aidan cut in. “The same.”
“The one who tried tae stop their journey?” Gordon said. “Ye near gutted him.”
Aidan’s voice was low, dangerous. “Aye. And now he’s writin’ letters tae Tòrr.”
Gordon frowned. “What daes Tòrr want ye tae dae?”
“He wants me tae ask her.” The words burned on his tongue. “Wants tae ken if she returns the fool’s affections.”
Gordon gave a low whistle. “And what if she daes?”
Aidan didn’t answer. His silence was sharp enough. He turned on his heel, the parchment still crushed in his fist.
He was already striding down the corridor, his boots echoing against the stone. The air felt different now, almost electric. He didn’t know what he meant to say when he found her. He only knew he needed to see her, needed to hear the truth from her lips.
He’d seen the way Edwin looked at her before the battle. Possessive. Entitled. And he’d seen the way Catherine had flinched when his name was mentioned. The idea that she’d ever want to marry a man like that made his blood boil.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, the letter still crumpled in his hand. The hallways were quiet, the only sound the faint rush of wind outside. He reached the upper corridor, the one that led to the women’s chambers.
He paused only long enough to knock. Once. Then he opened the door and the sight hit him like a blow.
Catherine stood near the bath, her back half-turned toward him.
Her hair tumbled loose, dark and damp, falling past her shoulders in waves.
She wore only a thin white chemise, the fabric clinging to her shape in the morning light.
Steam curled up from the copper tub beside her, catching the sunlight from the narrow window.
She froze, turning her head just enough for their eyes to meet.
Aidan’s throat went dry. Every instinct told him to look away, to step back and apologize, but he couldn’t. His mind had gone blank, his thoughts drowned out by the sudden rush of heat in his chest, spreading through his entire body.
Her voice broke the spell. Quiet, controlled, but trembling at the edges. “Turn around, me laird.”
He did—immediately. His boots scraped the stone as he pivoted, every muscle drawn tight.
He forced himself to speak, his voice low and unsteady. “Fergive me. I shouldnae have entered without waitin’.”
“Go,” she said, still steady.
He bowed his head once, the sound of his breath rough in his throat. “Aye.”
He left without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed far too loud in his ears. The corridor outside was cool and dim, the air smelling faintly of pine and smoke. He stood there, jaw tight, his hand still on the latch.
Christ above. He’d walked into her chamber without thought, meaning only to deliver the letter—and found her half-bare in the morning light.
It had been a heartbeat, no more, yet it burned behind his eyes as if branded there.
The pale curve of her shoulder, the shimmer of her skin, the sharp breath she’d drawn when she’d seen him.
He hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t meant to want, but his body had betrayed him before his mind could catch up.
She was Tòrr’s sister. The lass he’d sworn to protect, not desire.
The thought struck through him like cold water, dragging his breath tight in his chest. He pressed a hand to the stone wall, the chill biting through his palm, and forced himself to still.
He’d fought wars with steadier hands than this.
The door creaked open behind him.
“Ye may come in,” came her voice—steady now, composed.
He turned. She stood in the doorway wrapped in a robe of pale wool, her hair brushed back, her face calm save for the faint flush that lingered high on her cheek. Whatever had passed a moment ago was locked behind her poise.
“What are ye daein here?” she asked, her tone quieter now, though he could still hear a faint tremble in her voice.
“Yer braither sent this. I thought it urgent.”