Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning broke soft and pale, the light timid after days of storm.
A thin mist drifted across the hills, the kind that caught on the windows and turned the world into watercolor.
Catherine sat by the small writing desk near her window, quill poised over parchment, pretending not to hear her own thoughts.
She’d been pretending since dawn.
The memory of the morning before refused to fade.
It clung to her like the ghost of warmth, like the echo of thunder when the storm had already passed.
She could still feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breath when she’d woken in his arms. And later, the heat in his eyes when he’d found her about to get in the bath.
Catherine pressed the quill harder than she meant to, the nib scratching deep into the parchment
Braither,
I have received yer message and the offer from Laird MacLeod. I will be brief. I have nay wish tae marry him. Nor any man who cannae meet me as an equal in both mind and heart.
She paused. It sounded too cold. Too much like the voice she used in arguments. Tòrr didn’t need a lecture; he needed assurance. Catherine took a slow breath, the quill trembling slightly in her fingers.
I am safe here, and the laird has been kind.
Her chest tightened. That word felt too small for the man who haunted her thoughts. Kind didn’t describe the way he’d looked at her, or the way his voice had dropped when he had said he was trying not to remember.
She sighed, dipped the quill once more, and wrote as quickly as she could, signing her name before she had the chance to think better of it.
Then she sat back, staring at the page. The words were neat, final, and yet she felt none of the satisfaction finality usually brought her. Because the letter was meant for her brother, but it wasn’t him she was thinking about.
It was Aidan. Every line of the page carried a trace of him: his command, his restraint, the echo of his voice when he’d said everything.
Catherine set the quill down and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Enough,” she muttered aloud. “Ye’ll go mad thinkin’ about him.”
But the thought refused to be silenced. She should have sent the letter with a servant.
That would have been the sensible thing to do.
A quiet handoff, a sealed message, and peace of mind.
Yet as she folded the parchment, she found herself rising, smoothing her gown, her heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with duty.
The letter wasn’t sealed yet. That, she told herself, was reason enough to find him. She had to hand it to him directly, to ensure it was properly received and dispatched. A perfectly logical decision. Except logic had very little to do with it.
She stepped into the corridor, the sound of her slippers whispering against the rushes.
The morning had turned busier now that the rain was gone—servants carrying baskets, guards moving through the hall, the distant clatter of steel from the yard.
She passed them all with a nod, her letter tucked tightly in her hand.
She checked the solar, the gallery, even the training yard, but there was no sign of him. Her frustration grew with each turn of the corridor. It was ridiculous. She wasn’t searching for him. She was delivering a letter. A simple, routine task.
And yet when she asked one of the maids where the laird was, she couldn’t ignore the quickened beat of her pulse when the girl said, “He’s in Council, me lady.”
Council. Perfect. Of course, he’d be surrounded by men discussing crops and borders and other things she had no business interrupting. Still, she turned toward the council chamber before her better judgment could argue.
The great door stood open a crack. Catherine could hear voices from within. She hesitated for only a second. Then she lifted her chin and pushed the door open.
The effect was immediate. Every head turned.
Half a dozen men sat around the long oak table, maps spread before them, tankards in reach.
The sudden intrusion of a woman struck them silent.
The noise of conversation stopped so abruptly she could hear the creak of the door echo against the walls.
Aidan was at the far end of the table, seated in the laird’s chair. He looked up slowly.
Catherine felt the weight of his gaze like heat across her skin. His expression didn’t change, but she saw the faintest tightening around his mouth, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
She gave a short, polite curtsy, her voice clear. “Forgive the interruption, me laird. I come only tae deliver somethin’ o’ importance.”
There was a murmur among the councilmen—confusion, surprise, a few whispers that carried her name like a question.
Aidan rose slightly, his chair scraping the floor. “Lady Catherine,” he said, his tone even but his eyes sharp. “This is hardly the place—”
“It will take but a moment.”
She crossed the room, the hem of her gown brushing the stone, her pulse steady though her hands weren’t. She could feel their eyes following her in shock, disapproval or curiosity, but she kept her chin high.
Aidan stood as she approached. The space around him felt heavier than the rest of the room, as though the air itself shifted when she came near.
She stopped before him and held out the folded parchment. “This,” she said, her tone perfectly measured, “is the communication ye asked me tae write tae me braither. I thought it best tae deliver it directly.”
The letter was still unsealed. A deliberate choice. She wanted him to read it if he wished, to see that she’d answered him, that she’d meant what she’d said.
Aidan reached for it, his fingers brushing hers for a moment longer than necessary. The brief contact sent a tremor up her arm, but she masked it with a steady smile.
“Thank ye,” he said quietly, his voice too low for the others to hear.
She nodded once. “O’ course.”
The silence stretched. One of the older councilmen cleared his throat. “Laird, shall we—”
But Aidan didn’t look away from her. He leaned closer, speaking so only she could hear. “And what is yer answer, then?”
Catherine held his gaze, refusing to let him see the flutter in her chest. “It’s written plain enough,” she said, though her voice softened despite herself. “If ye read.”
He smiled faintly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Aye, but I’d rather hear it from ye.”
Catherine’s heart stumbled. She knew that tone, the one that hid warmth behind command, teasing behind formality. The one that had nearly undone her yesterday. He was studying her the way a soldier studies an approaching storm.
She stepped back, breaking the tension. “If there’s naught else, I’ll leave ye tae yer important matters. I’d hate tae delay the business o’ men.”
One of the younger councilmen shifted uncomfortably, muttering something about propriety. Another frowned. But Catherine only smiled, unbothered. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she curtsied again and turned toward the door.
The door closed softly behind her, but her presence lingered like the warmth left after a fire. For a long moment, no one in the room moved. Aidan’s gaze remained fixed on the door, jaw tight, hand still half-curled around the parchment she’d placed in it.
Then Gordon broke the silence. “Well, that was… unexpected.”
A low murmur rippled through the men, some amused, others confused.
Bruce leaned back in his chair, brows raised. “Ye mind explainin’ what just happened, laird? I’ve never seen a woman walk intae a council meetin’ like she owns the place.”
“She nearly daes,” Gordon muttered. “At least, she walks like it.”
Aidan shot him a warning look sharp enough to still the grin forming on his lips. “Enough.”
But the room’s curiosity refused to fade. Aidan could feel their eyes on him, questions simmering beneath the silence. He exhaled slowly, folding the letter with deliberate care before setting it on the table.
“Since ye’re all wonderin’,” he said at last, his tone even, “it was about the MacLeods. The MacDonalds have had renewed trouble wi’ them since the attack, and I needed confirmation that nay agreement or promise was ever made between their families.”
Fergus, one of the elders, nodded, satisfied to have an explanation, but the others leaned forward, expectant.
“The MacDonalds have had trouble wi’ the MacLeods since the ambush on the road,” Aidan continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
“Word’s spread that Edwin MacLeod was seekin’ tae force an alliance through marriage.
Catherine MacDonald was the target. Her brother wished fer confirmation that nay such betrothal existed. ”
A ripple of approval moved through the table. Even the skeptical ones seemed appeased now, nodding at the sense of it.
“Then her intrusion was justified,” Fergus said, a faint smile breaking through his beard. “A woman wi’ backbone, that one.”
“Aye,” another agreed.
Aidan said nothing. He kept his expression composed, his posture stern. Only his hand betrayed him, fingers tapping once, twice, against the folded letter on the table.
The discussion moved on to border disputes, crop reports, trade routes, but Aidan heard little of it. His role here was simple: to lead, to decide, to keep order. But his mind wasn’t listening. It was on the letter.
When the meeting finally drew to a close, the others filtered out one by one. Bruce lingered. “She’s bold,” he said quietly.
Aidan didn’t look up. “She’s reckless.”
Bruce gave a half smile. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”
When the door shut behind him, the silence returned, almost suffocating. Aidan exhaled and unfolded the parchment. Catherine’s handwriting was clean, the kind of script that betrayed both pride and control. He read slowly, eyes tracing the lines.
Braither,
I have received yer message and the offer from Laird Edwin MacLeod. I will be brief. I have nay wish tae marry him. Nor any man who cannot meet me as an equal in both mind and heart.
Aidan’s jaw tightened. He could almost hear her saying the words.
Ye need nae concern yerself. The laird here has been kind. I ask that the matter o’ Laird MacLeod be closed.
He paused, thumb brushing the ink as if the touch might conjure her voice. Kind. That was how she saw him? Not cold or impossible. It was a word he hadn’t heard directed at himself in years, not since before the softness was stripped out of him. He kept reading.
There was never any courtship between meself and Edwin MacLeod. The last time we were friendly was when we were ten, and that hardly counts as a courtship. Any gestures he made after were neither encouraged nor returned by me.
A slow breath left him, unsteady. It was the quiet dignity in her words that struck him. She’d written like a woman who refused to be spoken for, who’d claim her own voice even when surrounded by men eager to use it for her.
And she’d brought it to him, unsealed. A deliberate invitation to read what she’d written, to know the truth for himself.
Aidan folded the letter carefully, setting it aside. Then he rose, crossing to the narrow window that overlooked the courtyard. She was there.
He saw her near the stables, speaking to one of the grooms, her hair catching the thin sunlight that had broken through the clouds. She wore no cloak, only a dark gown that moved like water when she turned. The sight of her was a blow straight to the chest.
She laughed at something the groom said, the sound carrying faintly up to where he stood. He felt it, that laugh cutting through the cold of the morning, through the weight of everything else pressing on him.
He wondered if she knew what she did to him just by existing. If she had the faintest idea how her presence stirred things he had thought long buried.
Catherine lifted her face toward the sky for a moment, as if savoring the rare sun.
The light caught on her hair, turning it gold at the edges.
For one treacherous second, Aidan imagined what it would feel like to touch it, to sink his fingers into that softness and forget the world outside those walls.
He swore under his breath and turned away from the window.