Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three days. That was all it had been, yet it felt longer. The keep had returned to its rhythm, but for Aidan, time itself had turned strange. Every hour seemed both too quick and too slow, every sound sharper than it ought to be.
He’d kept his distance deliberately. It was easier that way.
Since that morning in the garden, since he’d felt the warmth of her skin beneath his hand and seen the challenge in her eyes, something in him had been unraveling by degrees.
He’d walked away because he had to. Because Tòrr’s sister was not a woman he could afford to want.
And yet wanting her had become as involuntary as breathing. He saw her everywhere and it had grown into a quiet torment. She was always near enough to sense, never near enough to touch.
So he stayed busy. It was his only defense.
The storms had left their mark across the glen—fields drowned, fences washed out, streams spilling their banks.
Reports had trickled in for two days: ruined stores, families displaced, the smallest of the outlying villages cut off entirely.
Duty was a welcome distraction, and he clung to it like a man grasping for rope in deep water.
By dawn, the Council had gathered, maps spread across the table, the air thick with the smell of wax and smoke.
“The lower stream near the village has overflowed,” Bruce said, tracing a finger along the inked edge of the map. “It’s taken half the bridge. Two cottages gone. The families are camped on higher ground.”
“And the road?” Aidan asked.
“Blocked, but passable if we bring tools. We’ll need men tae help clear it.”
Aidan nodded, already calculating. “We’ll send a party tae the shore. Ten men wi’ shovels, rope, and timber. Have them ready by noon. I’ll lead them meself.”
Bruce hesitated. “Ye sure ye should go yerself, laird? The ground’s still unstable.”
“All the more reason tae go,” Aidan said. “The men work better when I’m there. And I’ve nay patience fer sittin’ idle.”
Gordon, leaning against the doorframe, smirked faintly. “Aye, we noticed.”
Aidan ignored him, rolling the map tight and sliding it beneath his arm. “See that the carts are loaded. We’ll ride at first light tomorrow if the weather holds.”
He dismissed the room shortly after, his tone clipped and composed, the matter settled for now. The scrape of chairs and the murmur of boots against stone followed as the men dispersed, leaving the long echo of command behind them.
Aidan rolled the map beneath his arm and strode out of the council chamber.
There was work to be done. By the time he reached the yard, the air was alive with motion.
Men hurried between wagons and stables, the clang of iron tools and the low thud of hooves filling the morning.
The scent of wet earth and smoke clung to everything, a reminder of the storm’s aftermath.
“Check the harnesses,” he called to one of the grooms. “I want nay loose straps when we ride out.”
He crossed to the blacksmith’s corner, where two men were fitting iron bands around the wheels of a supply cart. “Have ye finished mendin’ the spades?”
“Aye, me laird,” one of them replied. “Sharpened and ready.”
“Good. Load them wi’ the timber. We’ll need it fer the bridges.”
He moved through the preparations with practiced precision, pausing only to inspect the wagons as they filled. Every order came measured and direct, every motion deliberate. There was no room for uncertainty.
Bruce appeared near the gate, his plaid dark with mud. “The men from the lower farms are here, laird. They brought their own shovels.”
Aidan nodded. “See that they’re fed before we leave. We’ll need strength more than speed.”
He turned next to the stable. The horses were restless from days of confinement; they pawed the straw, tossing their heads as the stable hands checked their tack.
Aidan stepped inside, the familiar smell of hay and leather grounding him.
He ran a hand along the neck of his mare, steadying her with a quiet word before lifting the saddle into place himself.
The clatter and movement of the courtyard began to take on rhythm, the organized chaos slowly bending to order. It was how he preferred it: clear purpose, clean direction. He oversaw every detail, from the arrangement of tools to the guard rotation that would remain behind.
By the time the sun broke through the thinning clouds, Aidan could feel the day shifting beneath him. The men were ready, the carts nearly loaded, and the sound of the river carried faintly on the wind from the valley below.
He paused at the edge of the yard, surveying the scene. It steadied him. Here, among duty and command, everything made sense. And then, as he turned to check the last of the supply lists, the sound of laughter cut through the noise of the courtyard, unmistakably out of place.
He turned just as Catherine and her sisters crossed the yard. Alyson carried a bundle of cloth, Sofia her usual bright grin, and Catherine walked ahead, shoulders straight, eyes fixed on him as though she were marching to battle.
Every man nearby stopped what he was doing.
“Laird Cameron,” Catherine called, her tone far too composed to be harmless.
He stiffened, jaw tightening. “Lady Catherine.”
“We heard about the flooding,” she said, stopping before him. “And we’d like tae help.”
Behind her, Alyson nodded in eager agreement. “We’ve supplies—cloth, herbs, things fer the children—”
“And I can help wi’ the cooking!” Sofia chimed in, all brightness and hope.
Aidan looked from one sister to the next, then back at Catherine. “Absolutely nae.”
The words dropped like stone.
Catherine’s brows lifted. “I beg yer pardon?”
“This is nae a task fer women,” he said, voice even but firm. “The ground’s unstable. The villages are still floodin’ in parts. I’ll nae risk ye bein’ hurt.”
“Risk?” Alyson asked, frowning. “We’d hardly be on the front lines o’ battle.”
“It’s the same,” Aidan said sharply. “Ye’re guests here. Me responsibility. I’ll nae take chances.”
Catherine folded her arms, the movement slow, deliberate. “Me laird, we’ve been naethin’ but idle fer days. The clan’s out there strugglin’ while we sit here eatin’ their bread. And ye’d have us dae what? Sew?”
“I’d have ye safe.”
Her chin tilted up. “Safe and useless, ye mean.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Ye ken fine that’s nae what I said.”
“It’s what ye meant.” She took a step closer, her voice softening, though her eyes still sparked. “Me laird—”
The way she spoke nearly undid him.
She must have seen the slight flicker in his expression, because she pressed on. “Ye ken we could help. Alyson ken her herbs better than any man ye’ve got. I can keep the bairns calm, help wi’ the cleanin’. And Sofia—”
“I can make broth!” Sofia said cheerfully.
Aidan dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “This isnae a game, Lady Catherine. The bridges are down. The banks are slippery. If the rain starts again—”
“Then we’ll get wet,” she interrupted.
“Ye’ll stay here.”
“And dae what? Sit in silence? Ye’d have us blind tae the people who’ve fed us, sheltered us, risked their lives tae get us here?”
There was no mockery in her tone now, only quiet conviction. The same stubborn fire that had driven her to face him in council, to stand before his men like she belonged there.
He looked at her for a long moment, the fight in him faltering.
Behind her, Alyson shifted awkwardly. “We dinnae mean tae cause trouble, me laird,” she said softly. “But Catherine’s right. It daesnae feel right tae stay behind.”
Catherine’s gaze didn’t waver. “We want tae help. That’s all.”
Aidan’s breath came slow, heavy. The logic was sound. The clan could use every willing hand. And yet the thought of bringing her anywhere near danger made something primal and furious coil in his gut.
She met his gaze without flinching, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
Around them, the courtyard buzzed with motion but the noise seemed distant, dulled.
He saw the same quiet defiance he’d seen in the stable, in the council chamber, in every breath she took.
And damn him, he couldn’t look away. She wasn’t fragile. She never had been.
Aidan felt something in his chest tighten painfully. He turned to Bruce, who was standing a few paces off pretending very badly not to listen. “If they’re tae come,” Aidan said, “they’ll stay close tae the wagons. Nay strayin’. Nay arguments.”
Bruce blinked, startled. “Ye’re lettin’ them go?”
Aidan gave him a look that brooked no further comment. “Get the carts ready. We leave within the hour.”
Catherine’s expression softened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. “Thank ye.”
“Dinnae thank me,” he said, voice flat. “Ye’ll reconsider when ye see the mud.”
She smiled faintly, the smallest curve of her lips. “Aye, well, I’ll try nae tae ruin me shoes.”
He almost smiled in return but stopped himself.
Instead, he turned away, barking orders to the men, the practiced rhythm of command returning like armor.
But even as he spoke, he could feel her eyes on him.
Steady, bright, alive. And beneath the weight of his words, beneath the grind of duty, one thought kept pushing through, clear and inescapable. She’d convinced him. Again.
When the party finally assembled, the air had grown thick with the scent of river and moss. Horses stamped, the sound of leather and steel filling the yard. Aidan mounted first, scanning the line of riders, the carts behind them loaded with tools and supplies.
Catherine stood with her sisters near the last wagon, hair caught by the wind, her gown plain but somehow more striking than any finery. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze across the distance. For one fleeting moment, everything stilled.
Aidan forced himself to look away. He couldn’t afford to let her see what she did to him, when she already had too much power over him.
He gave the signal to move.