Chapter 15 #2
The gates of Achnacarry creaked open, sunlight glinting off the wet stones as they set out toward the glen. Behind him, the sound of hooves and wagon wheels rose in rhythm, steady and strong.
The ride to the glen took the better part of the morning.
The road wound along the river, still swollen from the rain, its banks glittering in the sunlight.
Aidan rode at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.
Behind him came the carts, the men, and the faint murmur of the sisters’ voices weaving through the steady rhythm of hooves.
He refused to turn, but he could feel her there, somewhere among the wagons, her presence like a pulse beneath the noise.
By the time they reached the first of the flooded villages, the day had brightened fully.
Smoke curled from a few intact chimneys, but most of the cottages stood dark, their doors unhinged, their yards drowned in mud.
The stream that ran through the settlement had overflowed its banks, cutting a new path through the center of the road.
Children huddled near the embankment, their faces streaked with dirt, while the men of the village waited with hollow eyes for instruction.
Aidan dismounted, boots sinking into the muck.
He took a slow look around. “Bruce,” he said, voice firm.
“Take half the men tae the north side. Start clearin’ the debris from the bridge.
Gordon, see what can be salvaged from the stores.
The rest, wi’ me. We’ll reinforce the stables before the roof caves in. ”
He turned then—and froze.
Catherine was already in the thick of it.
She’d abandoned the safety of the carts and was knee-deep in mud beside Alyson, sleeves rolled to her elbows, skirts tied up to keep them from dragging.
Her hands were covered in soot and soil as she helped two of the village women haul a broken shutter from the water.
Sofia darted between them, ferrying dry cloth to where the children sat huddled beneath a makeshift awning.
Aidan had seen noblewomen play at charity before, with smiles and soft words for show, their hands too delicate to touch the dirt. But Catherine didn’t look delicate now. She looked capable. Determined. There was a steadiness in her movements, a focus that silenced even the men who’d been wary.
He should have told her to step back. He should have reminded her she didn’t belong there. But the words never came.
“Me laird!” Bruce called, pulling him from his thoughts. “We’ll need more hands at the bridge. The beams are heavier than we thought.”
Aidan nodded, still half watching Catherine as she knelt to comfort a crying child. He forced himself to turn, striding toward the north end of the village.
For the next hour, he worked beside his men, clearing wreckage, setting new supports where the current had undercut the road. Sweat stung his eyes, the ache in his arms grounding him in the rhythm of labor.
When he looked up again, she was there.
Catherine stood near the ruined stables, hair coming loose in the wind, her gown spattered with mud. Bruce had joined her, gesturing toward the fallen beams as he spoke. Whatever he said made her laugh.
Aidan’s grip on the plank in his hands tightened.
Bruce had always been charming, easy with his words, harmless enough when it came to the village girls. But this was different. Catherine wasn’t a passing flirtation. She was—
He cut off the thought before it could finish.
“Bruce!” Aidan’s voice carried across the yard, low but sharp.
Bruce turned, blinking. “Aye, me laird?”
“Leave the lady tae her work, the beams willnae move themselves.”
A flicker of confusion crossed Bruce’s face, then a faint grin. “Aye, as ye say.” He smiled at Catherine and jogged off toward the men.
Catherine turned, brow furrowed. “Was that necessary?”
“Very.” Aidan wiped his hands on his plaid, refusing to meet her eyes. “He’s better suited tae lift timber than chatter.”
She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “Ye’re impossible.”
He walked past her, toward the stables. The roof sagged dangerously under the weight of wet straw and broken timbers. “We’ll need tae get these beams off before they collapse. Gordon, take the south side. Bruce—”
He paused. Bruce was already there, crouched at one end of a massive log, waiting.
Aidan moved to the other end, bracing his stance. “On me count. One… two—heave!”
The wood shifted with a groan, heavy as stone.
The men strained, mud sucking at their boots.
When it still refused to budge, Aidan dropped his end, stepped forward, and gripped the log with both hands.
His shoulders tightened, his back straightened, and with one hard pull, he lifted.
The muscles in his arms and chest strained, every line of him taut with effort.
The beam came free. He threw it aside, the motion so fluid it barely seemed human. The men stared for a heartbeat before resuming their work.
Catherine saw it all.
She stood a few paces away, eyes wide despite herself, her lips parted slightly. When he glanced up, neither looked away.
He turned first, the corner of his mouth tightening as he brushed past her. “Ye’d best stand back, me lady. This part’s nae fer watchin’.”
She swallowed, her voice a touch unsteady. “I was only thinkin’ ye make a fine show o’ it.”
He almost smiled.
The rest of the debris came down quickly after that. When they pushed open the stable doors, the air inside was thick with the smell of damp straw and fear. The horses snorted and stamped, their eyes wide, nostrils flaring at the chaos outside.
“They’re spooked,” one of the men said, keeping to the doorway.
“Aye,” Aidan replied. “Too long cooped up wi’ the storm still in their ears.”
“Shall we lead them out?”
“Nae yet.” Aidan stepped inside, voice lowering instinctively. “If ye rush them, they’ll bolt.”
He moved slowly through the shadows, his boots whispering over the straw. The nearest horse tossed its head, hooves striking the floor. He paused, studying the twitch of its muscles, the wild edge in its breathing.
Then, an idea.
He turned his head slightly. “Lady Catherine,” he called, his tone calm but clear.
She appeared in the doorway, surprise flickering across her face. “Aye?”
“Come here.”
She hesitated. “What fer?”
“Because ye’re a horse whisperer,” he said simply, without looking back.
A murmur rippled among the men. Catherine’s cheeks flushed. “Ye exaggerate.”
“Dae I?” He turned then, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “I saw what ye did at the keep.”
She stepped closer, skirts brushing the straw. “Ye’re serious.”
“Aye,” he said softly, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ve learned nae tae underestimate ye.”
Her eyes widened slightly, the color rising in her cheeks. “Ye’ve a strange way o’ showin’ it.”
He moved nearer, until she could feel the warmth radiating from him. His hand came to rest briefly at the small of her back, steady, grounding. “Dinnae be afraid,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “I ken what ye can dae. I trust ye.”
The steady weight of his hand, the quiet conviction beneath the words. She drew a breath and stepped forward, her fingers brushing the nearest horse’s muzzle.
And though he told himself it was folly, that it couldn’t last, that his friendship with Tòrr demanded better of him, Aidan Cameron knew something had shifted. The storms outside had passed, but the one inside him had only just begun.