Chapter 17 #2
Catherine stood across the circle, framed by the glow, her hair bright as flame against the night.
Her sisters hovered close, but it was she who drew the attention.
The villagers had started calling her the Horse Whisperer.
The name had spread like smoke and now one of the older men was telling the tale aloud, exaggerating every detail until the children gasped and the women smiled behind their hands.
“They say,” the man declared, holding up his cup, “that when the laird himself couldnae tame the beast, it was the lady who walked right up tae it. Calm as a priestess, eyes o’ gold, and nay more fear than the wind.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Catherine’s cheeks flushed crimson in the firelight. “Saints, that’s nonsense,” she protested, though her voice was lost beneath the cheer that followed.
The storyteller grinned, unbothered. “Aye, but what’s life without a bit o’ nonsense, eh?”
Aidan’s lips almost curved. Almost.
He caught the moment she turned, her eyes finding him through the haze of smoke and flame. For one suspended breath, she looked at him as though he were the only steady thing in the world. Then her gaze dropped, the color deepening in her cheeks.
He should have looked away. Should have reminded himself that this warmth was a luxury he had no right to want. But the sight of her, flushed and radiant in the firelight, felt like something he’d been starving for without knowing it.
Gordon’s elbow nudged his side. “Careful, me laird. Ye keep starin’ like that and folk’ll start writin’ new tales tae tell.”
Aidan shot him a look that silenced him fast enough. “Go make yerself useful,” he muttered. “See that the watchmen are in place.”
Gordon grinned, all too pleased. “Aye, me laird.”
When he was gone, Aidan moved around the circle, his boots crunching softly over the damp ground. The heat of the bonfire brushed his face. Catherine was speaking to one of the village girls, her laughter low.
He stopped just behind her. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from both the fire and her.
“If ye stand any closer,” he said quietly, “ye’ll burn.”
She startled slightly, glancing up at him. Her cheeks were already pink, her lips parted in a breath that misted faintly in the cold air.
“Maybe I need tae burn,” she said, the words leaving her before she could stop them.
Aidan’s chest tightened. The fire crackled between them, throwing shadows that danced across her face. “Ye dinnae ken what ye’re sayin’,” he said finally, his voice low, but it wasn’t a reprimand. It was almost a warning.
She turned back toward the flames. “Maybe I dae.”
The firelight flickered, the air thick with heat and smoke and something he couldn’t name. Around them, the villagers kept singing, laughter spilling into the night. But for him, the world had narrowed to the space between her shoulder and his breath.
He could have reached out then, could have brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen against her cheek, could have traced the warmth of her skin where the firelight touched it. But he didn’t.
Instead, he said quietly, “Ye’ve done good here.”
She looked at him sidelong, eyes glinting. “Is that a compliment?”
“A rare one,” he admitted.
Her smile flickered, small and quick. “Then I’ll treasure it.”
The villagers’ song rose louder, voices twining into a ballad of loss and homecoming.
Someone threw another log onto the fire, and sparks leapt high, raining briefly before fading into the night.
Catherine tilted her head back to watch them.
The reflection of the flames danced in her eyes, and something about the sight made his pulse falter.
He should leave. He knew it. He had men to manage, walls to rebuild, a hundred things that didn’t involve standing there wanting what he shouldn’t. But his feet refused to move.
When she spoke again, her voice was soft, meant for him alone. “It feels strange, daesnae it? Laughin’ after so much ruin.”
“Aye,” he said. “But laughter keeps folk alive. Same as fightin’.”
She studied him, her brow furrowing. “And what keeps ye alive, me laird? Duty?”
He hesitated. Then, quietly, “Aye. Duty.”
She looked back to the fire, her expression unreadable. “A lonely thing, that.”
Before he could answer, one of the older women stood, clapping her hands to signal the end of the night.
The crowd began to thin, laughter trailing away into tired goodbyes.
The embers glowed low, painting everything in red and gold.
Catherine turned to fetch her cloak, but Aidan’s voice stopped her.
“Catherine.”
She froze, her back to him. “Aye?”
“I meant what I said,” he said quietly. “Ye should keep yer distance from the fire.”
She glanced over her shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Ye worry too much, me laird.”
“I’ve reason tae.”
Her smile deepened, half amusement, half challenge. “Then maybe ye should stop givin’ yerself so many reasons.”
He didn’t answer. The last of the villagers drifted away, leaving only a few soldiers to stamp out the edges of the fire. Catherine lingered, watching the smoke rise into the starless sky.
Aidan found himself walking beside her, silent for a few moments before asking, “Ye and Bruce. There somethin’ there?”
The question left him before he could think better of it.
She turned to him, brows lifting in surprise. “Bruce?”
He kept his tone casual, though his jaw tightened. “Ye seemed friendly earlier.”
Catherine blinked, realization dawning. Then, to his irritation, she laughed—a soft, startled sound. “Is that what this is about? Bruce?”
He said nothing.
Her laughter faded into something gentler. “There’s naethin’ between us, Aidan. He’s nice. That’s all. I like nice people.”
He looked at her then, his gaze steady. “Nice,” he repeated.
“Aye. They’re easier tae live wi’ than men who scowl at ye every time ye speak.”
“That depends on the reason fer the scowlin’.”
“Oh?” Her voice held a hint of mischief. “And what reason have ye, me laird?”
He didn’t answer, but he look he gave her was answer enough. She glanced toward the tavern, the laughter of her sisters faintly audible from the doorway. “I should go,” she said softly.
“Aye.”
She hesitated. “Good night, then.”
He inclined his head, his voice low. “Good night, Catherine.”
She turned to leave, her steps slow, skirts brushing the mud. He watched her until the tavern door closed behind her, the light inside swallowing her whole.
Only when she was gone did he realize how cold the night had grown.
He didn’t go inside right away. He stood for a while beneath the stars that weren’t there, listening to the faint sounds of the village settling into uneasy sleep. His men had found their beds, the fires were nearly dead, and yet he felt no pull toward rest.
When he finally did return to the tavern, the air inside was thick with smoke and ale. The lower hall had emptied save for a few men snoring into their cups. Aidan crossed the floor in silence, his boots barely making a sound against the wood. The innkeeper pointed him up the stairs without a word.
Her door was the first on the left. He knew it because he could hear her sisters beyond, their voices low, drowsy, laughing still.
He paused outside it for a heartbeat, long enough to hate himself for stopping, for listening. Then he moved on, his own room at the far end of the hall.
The chamber was small, the window narrow, but it was clean. He stripped off his boots, his sword belt, and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the coals pulsing faintly red.
He tried to think of the day’s work, but his mind betrayed him. All he could see was her, that fleeting moment when the firelight had caught her hair, when she’d turned and looked at him as though she’d been waiting for him to speak her name. He cursed softly under his breath.
Sleep didn’t come easily. It never did, but that night, it refused altogether.
He lay back, staring at the dark rafters above, his hands folded behind his head. The ache in his chest was a steady, maddening pulse. He told himself it was the storm still lingering, the fatigue of days without rest, the weight of command. But he knew better.
He was burning too.