Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The world was fire and shouting and smoke.
Catherine had never known fear like that—raw and living, with teeth.
The village had been peaceful only moments before, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and the sound of children laughing as they hauled what was left of the barley from the flooded ground.
Now there were men in MacLeod colors tearing through the lane, torches in hand, voices cutting through the rain like knives.
She barely caught sight of Sofia’s braid whipping through the smoke before a scream ripped the air—her sister’s voice, thin and terrified—and then a hand seized her arm so hard it wrenched her backward.
“Let go!”
The cry tore from her throat, raw and instinctive, but the man’s grip only tightened, the strength in it brutal and certain.
He dragged her into the narrow space between two huts where the firelight couldn’t reach.
His breath was hot against her cheek, thick with ale and rot.
Mud streaked his face, the rain cutting channels through the grime, and his eyes gleamed yellow in the flicker of flame—wild, hungry, the eyes of a man who’d already decided what he was about to do.
“Ye’ll come wi’ us, lass,” he hissed, pressing her hard against the wall. “Our laird’s been waitin’.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She could taste the smoke on her tongue, the salt of fear rising in her throat. The torchlight caught on his teeth when he grinned, and something inside her snapped.
Her knee shot up before she thought, catching him hard in the ribs. He grunted, swore, and swung at her, but she ducked beneath his arm and tore free, skirts catching in the mud. Another man reached for her, catching only a handful of linen as she darted between two burning stalls.
“Catherine!” someone shouted—Sofia, desperate, faint beneath the roar of the flames.
The air was thick with smoke now, choking and hot. Sparks spat like angry insects in every direction. She stumbled across the yard, the ground slick beneath her shoes. Behind her, the shouts grew louder, closer.
“Find her!” one of them barked. “The laird wants her alive!”
She ran. Her lungs burned, her throat scraped raw from the smoke, but she didn’t dare stop. The path that had been soft with rain that morning was now a trail of ash and ember. The roofs of two cottages had already caught—bright orange tongues licking greedily at the thatch.
She reached the far end of the lane where the ground dipped toward the river, her lungs burning, her skirts heavy with mud and rain.
The huts here were smaller, crooked things with sagging roofs and walls that leaned against the wind as though they’d long ago given up standing proud.
One stood a little apart from the rest, its door hanging half-open, blackness yawning within.
She stumbled toward it, tripping on the uneven step, her palms scraping against the wet wood as she pushed herself inside and was swallowed by the dark.
The air was thick with the scent of peat and damp wool, of smoke that had seeped into the walls years before and never left.
She pressed her back to the nearest beam, chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts that filled the silence.
Her pulse thudded in her temples so violently she thought it might split her skull.
Outside, the night was alive with the pounding of boots and the fractured sound of men shouting—MacLeod voices, fierce and unrelenting. She could hear them calling to one another, their words broken by the storm, the flames, the chaos. And then, just as suddenly, the noise fell away.
Silence. Only the low crackle of distant fire and the faint rush of the river winding somewhere beyond the trees.
She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath, to make herself smaller, quieter. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, thunderous and desperate, and she thought with a kind of sick panic that if she could hear it so loudly, surely they could too.
One breath. Then another. And for the smallest, most fragile of moments, she dared to believe she was safe.
Then the light changed. It began as a dim shimmer beneath the door—a dull, red glow that grew, deepened, spread until the darkness itself seemed to breathe with it.
She turned her head slowly, every muscle tight with dread, and through a narrow gap in the wall she saw the first tongue of flame slip across the yard.
It moved with a terrible, eager grace, devouring everything it touched, the wet earth no match for it.
Oil must have been poured there. The realization struck her like ice. It wasn’t chaos. It was planned.
Her hands trembled. She could taste the smoke already, feel the heat rising as if the air itself had turned against her. She backed away from the wall, heart pounding harder, as the beam above the door creaked. The sound was low and wrong, like the groan of a wounded animal.
“No,” she whispered, eyes stinging. “Please—”
It came down in a storm of sparks.
The crash knocked her sideways. She hit the floor hard, coughing as smoke filled her mouth. The beam landed across the doorway, blocking out the only light. The air thickened. Heat pressed in from every side.
Catherine tried to push herself up, but her hands slipped in the soot. The edges of her vision swam. For one mad instant she thought she saw her mother’s face in the smoke—then it was gone, replaced by the blinding red of the fire.
She clawed at the fallen wood, nails splintering. “Help!” Her voice broke. She tried again, louder this time. “Aidan!”
Her throat seized from the smoke, but she kept calling. “Aidan!”
Somewhere outside, through the roar of flame, she thought she heard a man’s voice answer. It was faint, hoarse, but it was there.
She couldn’t stop shaking. The air was burning now, every breath a punishment. She pressed the hem of her skirt to her mouth, coughing, blinking against the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be the woman her brothers believed her to be—the one who never faltered, never bowed her head. But all she could think was I’m going tae die here, and the thought was so small and so sharp it hollowed her out completely.
Another crash outside. Then she heard fast, heavy boots.
“Catherine!” The sound of her name broke through the noise like the first breath after drowning.
“Aidan!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Here! I’m here!”
Something struck the door from the other side. A blade cut through the smoke—a sword slicing through the beam. She heard him curse, then the splinter of wood as he forced the last piece aside.
When the door finally gave, the rush of cool air hit her like water. Aidan’s broad silhouette filled the doorway, streaked with soot. His plaid was scorched along one edge, his hair damp and dark from rain and sweat.
“Christ, Catherine—”
He was beside her in an instant, his hands on her shoulders, checking for blood, for burns. She tried to speak but only coughed.
“I—”
“Hush,” he said roughly, gathering her up. “I’ve got ye.”
The world tilted as he lifted her against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his tunic, steady and furious. Outside, the night was alive with shouting. His men were dousing flames with buckets of river water, their voices echoing through the chaos.
Aidan carried her clear of the burning hut, setting her gently against a trough. His hand stayed on her arm as if afraid she might vanish if he let go.
“What happened?” he demanded, kneeling in front of her.
Catherine’s lips trembled. “They tried tae take me—two o’ them. I fought, got away, but—” She coughed, eyes watering. “The house—it was the only place I could hide. Then it caught fire. The beam fell. I thought—”
Her voice faltered.
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “Ye did well tae run.” His hand brushed soot from her hair, lingering a moment longer than it should have. “Ye’re safe now.”
The word safe broke something inside her. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, trying to steady herself, but tears slipped through her fingers.
He reached out, his thumb brushing away a tear before it could fall, his voice low and rough in the smoke-thick air. “Dinnae cry, lass. I’ve got ye.”
The words carried the weight of command, yet there was something in them—something raw and tender—that unraveled her completely.
She nodded because she had no strength left to argue, but it was a lie; the tears kept coming, silent and relentless, cutting through the soot on her cheeks as if her body refused to believe she was still alive.
He rose to his full height then, turning sharply toward the men still fighting the blaze, his voice carrying through the crackle of fire and the crash of water against burning wood.
“Gordon! Douse that wall before it spreads! Bruce—take the south side! I want every ember gone before the wind changes!”
The words struck like steel, pulling the men into motion.
Even through the haze clouding her mind, Catherine could hear them obey, the shouted replies vanishing into smoke.
The rain had begun to fall harder now, each drop hissing when it met the heat, the sound of it almost like a sigh from the earth itself.
Aidan did not leave her, not for a moment.
He shouted orders without once turning his eyes away from her, one hand still anchored to her shoulder as though the act of touching her was the only proof she was real.
Around them, the fire hissed and spat, the smell of wet ash thickening as the orange light dimmed to a tired glow.
Steam rose in pale ribbons, curling around his plaid and vanishing into the dark.
Slowly—so slowly it felt like the world itself was exhaling—the noise began to fade. The shouts quieted, the crackle softened, until only the rain remained, washing over the ruins of what had nearly taken her.
Aidan stood still for a long moment, his chest heaving with the rhythm of exhaustion and relief, and when he finally exhaled, it was sharp and heavy, a sound pulled from the depths of a man who had come far too close to losing something he did not yet know how to name.
“Only three huts,” Gordon called, coming up behind him. “The rest are safe. Losses minimal.”
Aidan nodded once, eyes still scanning the smoking edge of the village. “And MacLeod?”
Gordon shook his head. “Gone. Slipped through before the fire was out. We found the bodies o’ two o’ his men by the north path. Looks like he left in haste.”
A muscle tightened in Aidan’s jaw. “He’ll nae stay gone fer long.”
“Likely nae,” Gordon agreed.
Aidan’s gaze flicked back to Catherine, and his voice softened. “See tae the families. They’ll have supplies from the keep before dawn.”
Gordon clapped a hand to his shoulder, nodded once at Catherine, then strode off into the dark.
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain. Catherine sat perfectly still, her body trembling from the inside out. Every nerve felt raw, every breath uncertain. Aidan crouched beside her again, his eyes searching her face.
“Can ye stand?”
She tried. Her legs barely held. He caught her instantly, an arm firm around her waist.
“I dinnae think so,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Her voice came out small. “I can ride.”
He looked down at her, rain streaking through the soot on his face. “Aye,” he said finally, “but nae alone.”
He led her to his horse, the great black beast stamping and restless at the edge of the yard. Aidan mounted first, then pulled her up before him with one effortless motion. She gasped as she landed against his chest, his arm wrapping securely around her.
His warmth was almost unbearable. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the steady rhythm of his heart under her cheek.
She closed her eyes, letting herself rest against him.
The scent of smoke and rain and iron filled her lungs.
She didn’t understand how it was possible to feel both safe and unmoored, to tremble from fear and something else entirely, but she let it happen
He shifted slightly, adjusting the reins. “Hold tight.”
The horse moved, hooves splashing through the mud as they left the ruined huts behind. Catherine glanced back once, watching the smoke curl upward into the night, and felt a strange ache of grief and relief tangled together.
Her sisters would be safe. She was safe. But the memory of those flames would not leave her soon.
Aidan’s voice was low beside her ear. “Ye shouldnae have been out there alone.”
“I wasnae,” she murmured. “Nae until the end.”
He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “I should’ve been there sooner.”
“Ye were,” she said softly. “When it mattered.”
His arm tightened just slightly, his breath warm against her hair. “I thought I’d lost ye.”
The admission hung between them, heavier than the rain.
Catherine stared ahead at the road, her throat tight. She wanted to speak, to tell him something—anything—but the words refused to form. Instead, she let herself lean into him, just enough that he would feel it.
He didn’t move away.
The rhythm of the horse’s gait was steady, the night alive with the quiet rush of wind and water. The fires were far behind them now. Ahead, the dark silhouette of Achnacarry rose against the storm, its windows glowing faintly like beacons.
By the time they reached the gate, her eyelids were heavy. Aidan swung down first, then lifted her easily into his arms. The warmth of the hall hit them as he pushed the door open, light spilling over the stone floor.
Servants gasped softly when they saw her—the soot on her face, the tear in her sleeve. Marian ran forward with a blanket, eyes wide with worry.
“She’s fine,” Aidan said before Catherine could speak. “Get her warm food, a bath ready.” His voice softened. “She’s had enough fear fer one day.”
Catherine wanted to protest, to tell him she could walk, she could speak for herself, but her voice caught. Her body was too tired to fight.
As he set her down by the fire, she looked up at him. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the faint tremor in his hand as he brushed soot from her hair.
“Ye’re safe now,” he said again, quieter this time, almost as if he needed to hear it himself.
And she felt protected.