Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
She stood before him in the quiet of the hall, her hair damp and tangled, streaks of soot tracing her cheeks like war paint.
Even like that, with blood on her sleeve, smoke clinging to her skin, fear still trembling faintly in her hands, she was beautiful in a way that made something inside him ache.
Her eyes, red from tears, still caught the firelight and held it as if it belonged to her.
He wanted to touch her. God help him, he wanted to draw her close, to press his mouth to her hair and tell her he would always be there to protect her, that she’d never have to run again.
The urge came sudden and sharp, cutting through the exhaustion and the chaos still ringing in his head.
He could almost feel what it would be like—her warmth against him, her breath against his throat—and for one dangerous moment, he let himself imagine it.
Then he caught himself.
No. That was not for him.
Aidan turned his gaze toward the hearth, forcing the thought away.
He could not afford to think of her like that when her brothers trusted him with her life, not when the weight of his failure still hung in the air like smoke.
She needed steadiness, not whatever weakness stirred in him when she looked at him like that.
“Go take a bath,” he said quietly, his voice roughened by smoke and something else. “Ye’ll feel better once ye’re in the water.”
Catherine blinked, as if pulling herself back to the present. Her lips parted slightly, and he caught the faint tremor in her breath before she nodded.
“Thank ye, Aidan,” she whispered.
The sound of her voice did something to him, soft and small, but steady enough to make his chest tighten. He wanted to reach out, to brush away the soot still smudged along her jaw, but he kept his hands at his sides, every muscle taut with restraint.
“Go,” he said again, more gently. “Rest. That’s an order.”
She hesitated, then turned and walked toward the corridor.
The firelight followed her as she moved, glinting against her hair, tracing the line of her neck where the pulse still beat fast and fragile beneath her skin.
He watched her until the shadows took her, until her footsteps faded, until the hall was once again only stone, silence, and smoke.
He stood there a long while after she was gone, his heart still beating faster than it should have. The hall felt colder for her absence.
He drew in a breath and turned toward his study and the table where the council papers lay scattered—maps, troop records, last week’s patrol logs.
Outside, the wind howled against the shutters, carrying with it the faint smell of smoke from the village. He hated that smell. It reminded him of every failure he’d sworn he’d never repeat.
Gordon entered without knocking, as he always did, rain dripping from the edge of his plaid. “The villagers are settled. Nay casualties.”
Aidan gave a short nod. “Good.”
“Ye should rest,” Gordon said, lowering his voice. “Ye’ve nae sat since dawn.”
“I’ll rest when I ken why me men let a band o’ MacLeods intae me land.” The tone was quiet, but it cut through the room like steel.
Gordon hesitated before answering. “Most o’ them fled once Edwin pulled back. We counted six dead in the field—more scattered through the woods. The rest are limpin’ home wi’ their tails between their legs.”
Aidan’s jaw flexed, the flicker of fury and guilt plain in his eyes. “They should’ve never crossed that border.”
“Aye,” Gordon said softly. “But they’ll think twice afore they try again.”
Gordon said nothing for a moment, then sighed, the sound of it weary. “The men are gatherin’ fer Council, as ye asked.”
“Then let’s nae keep them waitin’,” he said, his voice low, the edge of command sharpening it back into something steady.
He reached for his cloak, still damp from the rain, and crossed the hall in long, deliberate strides.
The torches along the corridor hissed faintly as the movement hit them, their light flickering over the walls.
Each step echoed against the floor, heavy with the weight of what had almost been lost.
He pushed open the door to the council chamber, where the air was thick with damp wool and firelight and the scent of scorched timber that had followed him from the village.
Aidan took his seat at the head of the long oak table, his hands flat against the wood, his jaw set.
Around him, his men shuffled in their chairs—Gordon, Bruce, Donnach, three elders from the village, and Fergus.
All of them looked as though they’d been dragged through the storm, faces drawn and pale from exhaustion.
Finally, Donnach cleared his throat. “We had nay warning, me laird. The MacLeods came from the east, movin’ quiet through the tree line. The guards didnae notice the torches until the flames—”
Aidan’s voice cut through the room. “Then the watch was blind. I want tae ken why.”
The older man faltered. “We were short numbered. Half the watch was helpin’ wi’ repairs after the flood. There was confusion.”
“Confusion?” Aidan repeated softly, leaning forward. “Confusion lets a MacLeod torch three huts and nearly take a woman under me protection? Confusion is what ye’re givin’ me?”
No one spoke. The fire popped sharply, sending sparks up the chimney.
Bruce shifted in his chair. “It wasnae their intent tae harm the villagers, me laird. They thought Lady Catherine was in yer keep. The fire was meant tae scare ye—make ye hand her over.”
The name lodged in Aidan’s chest like a blade. He stared at the young man for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Aye. I ken well what they wanted.”
Bruce hesitated. “Some of them went tae the village after MacLeod heard us mention where they were.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his temples.
The room felt too small, too hot. Catherine’s scream still rang somewhere in the back of his mind, that sound of panic and fight tangled together.
He’d never forget it. He could still see her in the smoke, her hair matted, her skin streaked with soot, her eyes wild with terror, and the way she’d trembled in his arms after, trying to hide it from him.
He had sworn no one would ever touch her. And yet, they nearly just had.
He looked up sharply. “From now on, there’ll be double patrols at dawn and dusk. Every road, every bridge. If a rabbit twitches on Cameron soil, I want tae ken.”
Gordon nodded once. “Aye, me laird.”
“The guards at the north border—replace them. I want men who can keep their eyes open through rain.”
“Yes, me laird.”
“And Bruce,” Aidan added, his tone quiet again, which somehow made it worse. “Ye’ll now return tae yer clan with a two dozen of me men to sort out the situation. Thank ye fer staying on and helping us today.”
Bruce swallowed. “Aye, me laird. And thank ye, me laird.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rain and the occasional scrape of wood as someone shifted.
Aidan’s gaze swept the table, filled with men who’d sworn to protect that land, to protect their people, and all he could feel was the sharp, gnawing edge of anger. Not only at them, but at himself.
He’d seen it coming, hadn’t he? The signs were there. Edwin’s desperation, his warning, the unease that had been growing like a sickness through the glens. He should have known they would strike again, that they’d come for her.
But instead, he’d let his guard down.
He pushed back his chair and stood. “Get some rest. Ye’ll need it. We start again at first light.”
The men rose, murmuring quiet acknowledgments before filing out into the corridor. Gordon lingered behind.
“Ye’re blamin’ yerself,” he said when they were alone.
Aidan’s eyes met his. “I’m blamin’ the man in charge.”
Gordon folded his arms. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
“Aye. Fer now.”
Gordon said nothing, only gave a slow, knowing nod before leaving him alone with the fire.
When the door shut, Aidan exhaled and dropped into the chair nearest the hearth. The flames threw shadows across the walls, long and shifting. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed his hands to his face.
He could still feel the tremor in her body when he’d lifted her from the floor, the warmth of her breath against his neck when she’d whispered his name.
She’d been terrified, and still she’d fought.
He admired that. It was the same fire that had drawn him to her from the first moment, though he’d pretended it hadn’t.
But that night, something in that fire had changed. He had seen not just pride, but her vulnerability too—the kind that stripped a man bare if he let it.
He’d held her too close. Too long. He knew that. He could still feel the ghost of her weight in his arms, the scent of her hair clinging to his skin. He had to forget it, but desperately wanted to remember it.
Aidan let his hands drop, staring into the flames. He had fought battles that had taken half his men, faced storms that nearly drowned his fleet, but nothing unsettled him like the thought of that woman in danger.
It made no sense. He’d told himself from the start that she was Tòrr’s sister, a guest, a responsibility—nothing more. But when he’d seen that hut on fire, when he’d heard her scream, something inside him had gone cold and wild all at once. It had felt like losing breath underwater.
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his jaw, trying to chase the thought away.
It wasn’t supposed to matter. None of it was. He had built his life on control, on never letting the things he cared for become the things his enemies could use against him. He couldn’t afford softness. And yet—
He heard her laugh in his memory, light and defiant, from that first night at Achnacarry when she’d mocked the size of his castle. He saw the way she’d stood her ground when he’d barked at her in the stables. No fear or flinch, only that fire.
That fire was going to ruin him. And though he would never admit it aloud, not to any man, not even to himself, he knew then with absolute clarity that he was already lost.