Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The pale morning light slanted through the windows. Aidan lay awake, eyes open to the dim ceiling, though he had not truly slept at all.
Catherine’s breathing filled the quiet. Soft, steady, a rhythm that seemed to mock the chaos in his chest. She was curled toward him beneath the tangled sheet, auburn hair spilling across the pillow.
He had never seen her so still, without that stubborn tilt of her chin, the defiance that always met him halfway between fury and fire.
Now she looked younger, almost untouched by the world that had tried to claim her.
He told himself to look away but couldn't. His hand hovered for a moment before he let it rest lightly against the curve of her shoulder. Warmth. The living proof of everything he’d sworn he’d never take.
His throat tightened as he looked at her face, the faint line of her mouth still marked by last night’s kisses, her lashes trembling with dreams he could only imagine.
He shouldn’t have kept her here. Shouldn’t have let himself reach for her again after swearing he wouldn’t.
But he could still taste her on his lips, still hear her voice breaking against his name.
Every rule he’d set had shattered in her hands, and all that remained was that—quiet, impossible peace wrapped in sin.
Aidan drew a breath that didn’t steady him. Guilt sat in his chest like armor he couldn’t shed. For the first time in years, he didn’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.
He pushed the thought away. Carefully, he shifted from the bed, planting one foot to the floor, his movements controlled so as not to wake her. The air was cool, biting against his bare back as he reached for his shirt from the chair. He glanced at her one last time before pulling it over his head.
She stirred faintly when he leaned close again. Not enough to wake, just enough that she breathed his name in her sleep, barely a whisper, like a secret that shouldn’t exist.
Aidan froze. His hand lingered above her for a heartbeat, and then he gave in to the smallest weakness he’d allow himself. A single kiss to her forehead. A promise he’d never speak aloud.
Then, he straightened, jaw tight, and left the chamber before the morning could betray him.
Outside, the world was still half-dark. Mist hung low over the hills, curling around the watchtowers like smoke. The scent of pine and wet earth filled his lungs as he crossed the courtyard, where the men were already gathering for patrol. Horses snorted in the chill, their breath clouding the air.
Gordon was waiting beside the gate, reins in hand, his expression too perceptive for Aidan’s liking.
“Ye’re early,” he said, a half-grin ghosting over his face. “Couldnae sleep?”
Aidan mounted his horse in silence, adjusting the reins with unnecessary precision. “We’ve too much tae guard fer sleep.”
“Aye,” Gordon said easily, swinging into his saddle. “Or too much on yer mind.”
The remark cut close. Aidan said nothing, spurring his horse forward as the patrol moved out through the gate. The sound of hooves echoed over the damp stone, and for a long while, the only sound was the steady rhythm of iron against earth.
The valley stretched before them in layers of pale green and silver mist. Pines swayed high on the ridges, and somewhere beyond, the river whispered against the rocks.
It was a landscape Aidan had known since boyhood, every path carved into his memory, yet it felt foreign now, like even the land knew something in him had shifted.
Gordon rode close, silent until the first hour passed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, the tone that meant he wouldn’t be ignored. “She’s changed ye.”
Aidan’s grip tightened around the reins. “Mind yer tongue.”
“Ye ken I’m right.” Gordon’s tone didn’t rise, but there was amusement under it. “I’ve seen ye in battle, seen ye drunk, seen ye curse God Himself when the harvest failed. Never seen ye look at anyone like ye look at her.”
“Enough.”
Gordon only laughed softly, the sound infuriating in its calm. “I’m nay fool, Aidan. The whole castle can see it. And if they can, then her braithers will too.”
Aidan’s jaw worked as he stared out toward the horizon. The peaks in the distance were washed in pale light now, the sun breaking slowly through the mist. “Her braithers are the reason this cannae happen.”
“Then what happened last night? At the dinner table?”
Aidan didn’t answer. His breath came sharp through his nose, hands tightening around the reins until the leather creaked.
Gordon watched him a long moment before speaking again. “Ye’re a stubborn bastard. Ye think hiding it’ll make it go away, but it willnae. Whatever’s burning ye, it’ll burn ye alive afore it fades.”
Aidan turned his head sharply, eyes like steel. “Ye think I dinnae ken that? That I dinnae ken what I’m riskin’?”
“Then tell me,” Gordon said, calm as ever. “What dae ye fear more—losin’ her, or losin’ Tòrr’s friendship?”
The question landed like a blow. Aidan stared ahead, but the world blurred at the edges. He’d fought beside Tòrr MacDonald. Saved his life once, nearly lost his own for it. That bond was made of blood and to betray that was unthinkable.
But then there was Catherine. Her voice, her defiance, the way she looked at him as if she saw past every layer of sin he’d built around himself. He’d spent half his life pretending nothing could reach him. And yet she had, without even trying.
Gordon broke the silence again, voice softer now. “Ye’ve got tae choose which loss ye can live with.”
Aidan let the words sit between them. The wind caught at his plaid, lifting it in a low flutter. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to let the ache in his chest show.
“She’s under me protection,” he said finally. “That’s all that matters.”
Gordon gave a quiet laugh. “Ye can call it that, but ye and I both ken it’s nae protection that keeps her close. It’s want.”
Aidan’s glare could have cut stone. “Mind yerself.”
Gordon raised a brow but didn’t back down. “I am. I’m remindin’ ye that this might be the end o’ one o’ yer loyalties. I’ve seen it before. A man can be laird o’ his lands or laird o’ his heart—but seldom both.”
Aidan said nothing. The wind had changed, carrying the scent of heather and rain. He felt it in his bones, that restless pull, the certainty that his life had turned down a path he could no longer walk away from.
When they stopped near the ridge to scan the northern valley, the air was cold enough to sting. Aidan dismounted, boots sinking into wet earth. Below them, the river glimmered, running swift with the melt from the high peaks. He took it in silently, arms folded across his chest.
Gordon watched him from the saddle. “Ye dinnae fool me, ye ken. Ye’re already lost tae her.”
Aidan’s voice was low. “She deserves better than me.”
“Maybe,” Gordon said simply. “But that’s fer her tae decide, nae ye.”
Aidan looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. “And if I let it happen? If I let this thing take root, and it ruins everythin’ I’ve built with the MacDonalds—what then?”
“Then ye’ll live with the truth, instead o’ lyin’ tae yerself.”
Aidan turned away, jaw locked. His breath came slow, controlled. He watched the wind move through the valley like water, bending the grass in long waves. He let himself imagine her there—hair loose in the wind, her laughter breaking the quiet. The image cut deeper than any blade.
He swung back onto his horse, voice rough when he spoke. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s head back.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the patrol. The sun had climbed higher, washing the hills in gold, but inside him everything felt grey.
The courtyard was alive again by the time they returned.
Hooves clattered against the flagstones, men called orders, the clang of iron rang faintly from the smithy.
Aidan dismounted without a word, handing the reins to the nearest stable hand.
His body moved on habit, but his thoughts hadn’t returned with him.
“Laird,” called one of the younger riders, jogging toward him with a sealed parchment in hand. “Message from the south. Brought by a messenger who said it couldnae wait.”
Aidan took it, recognizing the seal before the lad spoke another word. The MacLeod crest, just as arrogant as its master. His stomach knotted.
He turned the letter over once, thumb tracing the wax, but he didn’t open it yet. The day already carried enough weight. He tucked the message inside his coat and walked through the gates, each step measured, silent, deliberate.
Inside the hall, the air was heavy with the scent of smoke and peat. A fire burned low in the hearth, and for a moment he stood there, letting the warmth touch him, trying to quiet the storm still beating behind his ribs.
He crossed the hall and climbed the stone stairs, boots echoing faintly. The corridor at the top was quiet. A maid passed, curtseying quickly, eyes averted; he barely noticed. His hand lifted, almost without his will, and he knocked once on her door.
When it opened, the world righted itself and unsteadied again in the same breath.
She stood there in a pale gown, hair still loose from sleep, a single curl brushing her throat. Her eyes found him instantly—calm at first, then flickering with that wary curiosity he’d come to crave more than peace itself.
“Me laird,” she said softly, the words cautious, almost formal.
“Come ridin’ with me.”
The directness startled even him. He hadn’t meant to sound like an order, but it came out that way.
Catherine blinked. “Now?”
“Aye. The air’ll dae ye good.”
Her mouth parted, like she meant to protest, but then she studied him, and whatever she saw there silenced the question. She nodded once. “Give me a moment.”
He waited in the corridor, the walls pressing close. When she stepped out again, she wore her riding cloak, the hood pushed back, and her gloves in hand. The sight of her—bright against the dull stone—was enough to unravel whatever restraint he’d gathered.