Chapter 30 #2
Catherine’s hand slid down his wrist, finding his pulse beneath her palm. It was racing, fast and uneven.
“Aidan—” she began, but the rest fell away, swallowed by the sight of him pulling back, the change in him almost painful to watch.
He rose, gathering his coat from the chair.
The movement was unhurried, deliberate, as though the act of dressing himself in duty again required every ounce of his strength.
When he turned, the man she had just held was gone.
The laird stood in his place—shoulders straight, jaw set, command slipping over him like armor he’d worn too many times before.
Only his eyes betrayed him. They found her in the firelight, dark and desperate, and in that single look she saw the truth—he didn’t want to go, but he already knew he must. The world outside was calling him back, and it would not wait.
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. For a moment, the silence between them felt alive—something tender and breaking, stretched so tight it might never mend. His gaze held hers, and she thought, for one impossible heartbeat, that he might come back to her instead of turning away.
But he didn’t.
The door opened, the draft of cold air brushing against her bare skin like a warning, and then he was gone.
The days blurred into one another, marked only by the reports that kept coming and the distant sound of the blacksmith’s hammer echoing across the yard.
Each dawn brought more scouts, more tidings of movement in the hills—MacLeod and Campbell both, driving their men through the glen with the arrogance of those who thought the Highlands would bow to them.
Aidan didn’t sleep much. He spent the nights in the war room, maps spread across the table, the fire burning low.
By the third day, the tension in the air was thick enough to taste. The men had sharpened every blade, checked every bowstring.
When noon came, Aidan sat in the hall with his captains, the long table crowded with trenchers and untouched bread.
Catherine sat at the far end, speaking quietly to one of the servants, her hair pinned up but a few strands loose where the firelight caught them.
She had been quieter since that night, steady on the surface but her eyes told him otherwise.
He could feel her silence more keenly than most men felt sound.
He kept his distance in public. He had to.
Every time their eyes met across the table, his thoughts went dark and dangerous.
He could still feel her skin under his hands, still taste her breath when she whispered his name against his mouth.
He had built walls his whole life, and now, for the first time, one woman had torn through every last one of them with nothing but a look.
He lifted his cup, meaning to drink, when the doors of the hall burst open.
“Tòrr MacDonald, Laird o’ Glencoe!” the guard called, breathless.
Instinct pulled him to his feet at once. His chair scraped back against the floor, the sound sharp in the hush that followed.
By the time Tòrr strode in, Aidan was already standing, every inch of him drawn taut.
His hand brushed the hilt of his sword out of habit, though there was no threat yet—only the weight of what had come through those doors.
Michael followed close behind, both men spattered with mud and travel dust, their cloaks torn by wind and rain, their faces carved in grim lines that told him everything before a word was spoken.
The hall fell silent. Even the fire seemed to still, its crackle muted beneath the gravity that entered with them.
“Aidan.”
Tòrr’s voice carried across the hall, roughened by wind and distance, but there was something in it that loosened the tightness in Aidan’s chest before he could stop it.
Weeks had passed since they’d stood in the same room, and for the first time in too long, the sight of him felt like solid ground.
“Tòrr.” Aidan crossed the space between them in a few strides, his hand finding his friend’s shoulder. “It’s been too long.”
Tòrr huffed out a low breath that might have been a laugh. “Aye. Ye look worse every time I see ye.”
Aidan’s mouth twitched. “And ye look the same—stubborn bastard that ye are.”
Behind Tòrr, Michael grinned faintly, the expression weary but genuine. “He’s nae wrong, Aidan. Ye look like ye’ve gone and forgotten what daylight looks like.”
Aidan gave a small snort. “Still got that tongue on ye, Michael. I’ll take that as proof ye survived the journey.”
Michael shrugged, the faintest gleam of pride in his eyes. “Barely. The ridge was nae kind.”
For a heartbeat, the tension eased, the three men standing together as they always had—warriors first, brothers in all but blood. Then Tòrr’s expression shifted, the smile dying as quickly as it had come. He stepped back, his jaw setting hard.
“We rode through the southern ridge,” he said, voice dropping. “The scouts were right. MacLeod’s army’s less than a day behind us.”
Aidan’s face hardened, the warmth between them replaced by the cold edge of command. “Then we’ll be ready.”
Tòrr’s attention shifted. His eyes found Catherine at the far end of the table. The muscle in his jaw tightened.
Aidan felt the change like a blow to the chest. He went still, every muscle drawn taut, his hand tightening around the edge of the table until the wood bit into his palm. He could already see the storm forming in Tòrr’s face, and the words that would follow.
“What in God’s name are ye daein’ here?”
Catherine rose slowly, her voice calm. “I chose tae be.”
“Chose tae be?” Tòrr’s tone turned sharp. “Ye were meant tae be halfway tae Perth by now! Ye defied me orders, lass, and rode back straight intae danger?”
Aidan saw the flicker of defiance in her eyes and felt his own restraint thin. He stepped forward before Tòrr could say more.
“She did what she thought was right,” Aidan said evenly. “Ye cannae fault her fer that.”
Tòrr turned on him. “And ye, Aidan? Ye let her stay? Ye ken what people will say if she’s here when—”
“When what?” Aidan cut in, his voice low but sharp enough to still the room. “When battle comes? When we bleed tae protect her? She’s MacDonald blood, same as ye, and she has the right tae stand where her fate leads her.”
“This is nae her fate!” Tòrr snapped. “She’s me sister, and I’ll nae see her name dragged through ruin because ye couldnae send her away when ye should’ve.”
Aidan’s temper flared, but his words came cold, deliberate. “I sent her once. I’ll nae dae it again.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Michael shifted beside his brother, clearly wishing to speak but wise enough to stay quiet. Catherine’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her; her chin lifted, but he could see the faint tremor in her throat.
Tòrr shook his head slowly, the muscle in his jaw working. “I warned her what dangers lay in these lands, Cameron, and I told her tae keep close tae her sisters, tae listen, tae nae wander where I couldnae keep her safe.”
Aidan said nothing. There was no defense he could make that would not sound like confession.
Catherine spoke instead, her voice quiet but steady. “Ye warned me, aye. And still, I came back.”
Tòrr’s eyes softened for only a moment. “Ye dinnae ken what ye’re riskin’.”
She met his gaze. “Aye, I dae.”
Something in Tòrr’s expression hardened again. He turned back to Aidan, his tone clipped. “We’ll speak on this later.”
Aidan gave a curt nod. “Aye. Later.”
Tòrr straightened, looking toward Gordon, who had appeared by the door. “But there’s a more pressin’ matter now. MacLeod men were less than a mile behind us when we crossed the ridge. They’re movin’ fast, and they’ll be here afore nightfall.”
A low murmur rippled through the room. Aidan felt his pulse quicken, his instincts sharpening, every sense turning to steel.
“How many?” he asked.
“Too many,” Tòrr said. “At least a hundred more than ye’ve got here. Campbell’s banners among them.”
For a moment, all Aidan could hear was the slow crackle of the fire, the faint clatter of a cup set down too hard. Then he spoke, voice calm but carrying through the hall.
“Then we’ll meet them head-on. Every man, every blade. We’ll hold the ridge, and we’ll make them remember why Cameron soil is the last they should ever tread.”
The men around him murmured assent, some grim, some eager.
Catherine’s voice broke through it softly. “And if they reach the walls?”
Aidan turned his head toward her. Their eyes met across the table. For one long, breathless moment, he forgot the room, the war, the eyes watching. There was only her, the fear she was trying to hide, the faith that had brought her back, the love neither of them had dared to name.
“Then we’ll still fight,” he said quietly. “And I’ll see ye safe, nay matter what it costs.”
Aidan exhaled, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. The world outside was shifting toward war, but the war inside him had already begun.