Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The air inside the great hall was choking with smoke.
The fire that had begun in the corner hearth had spread along the rushes, licking up the walls where the tapestries hung, curling them into black, wrinkled skins.
Catherine’s eyes stung, but she barely noticed.
Her hands were slick with blood as she pressed linen against a soldier’s wound.
“Hold still,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “Ye’ll be fine, I promise ye will.”
The man tried to nod, tried to thank her, but his head fell sideways, his lips already paling. The healer was at the next table, tying bandages with trembling hands, and two of the kitchen girls ran back and forth with buckets of water, their skirts soaked through.
The sounds outside had grown louder—the clash of metal, the shouts of men, the deep rumble of the gates breaking. Catherine heard them all but forced her breath to steady. She had promised herself she would not hide. Not tonight.
Another man stumbled through the doorway, dragging his leg, his tunic torn open. She moved to meet him, catching him before he fell.
“Here,” she said. “Sit here.”
He obeyed, collapsing near the hearth. The flames painted his face in uneven gold.
Then, something felt different. For a moment, she thought it was just the wind, but then the noise came, a sound too heavy to be a breeze. The crash of wood splintering. The thunder of boots.
She turned toward the main doors, just in time to see them burst open. The force sent one of the hinges flying. Men stumbled back as the great panels swung inward, and through the flood of smoke and torchlight, a figure stepped into the hall.
Edwin.
His face was streaked with grime, his eyes wild, his mouth twisted into something that was half snarl, half smile. Behind him, two of his men cut down the guards who had tried to bar the way. The sound of steel against steel rang in her ears, sharp as lightning.
“Catherine!”
Her heart stopped.
He saw her instantly and started moving through the chaos as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Soldiers lunged to stop him, but he struck one across the face with the pommel of his sword and shoved another aside.
She froze where she stood, one hand still pressed to the wounded man’s shoulder.
“Stay back,” she managed, her voice unsteady but loud enough to carry. “Ye’ve nay right here!”
He laughed—a hoarse, broken sound. “Nay right? Ye were mine long before he stole ye away.”
The words made her blood run cold. “I was never yers.”
She tried to move, but he was already on her. His hand shot out, catching her arm in a grip so hard she cried out. He yanked her forward, spinning her toward the door.
“Let go!” she screamed, twisting against him. “Edwin, let me go!”
He didn’t. His fingers dug into her wrist until she felt the bone grind beneath the pressure. The hall blurred, all of it folding into noise.
She struggled, kicking, her free hand clawing at his arm, but he was stronger, fueled by madness. He dragged her past the overturned tables, through the chaos, toward the arch that led to the outer yard.
Someone shouted her name somewhere behind her, but Catherine could barely hear. The rush of blood in her ears was too loud. Her shoulder slammed against the doorframe as he pulled her through it. The cold air hit her like a slap.
“Edwin—please—”
“Quiet!” he barked, jerking her forward again. “Ye’ll thank me once we’re gone from this cursed place.”
She twisted, managed to dig her heel into the ground, wrenching herself halfway free. Her hand flew to the dagger at her belt — a small one she had kept for protection. She didn’t think, only acted.
The blade flashed. Edwin cursed and knocked it aside. His other hand caught her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His breath was hot and foul. “Ye think ye can fight me? Ye’ve forgotten who ye are.”
“Nay,” she hissed. “I remember well enough.”
For an instant his grip loosened, just enough for her to slam her knee up, catching his thigh. He staggered, and she tore free, stumbling backward through the mud. Her lungs burned, the air thick with smoke.
She turned toward the courtyard, and through the haze she saw him.
Aidan.
He was a blur of movement—his sword cutting through the dark like lightning, his hair soaked, his face streaked with blood and fury. The sight of him broke something open inside her, something she’d been holding too tight.
He saw her. Even through the chaos, she knew he saw her.
Edwin followed her gaze and swore. “Of course he’s here.”
He lunged again, catching her by the waist this time, pulling her roughly against him. She fought, twisting, striking at his chest, her nails catching skin, but his hold was rigid.
Aidan was coming closer. She could see the way his sword rose and fell, the way men scattered before him. He looked like vengeance given form, and for the first time, she wasn’t afraid.
“Catherine!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the storm.
She met his eyes. In that moment, even as Edwin dragged her backward toward the horses, she felt the world tilt around them. He would reach her, she knew that.
Edwin cursed, trying to drag her faster. “Ye’ll ride wi’ me now, and there’ll be nay one tae stop it.”
She twisted again, her hands gripping at the leather strap across his chest. “He’ll stop ye,” she spat. “He always daes.”
He turned, fury flashing. “He can bleed like any other man.”
His words barely left his mouth before the thunder of hooves split the air. Aidan had broken through the last line of men. He was only yards away now, his blade catching firelight as he struck down the soldier nearest her.
Catherine tried one last time to pull free, but Edwin wrenched her around, placing his sword at her throat. The cold edge kissed her skin, sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood.
“Stay back!” he roared at Aidan. “One more step and I’ll—”
But Aidan didn’t stop.
The next heartbeat was a blur of movement, sound and light. The horse reared, the mud gave way beneath their feet, and Catherine felt herself thrown sideways. The world spun, and when it settled, she was on the ground, breathless, and Aidan standing between her and Edwin.
Aidan took his chance. He moved through the chaos around them as if it did not exist. His sword caught the dim light as he brought it up, the edge gleaming a heartbeat before it struck.
Steel met steel.
The sound tore through the courtyard, sharp as lightning. Edwin twisted in the saddle, blocking just in time, sparks bursting where the blades collided. The force of the blow nearly unseated him. Catherine was on the ground behind them, her eyes wide as she pushed herself up on shaking arms.
Aidan’s voice was low, a growl barely human. “Touch her again and ye’ll draw yer last breath.”
Edwin spat blood, his teeth bared. “Ye think she’s yers? Ye think she’ll ever see ye as anythin’ but her jailer?”
Aidan didn’t answer. He struck again, this time harder, the weight of every fear, every sleepless night, every unspoken word behind the blow. Edwin blocked, stumbled, tried to strike back, but Aidan caught his wrist, twisted, and drove his knee into the man’s chest.
They hit the ground together, rolling in the mud, blades flashing. The only sound was their breathing, ragged and furious.
Catherine tried to stand, but one of Edwin’s men lunged toward her. Aidan saw it without turning, the movement slicing through the corner of his vision. He shoved Edwin away and flung his sword. The blade spun once, caught the man in the throat, and dropped him where he stood.
“Stay down!” Aidan shouted, his voice raw.
She froze, her hand pressed to her chest, her breath catching.
He turned back just as Edwin swung again. The blow grazed his arm, slicing through leather and skin, but he didn’t falter. The pain sharpened him. He blocked the next strike, their swords locking together, both men straining for ground.
“Ye dinnae ken what ye’re fightin’ against,” Edwin hissed. “Campbell promised men—and they’re comin’!”
Aidan shoved him back with a grunt. “Aye? Then where is he?”
Edwin’s eyes flickered. For a moment, the arrogance faltered.
“Where’s yer savior now?” Aidan pressed, voice rising over the wind. “Where are yer reinforcements?”
No answer. Only the clatter of steel from the courtyard beyond, where the battle had begun to falter.
Aidan saw it then—the truth sinking into Edwin’s face. The wild, desperate look of a man realizing he’d been left to die alone.
“They’re nae comin’, are they?”
Edwin’s mouth twisted. “He’ll come fer her instead. If I cannae have her, he will.”
The words hit Aidan harder than any blade. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single thought—Campbell, Catherine, danger.
He moved first. Their blades met again, faster now, both fighting with the last of their strength. Mud splashed underfoot, torches flickered. Every strike was precise, every counter a surge of fury and fear.
Aidan’s sword caught Edwin’s at the guard, turned it aside, and cut through his shoulder. The man stumbled back, blood spreading down his arm. Still, he fought, swinging wildly, desperate, his rage feeding on the pain.
“Fer her!” he spat. “Ye’ll nae keep her from me!”
Aidan advanced, silent. The coldness had returned, settling into his bones like iron. He didn’t feel the wound at his arm, the ache in his chest. He felt only the certainty that this man would never touch her again.
Edwin lunged, aiming for his throat. Aidan sidestepped, caught the strike, and brought his sword down in one clean arc. The blade tore through the air, through flesh, through the last breath that left Edwin’s body.
The sound that followed wasn’t a scream—just the dull exhale of something ending.
Edwin staggered, eyes wide, blood pouring from the cut at his neck. His sword dropped, clattering against the stones. He swayed once, then fell to his knees.
He looked up at Aidan, lips trembling. “She… she was mine. She was meant tae be—”
Aidan drove his blade through his chest before he could finish.
The steel went in deep, through bone, through the last of his words. Aidan leaned close, his voice low enough that only the dying man could hear. “She was never yers. Ye’ll nae speak her name again.”
He twisted the blade once, then pulled it free. Edwin collapsed, the light already gone from his eyes.
For a long moment, Aidan stood there, breathing hard. His hand trembled against the hilt, the adrenaline beginning to drain, but his face remained cold. Around him, the battle had slowed. The MacLeod soldiers hesitated, staring at their fallen laird.
Then someone shouted, “He’s dead!”
The words carried through the courtyard like wind through broken glass. Panic rippled through the enemy ranks. One by one, they dropped their weapons. Some fled toward the forest. Others knelt where they stood, hands raised, faces streaked with ash.
“Hold the line!” Gordon’s voice roared from the gate. “Take their surrender!”
Aidan barely heard him. His heart was still pounding too fast, his vision tunneling on the ground before him, on the man who had nearly stolen everything. He sheathed his sword with a slow, deliberate motion.
The moment the hilt clicked into place, the noise of the world returned—the shouting, the clang of blades, the cries of surrender.
And then he heard her. “—Aidan.”
He turned.
Catherine was standing a few yards away, half-hidden by smoke and shadow. Her gown was torn, the hem soaked and blackened, her hair plastered to her cheeks. She was trembling, one arm wrapped around herself, the other pressed to her throat where Edwin’s blade had been.
She looked at him the way she had that first night she’d arrived at his keep, defiant and alive. She had never looked more beautiful.
He took a step toward her. Then another.
The mud sucked at his boots, blood streaking across the ground where he’d walked. Every muscle in his body ached, but he barely felt it. The only thing he felt was the pull—the unrelenting need to reach her, to see for himself that she was still breathing.
Her lips parted, as if she meant to speak, but no sound came out. The space between them was small now, filled with everything they’d left unsaid.
He stopped just short of touching her. His voice came rough, quieter than he meant. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head, though her eyes glistened. “Nay.”
He didn’t believe her. There was a small cut along her neck, a line of red where Edwin’s sword had grazed her. He reached up slowly, his hand hovering, not yet touching. The heat of her skin met the cold of his fingers.
Something in her breath hitched. Behind them, the last of the fighting faded. Men shouted victory, the clash of weapons turning to murmurs, but it all felt far away. The night, the war, the smoke — none of it mattered now.
Aidan looked at her, really looked at her, and every thought he’d buried since she’d stepped into his life rose like fire through the cold.
He wanted to tell her he’d never known fear until her, that every blade that had ever cut him meant nothing compared to the thought of losing her.
But the words caught in his throat. So, he just stood there for a moment, his hand still at her neck, his thumb resting where the blood had been, and let the silence hold what words could not.