Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The night had gone still. The smoke drifted low over the courtyard, curling in faint gray ribbons that caught the dying firelight.
The air was heavy with ash and the sharp tang of iron, the kind of stillness that comes only after chaos.
Around them, men moved like ghosts, their voices lowered in the wake of battle.
Somewhere beyond the walls, a horn sounded for victory, long and distant, but Catherine barely heard it.
All she could see was him.
He stood close enough that the heat of him reached her through the chill.
His hand still rested at her throat, his thumb brushing the faint cut Edwin had left there, and for the first time since the night had begun, she could breathe again.
His face was streaked with mud and blood, his hair dark with rain, yet there was something steady in his eyes, a calm she had never seen before, carved out of all that rage and ruin.
Her voice broke when she spoke. “Ye came fer me.”
He gave a low, uneven breath, as if he didn’t trust himself to answer. Then, softer, “There was nay world I wouldnae reach ye.”
The words hit her harder than the war ever had. She felt them in her ribs, in the hollow beneath her throat, in the trembling of her knees. The breath she took after was a shudder.
When he finally moved, it was slow and careful, as though he feared she might vanish if he reached too quickly. His hand slid from her neck to her jaw, his thumb tracing the damp line of her cheek. The touch undid her.
“I thought ye were gone,” she whispered.
“Ye should ken by now, lass,” he said, voice rough. “It’ll take more than fire an’ steel tae keep me from ye.”
Something inside her broke open. All the fear, all the fury, all the love she had tried so hard to bury rose at once, and before she could stop herself, she reached for him. Her fingers tangled in the front of his soaked shirt, pulling him down to her.
When his mouth found hers, it shattered everything she’d been holding inside.
There was nothing careful in it, nothing measured—only the force of all that fear and longing finally breaking free.
His lips were warm now, tasting of salt and smoke, his breath uneven against her skin.
The scrape of his beard burned her in the best way, raw and real, as if to remind her she was still alive.
She leaned into him with a small, desperate sound, her hands caught against his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heartbeat under her palms. The world around them was still burning, but it no longer mattered.
He kissed her like a man who had come back from the edge of death to claim what he’d almost lost, and she kissed him back like someone who had been waiting her whole life to be found.
When they broke apart, her lips trembled against his. “I love ye,” she said, the words barely more than breath. “God help me, Aidan Cameron, I love ye.”
His eyes closed. For a heartbeat he didn’t speak, and she thought she’d said too much, but then he exhaled, and it was like the whole world shifted.
“I’ve loved ye since the first moment ye defied me,” he murmured. “Since ye looked me in the eye and called me cruel.”
A laugh caught in her throat, half a sob. “Ye were cruel.”
“Aye,” he said, leaning his forehead to hers. “But nae tae ye. Never tae ye.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, his hand cradling the back of her head, and for a moment nothing mattered, nothing existed but the heat of his breath and the steady, unyielding beat of his heart against hers.
Then a voice cut through the quiet. “Catherine?”
They broke apart.
Tòrr stood at the edge of the courtyard, sword still drawn, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. Behind him, Michael lingered, his face pale with exhaustion but his eyes sharp.
Catherine’s heart lurched. “Tòrr—”
He lifted a hand. “I should’ve kent I’d find ye together.” His voice wasn’t angry so much as strained, the kind of tone a man uses when he’s trying not to say more than he should. He looked at Aidan, his jaw set. “Ye risked her life. Her honor.”
Aidan met his gaze evenly. “And saved it.” He straightened, the soldier’s calm returning to his voice. “Ye’ve every right tae be angry,” he said to Tòrr. “But ken this—I’d die before I’d ever let harm come tae her.”
Michael stepped forward then, his tone cautious. “That may be true, Aidan, but she’s still our sister. We’ve seen how ye’ve treated women before. Dinnae think we’ll stand idle if—”
“She’s nae like the others,” Aidan interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. “An’ I’m nae the man I was before her.”
Catherine’s chest tightened.
Tòrr’s eyes softened, just barely. “I can see that,” he admitted.
“She brings out something different in ye—God knows what—but different all the same.” He turned to his sister, his expression gentler now.
“Still, Catherine, ye ken how this looks. Ye’re unmarried.
Ye cannae stay here without scandal. Ye’ll return wi’ us, at least until—”
“Then let me marry her,” Aidan said. “Taenight.”
The words seemed to split the air itself.
The sounds of men shouting orders, of swords being sheathed, of the last crackle of fire in the distance—all of it dimmed until there was nothing but the echo of his voice in her chest.
Catherine turned toward him slowly, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. “What?”
He was still looking at her, his eyes fixed on her with that same steadiness he wore in battle. But this was different. There was no rage there, only fierce and unguarded truth.
“Let me marry ye,” he said again, quieter this time, almost reverent. “So ye’ll stay. So nay one will question what’s already true.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath her. She felt her pulse rise into her throat, felt the air catch in her lungs, felt the heat of his words sink straight into her bones.
For all the things she’d imagined—his hands, his voice, his kiss—she had never imagined this.
The sound of him asking for her, not out of duty or desperation, but out of love so bare it undid her completely.
Her lips parted, but no words came. The only thing she could do was look at him, and in that look, everything she’d ever feared or wanted seemed to dissolve.
Tòrr exhaled with a long, weary sound. “Christ above,” he muttered. “Ye choose yer moments well.”
Aidan didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “There’s nay other way.”
Tòrr turned to her then, his expression softening, though his voice was steady. “Is this what ye want, lass?”
Catherine’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear him.
What she wanted? She had wanted this man through every storm, through every fight, through every sleepless night that had torn them apart.
She had wanted him when she hated him, when she feared him, when she’d told herself she would never forgive him.
And now he was standing there, offering everything.
She didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” she said, her voice trembling but sure. “It is.”
Something eased in Tòrr’s face, though he shook his head as if to clear it. “Then so be it. But ye’ll dae it proper. The priest’s still in the hall tending the wounded. Ye’ll be wed at first light.”
Aidan nodded. “First light then.”
Inside the chapel, the light was soft and gray. Catherine stood before the altar, her hands trembling slightly despite how hard she tried to keep them still. Her gown was simple, her hair loosely braided down her back.
Aidan stood opposite her, his tunic dark and freshly cleaned, though a thin line of bandage still wrapped his arm. He looked tired, older somehow, but when he smiled at her, it felt like the first warmth she’d seen in days.
Tòrr and Michael stood nearby, silent witnesses. The priest’s voice echoed faintly through the small space, his words slow and measured. Catherine barely heard them. Her heartbeat drowned everything else.
When Aidan reached for her hand, she let him. His palm was rough and something in that simple touch steadied her more than prayer ever could.
“Dae ye, Aidan Cameron, take this woman—”
“I dae,” he said before the priest had even finished.
Her lips trembled.
“And dae ye, Catherine MacDonald—”
She looked up at him. His eyes caught the morning light, fierce and soft at once. “I dae.”
When the priest blessed them, Aidan didn’t wait for permission. He stepped forward and kissed her; a kiss that felt like a vow, slow and sure and filled with everything he hadn’t said. The chapel fell away. The world fell away. There was only him.
When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll give ye a proper wedding once the land’s quiet,” he murmured. “With yer sisters here, wi’ music and feastin’, wi’ the whole o’ the Highlands hearin’ ye say me name.”
She smiled through the tears that had started to fall. “And what if I dinnae wish tae wait?”
He laughed under his breath, low and warm. “Then we’ll dance tonight. Here, if ye like. Just like last time.”
Her brow furrowed. “Last time?”
He nodded. “A year ago, at the masquerade in yer hall. Ye wore a silver mask. I dinnae think ye recognized me, but I recognized ye.”
She blinked, the memory stirring faintly. “That was ye?”
He nodded once. “Aye. I should’ve kent then I’d never forget ye. I watched ye dance wi’ half the men there, and all I could think was that none o’ them deserved ye.”
Her heart caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “Ye were the one who asked me fer the last dance,” she whispered.
He smiled—that small, rare thing that softened every sharp edge of him. “Aye. And when ye turned away, I swore I’d find ye again.”
She laughed then, a soft, breathless sound. “Ye might’ve told me sooner.”
“I wanted ye tae love me fer who I am, nae who I was.” His thumb brushed her cheek again. “Seems ye dae.”
“I always did,” she said quietly.
The words hung between them like light. He kissed her again, deeper this time, until the air between them vanished. The priest coughed softly behind them, muttering a blessing neither of them heard.
When they finally pulled apart, Aidan pressed his forehead to hers once more, his breath steady against her lips. “Ye’re mine now,” he whispered, not as possession, but as promise. “An’ I’m yers.”
She smiled, her fingers curling in his shirt. “Aye,” she said. “Forever.”
Sunlight spilled through the high windows, catching the dust in soft gold. For the first time in months, the land was quiet. The air smelled of heather and smoke and something sweeter—peace, maybe.
Catherine stepped out into it with her husband’s hand still in hers, the sky opening above them in pale, endless blue.
He looked at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Dae ye ken what I was thinkin’ that night at the ball?”
She shook her head, her braid catching the wind.
“That I’d dance wi’ ye again one day,” he said. “That time wi’ nay mask between us.”
Her laugh was soft, carried away by the breeze. “Then dance wi’ me now.”
He drew her close, his arm around her waist, and together they moved slowly across the grass, to the rhythm of the wind and the beating of their hearts. His lips brushed her temple, her hand rested over his chest, and the rest of the world fell away once more.
The storm had passed. The war had ended.
And somewhere in the quiet that followed, Catherine Cameron lifted her face to the morning light, and knew she was finally home.