“Again,” he ordered, voice even.
The two soldiers facing him hesitated, breath steaming in the chill. One’s grip slipped, the other faltered on his footing, and both earned a glare that needed no words. Aidan lowered his sword only when their forms returned to readiness. Training kept the men steady, and himself steadier. Routine dulled what the mind would otherwise dwell on.
The weight of the past days pressed harder than any rain. The road from Keppoch to Achnacarry had been long, dangerous, and full of tempers—one temper in particular. Catherine MacDonald had a way of cutting through his patience like noblade ever had. He could still hear the sharpness in her tongue, the heat in her gaze when she’d spoken to him as if she were mistress of the keep rather than guest in it.
A door creaked somewhere behind him. He turned as one of the stable lads hurried into the yard, hair plastered to his brow. “Me laird,” the boy said, ducking a bow. “Forgive me—Lady Catherine’s in the stables.”
Aidan frowned. “At this hour?”
“Aye, sir. Said she wanted tae feed the mare, Rosie.” The boy shifted uneasily.
Aidan exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. He handed off his sword, stripped the damp training tunic from his back, and pulled on a clean shirt from the rack near the armory door. The linen clung cold against his skin, rain still sheeting down his shoulders as he fastened the ties. He tugged his plaid over one arm, the familiar weight settling across him like armor.
Beneath the irritation was something else, an undercurrent. She had been through enough; yet if she thought herself beyond his word in his own hall, she’d learn otherwise. He crossed the yard toward the stables, the wind lifting the edge of his plaid, the rain beating steady against stone.
The door creaked open beneath his hand. Warmth hit him first: the smell of hay and damp hide, the faint tang of iron from the tack hooks along the wall. Shadows flickered low across thebeams where a single lantern burned. The air was thick with quietness, humming rather than echoing.
He took a step inside, boots sinking into packed earth.
She was there. Standing beside the mare’s stall, head bent, her hair half fallen from its pins. The lamplight brushed along the curve of her cheek, the pale sweep of her throat, the loosened strands glinting gold where the flame touched. Her shawl hung loose around her shoulders, and her soft, steady voice threaded through the quiet.
“Ye remember me, dinnae ye?” she murmured to the horse, her hand sliding through its mane. “Good girl. Ye were the only one who didnae falter, even when the men did.”
Aidan paused in the shadowed doorway, something tight stirring behind his ribs. He should have called out. Instead, he watched.
The mare’s ears flicked forward as Catherine plucked a carrot from the bucket and held it out. The sound of teeth crunching filled the space between them.
“See? Grateful,” she whispered. “Nicer than yer laird.”
Aidan’s jaw clenched.
She leaned against the stall, the rhythm of her voice low and unguarded, as if the stable itself were sanctuary. “I dinnae ken what manner o’ man he is,” she went on, and his brows rose athearing his own name traded so freely to beasts. “One moment he’s charging intae battle, the next he’s lecturing me like a nursemaid. Ye should’ve seen the way he looked at me, Rosie. All calm and cold, as if I were some fool child who needed taming.”
Aidan crossed his arms.Calm and cold,she said. She had no notion how little calm he’d felt since she’d stepped into his hall.
Her tone sharpened. “And who speaks like that? Tae a lady, nay less?”
He nearly smiled at that—nearly. Her outrage suited her far too well.
When she sighed again, softer this time, he caught a trace of weariness in it. “He’s nay gentleman,” she muttered. “He’s the kind who thinks himself above courtesy. Always talkin’ o’ duty and safety and honor—yet cannae manage a shred o’ decency when speakin’ tae a woman.”
He bit back a huff. She’d called him worse, and yet every insult from her lips lodged itself deeper than it should. Still, he didn’t move or speak. He watched her fingers move through the horse’s mane with a tenderness that unsettled him more than her anger ever had. The mare’s breath rose warm against her cheek.
“Ye ken what the worst part is?” she whispered. “He believes he’s right. Every word that falls from that smug mouth o’ his comes with the certainty that the world agrees. He could burn down heaven itself, and folk would still call it reason.”
Aidan’s brows lifted.Smug mouth,indeed.
He should have walked away then. Should have left her to her grievances and let her think him deaf to them. But something in the quiet sway of her voice, or the lamplight tracing the curve of her jaw, held him fast. He’d seen women weep and rage, but not like this. There was fire in her and sorrow both, wrapped so tightly he doubted she even knew which burned hotter.
She bent her head again, laughter trembling faintly under her breath. “Ye’re the only creature in this place wi’ sense enough tae listen without lecturin’.”
That did it.
He straightened from the beam, stepping forward before the thought could settle and cleared his throat. The sound of his boot against straw was deliberate, a quiet warning before he spoke. Her shoulders stiffened, and when she froze, he caught the faint tremor in her breath. The carrot fell from her hand, striking the floor with a dull thud.
She turned slowly, eyes wide, the lamplight catching them like flame against dark water. He had to force the tension from his own stance. It wasn’t anger, though there was some of that. It was something else, heavier, sharper.
Aidan crossed the last few steps between them, stopping just short of the light. Rain beaded on his plaid, sliding down the curve of his jaw. The fire in her eyes met the quiet in his.
