“Tell me, Lady Catherine,” he said, voice low, steady, dangerous only in its calm, “now that ye’ve reached me stables, have ye plans tae complain about me tae every creature that breathes? Mare, hound, human?”
Catherine straightened, gathering what was left of her dignity and throwing it around her like armor. “I’m nae complainin’,” she said, though her voice came sharper than she intended. “I state facts. There’s a difference.”
Aidan stepped closer, straw crunching beneath his boots. He could still feel the faint tremor in the air from when she’d turned, the way her breath had caught before finding her words. “Aye? And what fact were ye informin’ the beast o’? That I’m cold as loch water and cursed beyond redemption?”
Her jaw tightened. “I might’ve mentioned it.”
“Might’ve,” he echoed, his tone mild, though the flicker in his chest was anything but. The sight of her, defiant, was a kind of torment he hadn’t known existed until now.
She lifted her chin. “If ye dinnae wish tae be spoken o’ poorly, me laird, perhaps ye should act in a more decent manner.”
That earned a flicker of amusement from him, quick and dangerous. “Aye. I’ll bear that in mind.” He took another step, close enough for the lantern’s light to catch the faint shimmer of rain still clinging to her hair. “But I find it curious that ye’d sneak down here in the middle o’ the night tae whisper yer grievances tae a horse.”
“I did nae sneak.”
“Nay? Then what would ye call it?”
“Freedom,” she shot back.
The word struck him clean through, bold and bright. He saw it in the lift of her chin, in the way the word lingered between them like a challenge. His shoulders stilled, breath caught halfway to speech.
Aidan tilted his head slightly, his voice quieter now. “And is that what ye’re after here, Catherine MacDonald? Freedom?”
Her name left his mouth before he could stop it. He heard how it sounded soft and rough all at once and felt the heat of it sink between them.
“I’m after peace,” she said finally, though he caught the quiver in it. “And ye seem tae take offense at that as well.”
He let out a slow breath, something halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Peace,” he repeated. “Aye. Ye’ve a strange way o’ findin’ it.”
Her eyes flashed. “And what would ye ken o’ peace? Ye look like a man who’s forgotten what the word means.”
He really looked at her then, and for the first time that evening, he stopped guarding his voice. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Maybe I have.”
The truth hung there, naked and simple. He hadn’t meant to give it, but it was out now, and her face changed when she heard it. He saw the shift, how her anger faltered, how pity threatened to take its place, and hated that it almost did.
She turned away first, brushing straw from her skirts.
“Ye shouldnae be here.”
“I dinnae answer tae ye.”
He took another step, slow, deliberate. “And yet ye’re standin’ in me stable, speakin’ tae me horse.”
“She carried me here,” she said sharply. “She’s earned me thanks.”
“And ye’ve given it. Two carrots’ worth, if I’m countin’ right.” The words came easy, too easy, and the faint smile tugging at his mouth was one he shouldn’t have allowed.
Catherine spun toward him, temper flashing bright as flint. “If ye came tae scold me, ye can save yer breath. I’m tired o’ men tellin’ me what I can and cannae dae.”
“I’m nae here tae scold ye.”
“Then what are ye here fer?”
His silence stretched between them, heavier than speech. The lantern’s glow caught her eyes, turning them to polished amber. He could hear her breathing, quick and uneven, could almost feel the heat rising from her skin. He didn’t know when the air had thickened, only that it had, and that it carried her scent—rain and lavender and defiance.
“Well?” she pressed, her voice softer now.
“I heard voices,” he said simply. “Thought there might be trouble.”
