“Nay mistake,” he said.
A servant passed with a jug of wine, the faint clink of metal breaking the spell. Catherine stepped back first, her smile returning like a blade drawn slow. “Enjoy commandin’ yer patience, laird,” she said. “Ye’ll be needin’ it.”
He inclined his head, voice low. “And ye’ll be needin’ restraint, me lady. God grant ye some.”
“I’ll make dae wi’ what I have,” she said, already turning away, her skirts whispering against the stone.
Aidan watched her go, the blue of her gown vanishing into the glow of the hearth. The din of the hall returned in a rush of music and laughter, but it all sounded distant now, as though the world had slipped out of step.
He exhaled slowly, the ghost of her scent still clinging to the air. She had a way of turning every exchange into a battlefield, and he, fool that he was, kept walking into the fire willingly.
He lifted his cup, took a long drink, and let the wine burn down the ache she’d left behind.
The night carried on, the hall alive with song and revelry, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her—the proud tilt of her chin, the defiance in her eyes, the quiet tremor in her breath when he’d come too close. Catherine MacDonald was another kind of danger altogether.
And as the candles burned low, he realized with a sinking certainty that this was a battle he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Campbell castle
The road to Campbell’s stronghold wound like a vein through the dying heather, narrow and slick with thaw. The wind cut sharp from the west, carrying the scent of peat smoke and sea rot, but Edwin barely felt the cold. His pulse was too quick, his mind too full. He rode with his shoulders tight, his gloved hands fixed on the reins until his knuckles ached.
He had imagined the journey since the battle at Glen Spean Corridor —every turn, every word, every look he would give the man waiting at its end. The plan had played in his head so often that it felt less like invention and more like memory. He told himself that meant fate was on his side.
A line of watch fires marked the ridge ahead. Beyond them, Campbell lands stretched wide, a sprawl of black pine and smoke-stained stone. The keep itself rose from the hill like a thing that had clawed its way out of the earth, its towers narrow and sharp against the pale sky.
Edwin’s mouth curved. It was an ugly fortress, but it would serve.
Two guards stepped forward as he approached the gate, spears crossing.
“Name and purpose,” one barked.
“Edwin MacLeod,” he said smoothly, pulling his cloak aside so they could see the gold clasp that marked him of minor lairdship. “I bring word fer Laird Campbell. He’s expectin’ me.”
The men exchanged a look but said nothing more. One disappeared into the courtyard while the other gestured him to wait.
Edwin did not like waiting, but he kept still, face composed, the picture of patience. Rage, he had long learned, was a tool best hidden until the strike.
At last the gate creaked open. “The laird’s in council,” the guard said gruffly.
Edwin urged his horse forward. He thought of Keppoch’s halls, of Catherine’s laughter echoing against white stone and clean air, and a hot, twisting ache moved through him. She should have been his already.
They had mocked him for wanting her, for calling her betrothed when her brother had made no public promise. But what didwords matter? He hadearnedher through devotion, through patience, through the quiet certainty that she was meant to belong to him. And then that bastard Cameron had appeared from nowhere, all pride and cold heroics, ruining everything.
Edwin’s teeth clenched. He could still see the moment she’d been torn from him. She’d looked back once, eyes wide and wild, and he’d known he’d remember that look forever.
Inside the keep, the air was heavy with smoke and old stone. A servant led him through narrow corridors to a chamber where a dozen men stood around a long table. Maps were spread across it, the ink still fresh in some places. Laird Campbell stood at the head, his hair gone iron-grey, his face sharp as the hills that bore his name.
“MacLeod,” the laird said, his tone wary.
Edwin bowed just enough to feign respect. “Laird, I bring an offer. If ye’ll hear it.”
Campbell studied him for a long moment before motioning the others away. The men filed out, their murmurs fading until the door shut behind them. Silence settled, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
“Speak, then,” Campbell said. “And make it worth the ride.”
Edwin stepped forward, his boots echoing on the flagstones. “Ye’ve been gatherin’ strength under Argyll’s banner,” he began.“Men say ye mean tae push east before summer. I’d offer me sword tae the cause and more, if ye’ll take it.”
