Her chamber had been warm when she entered, the fire burning low in the grate, shadows swaying softly along the walls. Her sisters had still been at the feast, but she had fled long before them, unable to bear the effort it took to keep her hands folded and her eyes steady when all she could think of was the shape of Aidan’s face in the firelight and how near she had been to reaching for him.
The bath had helped, at first. The water had been warm and fragrant with heather oil, her hair unbound and heavy down her back. For a time she had let herself sink into it, eyes closed, breath steady.
But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the calm broke apart. His voice returned, low and quiet.
If I were commandin’ ye, lass, ye’d ken it.
Her pulse quickened again. “Arrogant bastard,” she muttered into the dark, though it came out softer than she meant.
Sleep would not come, her mind would not still. With a huff, she threw the blanket aside and stood, wrapping her shawl over her shoulders. She hesitated before opening the door. The chill met her at once, raising gooseflesh along her arms, but the quiet pulled at her, a strange restlessness that would not let her stay.
Her bare feet moved lightly over the rushes, her skirts whispering as she went. The torches in the corridor burned low, casting long shadows along the walls. Somewhere deeper withinthe keep, she could hear the distant drip of water, the faint rattle of wind through narrow windows.
She didn’t know where she meant to go. She only knew she couldn’t stay still with her thoughts like that, circling the same place over and over until it ached.
The hall curved, narrowing into a smaller passage. The walls there were older, the air damp with age. She ran her hand along the stone, feeling the roughness beneath her fingers. It grounded her, kept her from thinking too much of what she’d left behind in the great hall.
A sound reached her then. It was faint at first, swallowed by the night. A low, guttural noise, only half human. It came again, longer this time, drawn out into a soft groan.
Catherine froze. The corridor stretched empty before her, the torches guttering. She turned her head slowly, straining to listen. The sound came again, quieter, but close.
It came from somewhere ahead.
Her heart gave a nervous flutter, though curiosity rose quick to meet it. She told herself it was probably nothing, perhaps one of the men drunk and snoring in the wrong corridor. Still, she found her feet moving forward.
The sound came again, unmistakable now. It was a muffled groan that made the fine hairs along her neck lift. Catherinestopped at a turn in the passage, her breath shallow. The noise came from behind a closed door at the far end. A line of light glowed faintly beneath it, flickering gold against the stone floor.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. Logic told her to turn back. To leave whatever fool or ghost haunted this hour to his own misery. But a stubborn, reckless spark kept her rooted.
She took a step. Then another. The air grew warmer as she neared, heavy with the faint scent of wax and something metallic, almost like iron. She lifted a hand and knocked once, sharply.
No answer. She waited. The silence pressed closer.
“Is anyone there?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
Still nothing. Her heart drummed hard against her ribs. She reached for the latch. It gave easily, the door swinging inward with a soft groan of hinges.
Catherine stepped inside, her breath shallow. “Hello?”
No reply. Her eyes darted to the corners, but they were empty. The bed was unmade, a cloak thrown over a chair, a half-drained cup on the table. The groan came again, faint but clear this time, from somewhere behind her.
Catherine spun, heart hammering. “Who’s there?”
The silence that followed was louder than the sound had been. For a long moment she stood still, every sense straining. Then she heard footsteps. Not close but moving beyond the corridor.
Her pulse jumped. She turned, pulling the door open again, and slipped into the passage. The cold hit her full in the chest, but she hardly felt it. Her hands were shaking now, though whether from fear or embarrassment she couldn’t tell.
She told herself she’d imagined it. That the sound had been the wind, the wooden beams settling, some trick of the fire. The last thing she needed was to be found wandering the laird’s halls at midnight, chasing phantoms.
She drew her shawl tighter and started back the way she’d come. But before she had gone five steps, another sound broke the quiet. A soft thud. Then a whisper of movement, like cloth dragging over stone.
Catherine stopped dead, breath caught in her throat. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
The corridor seemed darker, the torches flickering weakly in their sconces. The sound came again, from behind this time. She turned, every muscle tight.
“Show yerself,” she said, though the edge of her voice trembled.
