But even as she said it, her mind rebelled. The Aidan Cameron she knew—or thought she did—was a man of sharp control, aye, but not of frost. There had been warmth in him, though buried deep. A flicker, quick and dangerous, that surfaced only when he forgot himself. Cold men did not look at a woman as he had looked at her. Cold men did not bleed warmth through silence.
Marian, mistaking her quiet for unease, went on. “He’s fair, though. I’ll grant him that. But there’s nay tenderness in him. Some say he’s that way because o’ the war. Others… because he’s lost somethin’ he cannae replace.”
Catherine frowned. “Lost somethin’?”
The maid shrugged, dipping the cloth into the basin. “A woman, maybe. There’s always talk, though none can prove a word. He’s kept tae himself since before I came tae Achnacarry. The only stories that linger are o’ his youth, and they’re all the same.”
Catherine arched a brow. “And what sort o’ stories are those?”
Marian hesitated, as if deciding whether to speak. “O’ a man who once smiled too easily. Who drank, fought, and chased skirts like the rest o’ them.”
The words landed heavier than Catherine expected. “Ye mean tae say the laird was a rake.”
Marian blushed, busying herself with the cloth. “Aye, me lady. Before he took his father’s place. They say the women o’ Lochaber wept when he swore himself tae duty.”
Catherine sat very still, her heart thudding a little too loud. Aidan Cameron—a rake. The image didn’t fit. The man she’d met was all discipline and distance, the kind who measured every breath. Yet something in her remembered the faint curve of his mouth when he’d teased her, the glint in his eyes when she’d dared him to answer her temper with his own. Perhaps the stories weren’t lies.
“I see,” she said at last, her voice too even to be natural. “Thank ye fer tellin’ me.”
Marian hesitated. “Ye’re sure ye’re all right, me lady?”
Catherine forced a smile. “Perfectly. Just… tired.”
The maid nodded, unconvinced, and went back to her work. The room filled with small sounds—the drip of water from the cloth, the soft crackle of fire. Catherine rose and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside.
The morning outside was grey and wet. Mist hung low over the glen, softening the sharp line of the pines. She could see the courtyard from there, the men already gathering for their drills, their swords glinting faintly through the fog. Somewhere among them, Aidan would be moving,
The thought made her pulse quicken. She hated that it did.
A rake. The word pricked at her pride. She didn’t know why it stung so sharply, but it did. Perhaps because it made her feel naïve. Foolish, for thinking she’d glimpsed something rare behind his silence.
But he daesnae look at others like that.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass with wide eyes, pale cheeks, the faintest shadow of exhaustion beneath them.
Ye’ve gone soft, Catherine,she told herself.One word from him and ye’ve fergotten every sense ye ever had.
Behind her, Marian cleared her throat softly. “Would ye like me tae bring breakfast up, me lady? Ye dinnae look as if ye’d fancy the hall this mornin’.”
Catherine let the curtain fall, her composure snapping back into place. “Aye, bring it here. I’ve nay desire tae be stared at while I eat.”
“As ye wish.”
When Marian left, the room felt larger, emptier. Catherine stood for a long moment before the hearth, her mind circling the same thoughts again and again. She tried to summon anger at his arrogance, at his order that she stay away from his wing, but what came instead was confusion.
He had not looked at her with coldness. He had looked at her like a man at war with himself. And perhaps she was at war too, caught between wanting to forget and wanting to know more.
She sat by the fire and pressed her palms together, willing the heat to settle her. Her hands still carried the faint scent of herbs from the salve, stubborn as memory.
A rake. The word would not leave her.
It brought back memories of how her brothers had spoken of him once, before the war. Aidan Cameron—loud in the taverns, quick with his laughter, a man who could turn any gathering into chaos. The man who had looked at her last night was someone else entirely.
Something had changed him. She could see it now in the way his gaze never lingered, the way he hid his pain behind precision. Whatever he’d been before, it was buried deep.
She shouldn’t care. She told herself that again and again. But care had crept into her thoughts slowly, like ivy through stone, and now it was impossible to pull free.
The door opened again, Marian returning with a small tray of bread, fruit, and tea. She set it down and lingered a moment, twisting her apron between her fingers. “If ye’ll forgive me sayin’ so, me lady,” she said, “ye dinnae seem yerself today.”
