Catherine arched a brow. “And what would ye ken o’ meself, Marian?”
The maid smiled faintly. “Enough tae see when somethin’s shifted.”
Catherine huffed out a laugh, though it held no real amusement. “Shifted? Nay. Just restless, I suppose. Too much time spent thinkin’ o’ ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
She reached for her cup of tea, letting the steam brush her face. “Aye. The kind that haunt castles.”
Marian blinked, then laughed softly. “Ye’ve a poet’s tongue, me lady.”
“Never thought o’ meself as such,” Catherine said, taking a sip.
She could still feel the ghost of his warmth where her hand had touched his back, the faint tremor in his voice when he’d told her to go.
Something cold and tender wound through Catherine’s chest. She didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. The image of him as a rake blurred at the edges. In its place rose another: a man scarred by something deeper than pride.
“Thank ye, Marian,” she said softly.
The maid nodded. “Will ye be wantin’ anythin’ else?”
“Please just tell me sisters I didnae rest well, so I will be joinin’ them a bit later.”
When the door shut again, the silence returned, but it felt different now. Heavier.
Cold, Marian had said. Distant. But Catherine had felt the opposite. She’d seen the crack in his armor, the ache beneath the command. And maybe that was worse, because now she could not pretend she hadn’t.
“Cold,” she whispered, the word soft and scornful. “If only.”
The wind caught the edge of the curtain, fluttering it like a sigh. She straightened her shoulders and forced the heat in her chest into something steadier. Whatever he’d been—rake, soldier, ghost—it was no concern of hers.
Or so she told herself, even as she turned her gaze back to the courtyard, searching for a glimpse of him in the mist.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The rain had not stopped for three days.
It came down in sheets that blurred the mountains and turned the courtyard to mirrors of mud and slate, each drop ringing softly against the stone like the slow beating of a drum. The air smelled of damp pine and iron; the hearths burned day and night, but the smoke only clung heavier to the walls. Every corridor of Achnacarry felt swollen with silence and restlessness alike, the sort of silence that frayed even the calmest temper.
Catherine had never been one for confinement. She could bear danger better than idleness; fear sharpened her, but waiting dulled her to the bone. By the third afternoon she had memorized every crack in the ceiling of the solar, every ripple of water trailing down the glass. Alyson had taken to sewing, Sofia to reading prayers aloud in her soft, hesitant voice. Catherine had taken to pacing back and forth, until even the maid had started muttering that the floorboards would give way beneath her.
By dusk she could stand it no longer.
Catherine pulled on her cloak, drew the hood close, and slipped through the side door before anyone could stop her. The air outside hit her like a blessing—cold, wet, clean. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, thin and grey, the kind that softened the edges of things rather than drowned them.
She followed the narrow stone walk that wound behind the kitchens and down toward the lower terraces. The wind tugged at her hood, threading its fingers through the loose strands of her hair, but she only laughed under her breath and tightened the knot of her cloak.
For a while she wandered beneath the dripping eaves, content simply to move. Water gathered in the folds of her skirts, heavy but not unpleasant. The stillness of the keep behind her was already fading into memory. Here, even the storm felt alive.
She rounded the corner near the orchard when a sound split the quiet—a sharp cry, half shout, half whinny. The unmistakable panic of a horse. Another shout followed, deeper, human, then the dull thud of hooves striking wood. Catherine froze, heart jolting. Instinct propelled her before thought could intervene. She gathered her skirts and ran toward the stables.
The air inside was thick with the smell of hay and fear. One of the horses was rearing, its hooves pounding against the stall boards with frantic strength. The other animals stamped and snorted, their eyes rolling white in the dim light. Rain blew in through the half-open door, turning the floor to slick mud.
And there he was. Aidan stood inside the largest stall, his plaid soaked through, one hand raised in futile command. The horse before him—a tall, dark mare with a white blaze down her face—snorted and tossed her head, ears flat, muscles quivering beneath the sheen of sweat and rain. No stable boy was in sight.
“Me laird,” Catherine said, breathless as she stepped through the doorway. “What’s happened?”
He turned sharply at the sound of her voice. “Ye shouldnae be out in this.” The words were half a growl, half a warning, but behind them was an unguarded flash of relief, quickly hidden. “The beast spooked. I sent the lads away before someone got trampled.”
