Catherine looked away before the warmth rising to her cheeks could betray her. “I only listened. Perhaps that’s what she needed.”
“Perhaps that’s what most o’ us need,” he murmured.
Catherine felt the flutter of something in her chest, a delicate tremor. She let her hand drift once more along the mare’s neck, grounding herself in the rhythm of the creature’s breath.
“Well,” she said at last, forcing lightness into her tone, “since ye’ve witnessed me miracle, ye must dae yer part now.”
Aidan’s brow arched. “And what part would that be?”
“She cannae go on nameless. Find her one.”
He hesitated, then huffed a laugh. “I dinnae ken if I’ve the imagination fer it.”
“Then try,” she said, her eyes glinting. “Even a laird can stretch his mind when commanded.”
He gave her a long look, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Ye’ve a dangerous tongue, Lady Catherine.”
“So I’ve been told.” She turned back toward the door, gathering her damp cloak around her shoulders. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve done enough fer one day. I’ll leave ye tae think on names while I return tae me chamber.”
But before she could take a step, the mare jerked suddenly, her hooves striking the stall boards again, head tossing as if some unseen fear had returned. A startled whinny cut through the stable.
“Easy,” Catherine said, spinning back. “Easy, lass.”
Aidan cursed under his breath and reached for the halter, but the horse sidestepped, striking the wall again. Catherine moved faster, slipping between them before he could protest. Her hand found the mare’s flank, firm and steady. “Shh. It’s all right. Ye’re safe.”
The mare shivered violently, then slowly eased, her wild eyes softening once more. Catherine felt the tremor fade beneath her palm until the air settled again into the low hum of rain.
She exhaled a shaky breath, pushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “Seems she’s nae ready tae be left alone after all.”
Aidan’s voice was quiet. “Then I suppose ye’ll stay?”
She glanced toward the door, toward the curtain of rain beyond. “If I leave, she’ll work herself mad again. And ye cannae ask the stable lads tae sit up all night.” She sighed, half to herself. “So aye. I’ll stay.”
Something like unguarded admiration flickered through his expression. “Ye’re soaked through,” he said. “Ye’ll catch a cold.”
“I’ve weathered worse.”
“Ye dinnae have tae prove bravery in me stable, Catherine.”
She looked at him then, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who said I was tryin’ tae prove anything? Perhaps I simply prefer the company o’ creatures who ken sense when they hear it.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fiery wee thing.”
“Stubborn laird.”
He smiled, the first honest smile she’d seen on him in days. “Then I’ll nae leave ye here alone. I’ll keep ye company.”
“Ye dinnae?—”
“I’ll nae hear otherwise,” he said, already pulling a rough wool blanket from a hook and shaking it free of dust. “If ye’re set on playin’ guardian tae this creature, I’ll at least ensure ye dinnae fall asleep against the wall and freeze before dawn.”
Catherine opened her mouth to argue but stopped when he spread the blanket over the straw beside the stall. “Fine,” she said finally, folding her arms. “But only until she settles.”
“Aye, until then.”
He sank down beside the stall door, back against the wooden beam, his long frame folding with the kind of ease that came from years of campfires and cold nights. Catherine hesitated, then lowered herself beside him, keeping a careful hand on the mare’s neck as she sat.
The stable quieted. The rain was a constant whisper overhead, mingling with the low breathing of the horses and the occasional crackle from the lantern. For a while neither spoke, butCatherine could feel his presence beside her—warm, steady, grounding.
