Her mind wandered as it always did when silence grew too deep. She thought of her family, of the endless rain pressing against the keep walls, of the ache in her chest she had tried so hard not to name. She thought, too, of the strange way Aidan’s voice had softened when he had told her she was special. No one had said that to her in a very long time.
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. His head was bowed slightly, his hair damp, the shadows cutting strong lines across his face. He looked less like a laird now and more like a man worn by too many nights like this.
“Ye dinnae trust many people, dae ye?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer at once. “Trust is earned,” he said finally. “And it’s cost me dearly before.”
Catherine nodded. “Aye. I ken the feeling.”
He turned to her then, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Ye? Ye seem like ye’d trust a storm tae carry ye home.”
She huffed a small laugh. “I trust meself. That’s all.”
“And yet here ye sit, soaked tae the bone, guardin’ a creature that isnae yers.”
Her gaze softened. “Maybe that’s the difference between us. Ye see what ye own; I see what needs help.”
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then looked away again. “Ye’re an impossible woman, Catherine MacDonald.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She leaned her head back against the beam, listening to the rhythm of the rain. The mare had drifted into calm, her breathing slow, her eyelids drooping. Catherine reached up to smooth the last strand of her mane before letting her hand fall to her lap.
“Ye can sleep now,” she whispered to the horse, though part of her knew the words weren’t only for the animal.
Aidan shifted beside her, his shoulder brushing hers for the briefest instant. The touch was accidental, harmless, yet it sent a pulse of awareness through her that she could not quite swallow.
She should have moved away. Instead, she stayed still. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. The storm outside dulled to a soft patter, the lantern’s flame flickering low. Catherine’s eyelids grew heavy, her body sinking into the quiet rhythm of warmth beside her. Aidan’s breathing slowed, deep and even, and before long the sound of it merged with her own.
She drifted between waking and sleep, her thoughts hazy, her senses full of the scent of rain and hay and the faint musk of plaid wool. At some point, she felt him move just enough to draw the blanket higher around her shoulders. She wanted to protest, to tell him she didn’t need his kindness, but her lips never quite formed the words.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aidan woke to the faintest breath against his throat.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was—only the scent of hay and the quiet rhythm of rain still whispering beyond the stable roof. His arm was heavy, his body warm. Then the realization came slowly, like dawn breaking through fog. There was someone soft and warm in his arms, breathing against him.
Catherine. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep beside her, but her nearness had been disarming, steadying. Now she was there, tucked against him, her cheek resting against his chest, his hand lying across her waist as though his body had claimed hers without his permission.
Aidan froze, pulse hammering against his ribs. He didn’t dare move but she stirred. Her lashes fluttered, brushing against his collar. He felt the smallest shift of breath, a sigh, a whisper of movement as her eyes opened.
For one suspended heartbeat, they looked at each other. Her pupils wide, lips parted, the space between them no more than a breath. The light was pale and silver, seeping through the cracks in the door, touching her face like something sacred.
If he moved, he could have kissed her. God help him, he wanted to.
But Catherine gasped softly, her hand pressing to his chest as she jolted upright. “Saints,” she breathed, her voice unsteady. “We fell asleep.”
Aidan sat up more slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “So it would seem.”
Her hair had come loose, curling damp against her shoulders, her cloak slipping down her arm. She caught sight of how close they still were and turned crimson. “We—ye—ye shouldnae have?—”
He raised an eyebrow, still half dazed from sleep. “Shouldnae have what, lass? Slept?”
Her glare returned faster than her composure. “Slept like that.”
“Ye were cold,” he said simply, voice rough from the night. “Would ye rather I’d left ye tae freeze?”
Her mouth opened, then shut again. “I dinnae freeze easily.”
