“Apparently ye sleep easy enough.” His lips twitched despite himself.
Her eyes flashed. “Ye find this amusing?”
“Aye,” he said. “A bit.”
“Then ye’re a fool.”
“Perhaps.” He pushed to his feet, brushing straw from his plaid. “But a warm one.”
She stared at him for a long moment, caught between fury and mortification, before finally gathering her cloak and standing. “I’m goin’ tae take a bath,” she muttered. “And if ye’ve any sense left in that thick skull o’ yers, ye’ll forget this happened.”
“I’ve nay doubt I’ll try,” he said quietly, watching her.
Catherine threw him a sharp look over her shoulder, cheeks still pink. “Dinnae look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ye’re thinkin’ somethin’ ye shouldnae.”
He smiled faintly. “I was thinkin’ I’ve never seen a woman calm a horse faster than she can lose her own temper.”
She made a sound dangerously close to a growl. “Good day, me laird.”
And with that, she swept out of the stable, her cloak trailing through the straw, her head held high.
Aidan stood for a moment longer, the sound of her footsteps fading into the courtyard. Then he exhaled hard, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen, hadn’t meant to look at her that way, hadn’t meant to fall asleep holding her like something he couldn’t let go of. But it had happened all the same.
God help him, she was Tòrr MacDonald’s sister. Michael’s sister. The lass he’d sworn to protect, not want. And yet when she’d looked up at him in the firelight, all fire and defiance and trembling breath, every vow he’d ever made had felt like ash.
He’d fought through war, through loss, through the kind of hunger that breaks men, but nothing had prepared him for the guilt that came twined with desire, for the ache that felt like betrayal even when he’d done nothing at all.
He left the stable a few minutes later, the early morning mist clinging to his shoulders. The rain had stopped at last, leaving the air cold and clean. The keep loomed above him, smoke curling from the chimneys. As he climbed the steps to the great hall, the weight of the world returned with each stride. Whatever fragile peace the night had brought vanished the moment he crossed the threshold.
Inside, Bruce and Gordon were waiting near the hearth, both of them looking far too awake for his liking.
“Me laird,” Bruce said, stepping forward. “We were just about tae send someone fer ye.”
“Why?” Aidan asked. “Has somethin’ happened?”
“Ye tell us,” Gordon said with a grin that meant trouble. “We went lookin’ fer ye at dawn. Ye werenae in yer chamber.”
Aidan gave him a flat look. “I was in the stable.”
“The stable,” Gordon repeated slowly. “All night?”
“Aye.”
Bruce cleared his throat, wisely changing the subject. “This arrived while ye were gone.” He held out a folded parchment, sealed with the red wax of Clan MacDonald.
Aidan took it, his pulse quickening. “From Tòrr?”
Bruce nodded. Aidan broke the seal and scanned the first lines. The familiar handwriting tightened something in his chest. Letters from Tòrr rarely carried good news.
“What is it?” Gordon asked. “Bad?”
Aidan didn’t answer right away. His eyes caught on the words that made his stomach turn cold.
Braither Aidan,
