I trust the women have reached ye safely. I write now wi’ a matter that concerns Catherine. She has received a proposal from Laird Edwin MacLeod.
Aidan’s grip tightened around the paper. He kept reading, jaw clenched.
I am nae fond o’ the match, but I wouldnae stand in her way if she chooses it fer herself. I ask that ye speak with her. If it is a love match, she shall have me blessing.
The letter ended with Tòrr’s seal and signature. Nothing more.
“Tòrr wants tae ken if Catherine’ll marry Edwin MacLeod,” Aidan folded it slowly, his knuckles whitening.
“Edwin MacLeod?” Bruce asked carefully. “Wasnae he the lad who?—”
“Aye,” Aidan cut in. “The same.”
“The one who tried tae stop their journey?” Gordon said. “Ye near gutted him.”
Aidan’s voice was low, dangerous. “Aye. And now he’s writin’ letters tae Tòrr.”
Gordon frowned. “What daes Tòrr want ye tae dae?”
“He wants me tae askher.” The words burned on his tongue. “Wants tae ken if she returns the fool’s affections.”
Gordon gave a low whistle. “And what if she daes?”
Aidan didn’t answer. His silence was sharp enough. He turned on his heel, the parchment still crushed in his fist.
He was already striding down the corridor, his boots echoing against the stone. The air felt different now, almost electric. He didn’t know what he meant to say when he found her. He only knew he needed to see her, needed to hear the truth from her lips.
He’d seen the way Edwin looked at her before the battle. Possessive. Entitled. And he’d seen the way Catherine had flinched when his name was mentioned. The idea that she’d ever want to marry a man like that made his blood boil.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, the letter still crumpled in his hand. The hallways were quiet, the only sound the faint rush of wind outside. He reached the upper corridor, the one that led to the women’s chambers.
He paused only long enough to knock. Once. Then he opened the door and the sight hit him like a blow.
Catherine stood near the bath, her back half-turned toward him. Her hair tumbled loose, dark and damp, falling past her shoulders in waves. She wore only a thin white chemise, the fabric clinging to her shape in the morning light. Steam curled up from the copper tub beside her, catching the sunlight from the narrow window.
She froze, turning her head just enough for their eyes to meet.
Aidan’s throat went dry. Every instinct told him to look away, to step back and apologize, but he couldn’t. His mind had gone blank, his thoughts drowned out by the sudden rush of heat in his chest, spreading through his entire body.
Her voice broke the spell. Quiet, controlled, but trembling at the edges. “Turn around, me laird.”
He did—immediately. His boots scraped the stone as he pivoted, every muscle drawn tight.
He forced himself to speak, his voice low and unsteady. “Fergive me. I shouldnae have entered without waitin’.”
“Go,” she said, still steady.
He bowed his head once, the sound of his breath rough in his throat. “Aye.”
He left without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed far too loud in his ears. The corridor outside was cool and dim, the air smelling faintly of pine and smoke. He stood there, jaw tight, his hand still on the latch.
Christ above. He’d walked into her chamber without thought, meaning only to deliver the letter—and found her half-bare in the morning light. It had been a heartbeat, no more, yet it burned behind his eyes as if branded there. The pale curve of her shoulder, the shimmer of her skin, the sharp breath she’d drawn when she’d seen him. He hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t meant to want, but his body had betrayed him before his mind could catch up.
She was Tòrr’s sister. The lass he’d sworn to protect, not desire. The thought struck through him like cold water, dragging his breath tight in his chest. He pressed a hand to the stone wall, the chill biting through his palm, and forced himself to still. He’d fought wars with steadier hands than this.
The door creaked open behind him.
“Ye may come in,” came her voice—steady now, composed.
