He froze. “Dinnae refer tae that night.”
“Why nae?” she asked, tilting her head, the faintest trace of a smile playing at her lips. “Daes it make ye uneasy, me laird?”
He turned back slowly, his expression unreadable. “Because I’m tryin’ nae tae remember.”
“Tryin’,” she repeated softly. “But failin’.”
The world narrowed to her eyes, her breath, the distance of a single sigh. His heart pounded once, hard enough to hurt. Then he straightened, stepping back as though from the edge of a cliff.
Without another word, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
In the corridor, he pressed a hand against the stone wall, his breath unsteady.
What in God’s name are ye daein’?
He’d known temptation before. He’d been weak to beauty, to warmth, to the pull of a woman’s voice. But this was different. Catherine wasn’t some tavern flirt or visiting widow. She was Tòrr’s sister. The girl he’d sworn to protect. The one person he could never have. And yet, every time he looked at her, something in him shifted. Something dangerous.
He’d told himself he could control it. That it was only attraction, something fleeting. He’d conquered worse habits in his time. But this didn’t feel like lust. It felt like hunger, old and bone-deep, a wanting he couldn’t name.
He straightened, dragging a hand through his hair. He’d promised Tòrr he’d keep her safe. He couldn’t betray that for anything. Not even for the way she looked at him.
He took a slow breath and forced himself to walk away, the sound of her voice still ringing in his head, soft and defiant all at once. He told himself it would fade. That it had to.
But even as he stepped back into the cold light of the corridor, he knew he was lying.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning broke soft and pale, the light timid after days of storm. A thin mist drifted across the hills, the kind that caught on the windows and turned the world into watercolor. Catherine sat by the small writing desk near her window, quill poised over parchment, pretending not to hear her own thoughts.
She’d been pretending since dawn.
The memory of themorning beforerefused to fade. It clung to her like the ghost of warmth, like the echo of thunder when the storm had already passed. She could still feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breath when she’d woken in his arms. And later, the heat in his eyes when he’d found her about to get in the bath.
Catherine pressed the quill harder than she meant to, the nib scratching deep into the parchment
Braither,
I have received yer message and the offer from Laird MacLeod. I will be brief.I have nay wish tae marry him. Nor any man who cannae meet me as an equal in both mind and heart.
She paused. It sounded too cold. Too much like the voice she used in arguments. Tòrr didn’t need a lecture; he needed assurance. Catherine took a slow breath, the quill trembling slightly in her fingers.
I am safe here, and the laird has been kind.
Her chest tightened. That word felt too small for the man who haunted her thoughts. Kind didn’t describe the way he’d looked at her, or the way his voice had dropped when he had said he was trying not to remember.
She sighed, dipped the quill once more, and wrote as quickly as she could, signing her name before she had the chance to think better of it.
Then she sat back, staring at the page. The words were neat, final, and yet she felt none of the satisfaction finality usually brought her. Because the letter was meant for her brother, but it wasn’t him she was thinking about.
It was Aidan. Every line of the page carried a trace of him: his command, his restraint, the echo of his voice when he’d saideverything.
Catherine set the quill down and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Enough,” she muttered aloud. “Ye’ll go mad thinkin’ about him.”
But the thought refused to be silenced. She should have sent the letter with a servant. That would have been the sensible thing to do. A quiet handoff, a sealed message, and peace of mind. Yet as she folded the parchment, she found herself rising, smoothing her gown, her heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with duty.
The letter wasn’t sealed yet. That, she told herself, was reason enough to find him. She had to hand it to him directly, to ensure it was properly received and dispatched. A perfectly logical decision. Except logic had very little to do with it.
She stepped into the corridor, the sound of her slippers whispering against the rushes. The morning had turned busier now that the rain was gone—servants carrying baskets, guards moving through the hall, the distant clatter of steel from the yard. She passed them all with a nod, her letter tucked tightly in her hand.
