But the room’s curiosity refused to fade. Aidan could feel their eyes on him, questions simmering beneath the silence. He exhaled slowly, folding the letter with deliberate care before setting it on the table.
“Since ye’re all wonderin’,” he said at last, his tone even, “it was about the MacLeods. The MacDonalds have had renewed trouble wi’ them since the attack, and I needed confirmationthat nay agreement or promise was ever made between their families.”
Fergus, one of the elders, nodded, satisfied to have an explanation, but the others leaned forward, expectant.
“The MacDonalds have had trouble wi’ the MacLeods since the ambush on the road,” Aidan continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “Word’s spread that Edwin MacLeod was seekin’ tae force an alliance through marriage. Catherine MacDonald was the target. Her brother wished fer confirmation that nay such betrothal existed.”
A ripple of approval moved through the table. Even the skeptical ones seemed appeased now, nodding at the sense of it.
“Then her intrusion was justified,” Fergus said, a faint smile breaking through his beard. “A woman wi’ backbone, that one.”
“Aye,” another agreed.
Aidan said nothing. He kept his expression composed, his posture stern. Only his hand betrayed him, fingers tapping once, twice, against the folded letter on the table.
The discussion moved on to border disputes, crop reports, trade routes, but Aidan heard little of it. His role here was simple: to lead, to decide, to keep order. But his mind wasn’t listening. It was on the letter.
When the meeting finally drew to a close, the others filtered out one by one. Bruce lingered. “She’s bold,” he said quietly.
Aidan didn’t look up. “She’s reckless.”
Bruce gave a half smile. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”
When the door shut behind him, the silence returned, almost suffocating. Aidan exhaled and unfolded the parchment. Catherine’s handwriting was clean, the kind of script that betrayed both pride and control. He read slowly, eyes tracing the lines.
Braither,
I have received yer message and the offer from Laird Edwin MacLeod. I will be brief. I have nay wish tae marry him. Nor any man who cannot meet me as an equal in both mind and heart.
Aidan’s jaw tightened. He could almost hear her saying the words.
Ye need nae concern yerself. The laird here has been kind. I ask that the matter o’ Laird MacLeod be closed.
He paused, thumb brushing the ink as if the touch might conjure her voice. Kind. That was how she saw him? Not cold or impossible. It was a word he hadn’t heard directed at himself in years, not since before the softness was stripped out of him. He kept reading.
There was never any courtship between meself and Edwin MacLeod. The last time we were friendly was when we were ten, and that hardly counts as a courtship. Any gestures he made after were neither encouraged nor returned by me.
A slow breath left him, unsteady. It was the quiet dignity in her words that struck him. She’d written like a woman who refused to be spoken for, who’d claim her own voice even when surrounded by men eager to use it for her.
And she’d brought it to him, unsealed. A deliberate invitation to read what she’d written, to know the truth for himself.
Aidan folded the letter carefully, setting it aside. Then he rose, crossing to the narrow window that overlooked the courtyard. She was there.
He saw her near the stables, speaking to one of the grooms, her hair catching the thin sunlight that had broken through the clouds. She wore no cloak, only a dark gown that moved like water when she turned. The sight of her was a blow straight to the chest.
She laughed at something the groom said, the sound carrying faintly up to where he stood. He felt it, that laugh cutting through the cold of the morning, through the weight of everything else pressing on him.
He wondered if she knew what she did to him just by existing. If she had the faintest idea how her presence stirred things he had thought long buried.
Catherine lifted her face toward the sky for a moment, as if savoring the rare sun. The light caught on her hair, turning it gold at the edges. For one treacherous second, Aidan imagined what it would feel like to touch it, to sink his fingers into that softness and forget the world outside those walls.
He swore under his breath and turned away from the window.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The rain had finally broken. By midmorning, the world looked softer, glistening. The sky, once heavy with storm, had turned a hesitant blue, and the air smelled of wet earth and pine. Catherine stood on the slick stones of the garden terrace, skirts gathered in one hand, watching the sunlight spill timidly across the grass.
It felt like the first real breath she’d taken in days.
