“Good. Load them wi’ the timber. We’ll need it fer the bridges.”
He moved through the preparations with practiced precision, pausing only to inspect the wagons as they filled. Every order came measured and direct, every motion deliberate. There was no room for uncertainty.
Bruce appeared near the gate, his plaid dark with mud. “The men from the lower farms are here, laird. They brought their own shovels.”
Aidan nodded. “See that they’re fed before we leave. We’ll need strength more than speed.”
He turned next to the stable. The horses were restless from days of confinement; they pawed the straw, tossing their heads as the stable hands checked their tack. Aidan stepped inside, the familiar smell of hay and leather grounding him. He ran a hand along the neck of his mare, steadying her with a quiet word before lifting the saddle into place himself.
The clatter and movement of the courtyard began to take on rhythm, the organized chaos slowly bending to order. It was how he preferred it: clear purpose, clean direction. He oversaw every detail, from the arrangement of tools to the guard rotation that would remain behind.
By the time the sun broke through the thinning clouds, Aidan could feel the day shifting beneath him. The men were ready, the carts nearly loaded, and the sound of the river carried faintly on the wind from the valley below.
He paused at the edge of the yard, surveying the scene. It steadied him. Here, among duty and command, everything made sense. And then, as he turned to check the last of the supply lists, the sound of laughter cut through the noise of the courtyard, unmistakably out of place.
He turned just as Catherine and her sisters crossed the yard. Alyson carried a bundle of cloth, Sofia her usual bright grin, and Catherine walked ahead, shoulders straight, eyes fixed on him as though she were marching to battle.
Every man nearby stopped what he was doing.
“Laird Cameron,” Catherine called, her tone far too composed to be harmless.
He stiffened, jaw tightening. “Lady Catherine.”
“We heard about the flooding,” she said, stopping before him. “And we’d like tae help.”
Behind her, Alyson nodded in eager agreement. “We’ve supplies—cloth, herbs, things fer the children?—”
“And I can help wi’ the cooking!” Sofia chimed in, all brightness and hope.
Aidan looked from one sister to the next, then back at Catherine. “Absolutely nae.”
The words dropped like stone.
Catherine’s brows lifted. “I beg yer pardon?”
“This is nae a task fer women,” he said, voice even but firm. “The ground’s unstable. The villages are still floodin’ in parts. I’ll nae risk ye bein’ hurt.”
“Risk?” Alyson asked, frowning. “We’d hardly be on the front lines o’ battle.”
“It’s the same,” Aidan said sharply. “Ye’re guests here. Me responsibility. I’ll nae take chances.”
Catherine folded her arms, the movement slow, deliberate. “Me laird, we’ve been naethin’ but idle fer days. The clan’s out there strugglin’ while we sit here eatin’ their bread. And ye’d have us dae what? Sew?”
“I’d have ye safe.”
Her chin tilted up. “Safe and useless, ye mean.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Ye ken fine that’s nae what I said.”
“It’s what ye meant.” She took a step closer, her voice softening, though her eyes still sparked. “Me laird?—”
The way she spoke nearly undid him.
She must have seen the slight flicker in his expression, because she pressed on. “Ye ken we could help. Alyson ken her herbs better than any man ye’ve got. I can keep the bairns calm, help wi’ the cleanin’. And Sofia?—”
“I can make broth!” Sofia said cheerfully.
Aidan dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “This isnae a game, Lady Catherine. The bridges are down. The banks are slippery. If the rain starts again?—”
