“Then we’ll get wet,” she interrupted.
“Ye’ll stay here.”
“And dae what? Sit in silence? Ye’d have us blind tae the people who’ve fed us, sheltered us, risked their lives tae get us here?”
There was no mockery in her tone now, only quiet conviction. The same stubborn fire that had driven her to face him in council, to stand before his men like she belonged there.
He looked at her for a long moment, the fight in him faltering.
Behind her, Alyson shifted awkwardly. “We dinnae mean tae cause trouble, me laird,” she said softly. “But Catherine’s right. It daesnae feel right tae stay behind.”
Catherine’s gaze didn’t waver. “We want tae help. That’s all.”
Aidan’s breath came slow, heavy. The logic was sound. The clan could use every willing hand. And yet the thought of bringing her anywhere near danger made something primal and furious coil in his gut.
She met his gaze without flinching, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Around them, the courtyard buzzed with motion but the noise seemed distant, dulled. He saw the same quiet defiance he’d seen in the stable, in the council chamber, in every breath she took. And damn him, he couldn’t look away. She wasn’t fragile. She never had been.
Aidan felt something in his chest tighten painfully. He turned to Bruce, who was standing a few paces off pretending very badly not to listen. “If they’re tae come,” Aidan said, “they’ll stay close tae the wagons. Nay strayin’. Nay arguments.”
Bruce blinked, startled. “Ye’re lettin’ them go?”
Aidan gave him a look that brooked no further comment. “Get the carts ready. We leave within the hour.”
Catherine’s expression softened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. “Thank ye.”
“Dinnae thank me,” he said, voice flat. “Ye’ll reconsider when ye see the mud.”
She smiled faintly, the smallest curve of her lips. “Aye, well, I’ll try nae tae ruin me shoes.”
He almost smiled in return but stopped himself.
Instead, he turned away, barking orders to the men, the practiced rhythm of command returning like armor. But even as he spoke, he could feel her eyes on him. Steady, bright, alive. And beneath the weight of his words, beneath the grind of duty, one thought kept pushing through, clear and inescapable. She’d convinced him. Again.
When the party finally assembled, the air had grown thick with the scent of river and moss. Horses stamped, the sound of leather and steel filling the yard. Aidan mounted first, scanning the line of riders, the carts behind them loaded with tools and supplies.
Catherine stood with her sisters near the last wagon, hair caught by the wind, her gown plain but somehow more striking than any finery. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze across the distance. For one fleeting moment, everything stilled.
Aidan forced himself to look away. He couldn’t afford to let her see what she did to him, when she already had too much power over him.
He gave the signal to move.
The gates of Achnacarry creaked open, sunlight glinting off the wet stones as they set out toward the glen. Behind him, the sound of hooves and wagon wheels rose in rhythm, steady and strong.
The ride to the glen took the better part of the morning. The road wound along the river, still swollen from the rain, its banks glittering in the sunlight. Aidan rode at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Behind him came the carts, the men, and the faint murmur of the sisters’ voices weaving through the steady rhythm of hooves. He refused to turn, but he could feel her there, somewhere among the wagons, her presence like a pulse beneath the noise.
By the time they reached the first of the flooded villages, the day had brightened fully. Smoke curled from a few intact chimneys, but most of the cottages stood dark, their doors unhinged, their yards drowned in mud. The stream that ran through the settlement had overflowed its banks, cutting a new path through the center of the road. Children huddled near the embankment, their faces streaked with dirt, while the men of the village waited with hollow eyes for instruction.
Aidan dismounted, boots sinking into the muck. He took a slow look around. “Bruce,” he said, voice firm. “Take half the men tae the north side. Start clearin’ the debris from the bridge. Gordon, see what can be salvaged from the stores. The rest, wi’ me. We’ll reinforce the stables before the roof caves in.”
He turned then—and froze.
Catherine was already in the thick of it.
She’d abandoned the safety of the carts and was knee-deep in mud beside Alyson, sleeves rolled to her elbows, skirts tied up to keep them from dragging. Her hands were covered in soot andsoil as she helped two of the village women haul a broken shutter from the water. Sofia darted between them, ferrying dry cloth to where the children sat huddled beneath a makeshift awning.
Aidan had seen noblewomen play at charity before, with smiles and soft words for show, their hands too delicate to touch the dirt. But Catherine didn’t look delicate now. She looked capable. Determined. There was a steadiness in her movements, a focus that silenced even the men who’d been wary.
He should have told her to step back. He should have reminded her she didn’t belong there. But the words never came.
