“Good,” he said curtly.
He walked away before she could answer, his pulse a steady roar in his ears. “Make ready, then. We’ll rest at the tavern till dawn.”
Behind him, her voice carried, quiet but unmistakably amused. “As ye command, laird.”
Aidan didn’t look back.
The men were already gathering their things, the last of the fires dying down to embers. Gordon caught his eye as he approached, his grin crooked. “So we’re stayin’, then?”
“Aye,” Aidan said shortly.
“Let me guess—Lady Catherine insisted?”
Aidan gave him a look that shut him up quick enough. “I’ll hear nae more about it.”
Gordon chuckled under his breath. “Aye, me laird. Whatever ye say.”
Aidan said nothing. He adjusted his sword belt and glanced once more toward the far edge of the green, where Catherine stood with her sisters, her laughter soft in the dark.
He told himself it was duty that made him stay. Responsibility. The need to protect what wasn’t his. But deep down, where no one could hear it but himself, he knew that was a lie.
The storm’s wreckage lay quiet beneath the pale wash of twilight, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke. Someone struck flint near the green, then another, and before long a spark caught—a single flame rising where the villagers had gathered the fallen branches from the day’s work.
It spread quickly, a crackle in the stillness, drawing people from their shelters like moths to warmth. Children ran with armfuls of kindling, laughter ringing through the dark. Soon the fire grew high, spilling its light over the ruined cottages, chasing the night from their faces.
And just like that, Aidan found himself standing there among them, watching the glow catch in Catherine MacDonald’s hair as she stepped near the flames.
Catherine stood across the circle, framed by the glow, her hair bright as flame against the night. Her sisters hovered close, but it was she who drew the attention. The villagers had started calling herthe Horse Whisperer. The name had spread like smoke and now one of the older men was telling the tale aloud, exaggerating every detail until the children gasped and the women smiled behind their hands.
“They say,” the man declared, holding up his cup, “that when the laird himself couldnae tame the beast, it was the lady who walked right up tae it. Calm as a priestess, eyes o’ gold, and nay more fear than the wind.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Catherine’s cheeks flushed crimson in the firelight. “Saints, that’s nonsense,” she protested, though her voice was lost beneath the cheer that followed.
The storyteller grinned, unbothered. “Aye, but what’s life without a bit o’ nonsense, eh?”
Aidan’s lips almost curved. Almost.
He caught the moment she turned, her eyes finding him through the haze of smoke and flame. For one suspended breath, she looked at him as though he were the only steady thing in the world. Then her gaze dropped, the color deepening in her cheeks.
He should have looked away. Should have reminded himself that this warmth was a luxury he had no right to want. But the sight of her, flushed and radiant in the firelight, felt like something he’d been starving for without knowing it.
Gordon’s elbow nudged his side. “Careful, me laird. Ye keep starin’ like that and folk’ll start writin’ new tales tae tell.”
Aidan shot him a look that silenced him fast enough. “Go make yerself useful,” he muttered. “See that the watchmen are in place.”
Gordon grinned, all too pleased. “Aye, me laird.”
When he was gone, Aidan moved around the circle, his boots crunching softly over the damp ground. The heat of the bonfire brushed his face. Catherine was speaking to one of the village girls, her laughter low.
He stopped just behind her. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from both the fire and her.
“If ye stand any closer,” he said quietly, “ye’ll burn.”
She startled slightly, glancing up at him. Her cheeks were already pink, her lips parted in a breath that misted faintly in the cold air.
“Maybe I need tae burn,” she said, the words leaving her before she could stop them.
Aidan’s chest tightened. The fire crackled between them, throwing shadows that danced across her face. “Ye dinnae ken what ye’re sayin’,” he said finally, his voice low, but it wasn’t a reprimand. It was almost a warning.
