“Aye. They’re easier tae live wi’ than men who scowl at ye every time ye speak.”
“That depends on the reason fer the scowlin’.”
“Oh?” Her voice held a hint of mischief. “And what reason have ye, me laird?”
He didn’t answer, but he look he gave her was answer enough. She glanced toward the tavern, the laughter of her sisters faintly audible from the doorway. “I should go,” she said softly.
“Aye.”
She hesitated. “Good night, then.”
He inclined his head, his voice low. “Good night, Catherine.”
She turned to leave, her steps slow, skirts brushing the mud. He watched her until the tavern door closed behind her, the light inside swallowing her whole.
Only when she was gone did he realize how cold the night had grown.
He didn’t go inside right away. He stood for a while beneath the stars that weren’t there, listening to the faint sounds of the village settling into uneasy sleep. His men had found their beds, the fires were nearly dead, and yet he felt no pull toward rest.
When he finally did return to the tavern, the air inside was thick with smoke and ale. The lower hall had emptied save for a few men snoring into their cups. Aidan crossed the floor in silence, his boots barely making a sound against the wood. The innkeeper pointed him up the stairs without a word.
Her door was the first on the left. He knew it because he could hear her sisters beyond, their voices low, drowsy, laughing still.
He paused outside it for a heartbeat, long enough to hate himself for stopping, for listening. Then he moved on, his own room at the far end of the hall.
The chamber was small, the window narrow, but it was clean. He stripped off his boots, his sword belt, and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the coals pulsing faintly red.
He tried to think of the day’s work, but his mind betrayed him. All he could see was her, that fleeting moment when the firelight had caught her hair, when she’d turned and looked at him as though she’d been waiting for him to speak her name. He cursed softly under his breath.
Sleep didn’t come easily. It never did, but that night, it refused altogether.
He lay back, staring at the dark rafters above, his hands folded behind his head. The ache in his chest was a steady, maddening pulse. He told himself it was the storm still lingering, the fatigueof days without rest, the weight of command. But he knew better.
He was burning too.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first sound that morning was the horn.
Low, distant, and wrong. It rolled through the fog like thunder, dragging Aidan from his bed before dawn had even broken. The tavern was still dark, the embers in the hearth cold. He sat there on the edge of the narrow bed, listening. Then the sound came again.
He was on his feet before thought could catch up.
Outside his window, the sky was just beginning to pale, a cold gray light bleeding over the hills. The village was waking in fits and starts—boots on mud, voices rising, the thud of doors thrown open. He grabbed his sword belt from the chair, fastened the buckle with a practiced jerk, and was down the stairs before his men could knock.
Bruce was already in the common room, half-dressed, when Aidan descended. “A rider’s come from the keep,” he said, breath clouding in the chill. “Says it’s urgent.”
Aidan’s pulse steadied to a cold rhythm. “Where is he?”
“Outside.”
The moment Aidan stepped into the morning air, the rider dismounted and dropped to one knee. His plaid was soaked, his face streaked with wind and travel. “Fergive me, laird,” he said, breathless. “Message from the Council at Achnacarry. It’s the MacKinnons. They’ve sent word that Bruce’s clan has been attacked. Three farms burned, one captured. They’re askin’ fer help.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “When?”
“Last night, before the storm cleared. Word reached us through Glenfinnan.”
Bruce swore under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. His clan under siege while he slept under another man’s roof.
