The MacLeod men shifted, uncertain, the weight of his command breaking through their bravado. The carriage horses screamed, rearing against their harness as the stench of blood thickened.
Catherine pressed her palm against the earth to steady herself, fury and relief battling inside her chest until she thought she might choke on both. She would not thank him here, before these men. And yet when her eyes met his—dark, burning still with the fire of battle—something inside her twisted dangerously.
He stood a few paces away, breath rising hard against the rain, his plaid torn and heavy with mud, dark hair plastered to his brow. The veins along his forearm were stark beneath the slick of blood, his sword still dripping from the fight. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured control, the kind that made every movement seem deliberate, lethal, beautiful.
He looked every inch the laird her brothers trusted, and yet something in his gaze was not command but possession, a raw protectiveness that rooted her where she knelt. She told herself it was only shock that made her tremble, only exhaustion that made her breath catch, but she knew better.
She forced herself upright, chin high, though her skirts clung sodden with mud. “Ye’ll ne’er claim me, Edwin,” she spat intothe chaos, knowing he must hear though she could not see his face. “Nae wi’ vows. Nae wi’ force. Nae ever.”
Aidan shifted his sword higher, the promise of violence carved into every line of him. And Catherine, trembling yet unbroken, stood behind the shield of his fury, her pride the only armor she had left.
The clash around them had thinned, the MacLeod ambush faltering now that Aidan’s wrath had cut through their line. Still, Edwin pressed forward, breaking through the knot of men as though carried by pride alone. His face was flushed, his jaw hard, his eyes fixed not on Aidan but on her.
“Catherine,” he called, his voice strained yet steady, “ye ken this is folly. Ye were meant fer me. Our faithers drew the contract themselves and the promise remains. Yer braither will see it honored soon enough. This match was made tae bind our clans, nae tae be cast aside fer some Cameron interloper.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears, the weight of his words colder than the rain. “Drawn,” she said, her tone like steel, “aye—but nae signed. And ye ken well what that means, Edwin. A promise without me word is worth less than the mud beneath yer boots.”
His expression hardened, pride curdling into fury. “The MacDonalds ken o’ our courtship. Yer family has always approved.”
Catherine’s hands trembled on the reins. “Approved? I ken naething o’ approval.”
A growl low in Aidan’s throat turned the air heavy. He shifted his horse forward, placing himself fully between her and Edwin. His sword gleamed red in the dim light, his voice colder than the mountain streams in spring. “Ye heard her. She is nae yers. And I’ll gut ye where ye stand if ye dare reach again.”
Edwin sneered. “A fine show. But I dinnae fear ye, Cameron. Ye hide behind yer blade because ye’ve naught else tae offer her.”
Steel rang as Aidan swung down from his horse in one clean motion, boots striking earth with a thud that rattled Catherine’s bones. He leveled his sword in both hands, stance wide, steady. “Then test it.”
The words cracked like thunder.
Edwin drew his blade at last, its edge catching the dull light, and lunged.
Catherine’s breath caught. She wanted to turn away, to shield herself from the sight, but her eyes would not release them. The two men circled, blades clashing, sparks leaping from the edge of steel. Aidan moved with a precision that was frightening, his every strike measured, his body coiled power and restraint. Edwin fought with rage alone, his swings wild, his footing slipping on mud churned by hooves and blood.
Her heart pounded, each clash ringing through her chest. The world narrowed to the sound of their blades, to the sight of Aidan’s shoulders flexing with strength, to Edwin’s facecontorting with the strain of pride crumbling under weight of skill.
It did not last long. Aidan drove forward with a final strike that sent Edwin’s blade skittering from his grasp. In a breath he had him down, his boot on Edwin’s chest, sword angled toward his throat.
The MacLeod men stilled, their eyes fixed on the scene, their courage faltering. Catherine’s stomach lurched. Aidan stood over Edwin like some dark vision of judgment, steady as stone, his sword poised with lethal grace. He looked like the perfect portrait of the calm, merciless executioner, every line of him cut with purpose, every breath measured as if the world itself bowed to his will.
He would do it. She saw the resolve in his eyes, cold and unwavering. One swift thrust and Edwin’s obsession would end there in the mud. And though the sight chilled her to the marrow, something else stirred beneath the fear, an unwilling tremor that came from the sheer power of him, from the terrible certainty that when Aidan Cameron gave himself to a cause, nothing on earth could stand in his way.
Her pride urged her to let it happen. Edwin had humiliated her, sought to claim her as if she were coin or cattle. He deserved whatever fate the edge of Aidan’s sword might give him. And yet, her heart rebelled. Blood already soaked the ground, men already lay still. Another life would not free her; it would only bind her name tighter to this madness.
Her voice tore from her throat before she could stop it. “Dinnae!”
Aidan’s head snapped toward her, dark eyes blazing. His sword hovered still at Edwin’s throat, the muscle in his arm taut. “He would’ve taken ye,” he growled, his voice low enough that it thrummed in her bones. “He still would if I let him breathe.”
Catherine stepped forward, skirts heavy with mud, chin high despite the tremor in her chest. “And what then? Shall me name be stained wi’ his blood, carried on every whisper across the glens? Shall I be kent nae as Catherine MacDonald but as the cause o’ Laird Edwin MacLeod’s death? Ye ken fine what tale his clan would spin.”
Aidan’s jaw flexed, his eyes still locked on her. He held that sword steady another heartbeat, two, as though he weighed her words against the satisfaction of his blade.
At last, he lowered it, slow, reluctant, fury written in every line of his frame. “If this is what ye prefer,” he said, his voice rough, “then I’ll stay me hand. But ken this, Catherine—he’ll try again.”
Her breath came sharp, her pride the only shield against the storm raging inside her. She lifted her chin. “Then let him. He’ll find I bite as hard as I burn.”
Something unreadable flickered in Aidan’s eyes before he turned, shoving Edwin back into the mud with a boot to the chest. His voice rang out, cold as iron. “Be gone, MacLeod. Yerclaim is dust. Go crawl back tae yer lands afore I change me mind.”
Edwin staggered to his feet, mud streaking his plaid, his pride more wounded than his body. His gaze cut once more to Catherine, still fevered, still clinging to his delusion. “Ye’ll regret this,” he spat, though the threat rang hollow against the weight of his defeat. He gathered his men with a sharp gesture, retreating toward the road. The carriage creaked, wheels groaning, as the horses turned to carry them away into the mist.
