Aidan felt the tension snap into command. “Mount up. We ride fer the castle at once.”
He turned to the rider. “Wake Gordon. Tell him tae prepare. And send two riders ahead tae the gate. The rest o’ the men stay here and protect the MacDonald lasses.”
The messenger nodded and ran. Bruce followed him toward the stables. Aidan paused, glancing east where the horizon was breaking open, streaked red through the fog. The color bled across the clouds like blood through water.
It was going to be a long day.
By the time they reached Achnacarry, the sun had fully risen. The keep loomed through the morning haze, its walls slick with dew, the air thick with the smell of peat smoke and damp stone. The horns had gone silent, replaced by the steady noise of preparation. Men shouted orders across the yard, boots thudding over the drawbridge as supply carts rolled in.
Aidan dismounted before the horse had stopped moving. His stride carried him through the courtyard and up the steps two at a time. The great hall was already half-filled when he entered, the Council gathered around the long table.
Gordon looked up from the parchment in his hands. “We’ve confirmed the reports, me laird. The attacks came from the west.”
Aidan’s eyes cut to Bruce. “Dae ye ken who’d risk this?”
Bruce’s face was pale but steady. “If it’s Loch Duin, then it’s retribution. Me faither drove them off that land years ago. But they’ve been waitin’ fer a chance tae strike back.”
“They picked a coward’s way tae dae it,” Aidan said darkly. “Hittin’ farmers instead o’ fightin’ men.”
“Aye,” Gordon said. “But the damage is done. The MacKinnon lines are stretched thin, and if they dinnae get help, they’ll break.”
Aidan took the message from the table, scanning the cramped ink. The words were rushed, written in the hand of a man who’d seen blood that day. He didn’t need to read more than a few lines to know what had to be done.
He looked up. “We’ll send a band tae reinforce them. Fifty men, well-armed. Bruce, ye’ll go wi’ them. Ye ken the land better than any o’ us.”
Bruce’s head snapped up. “Me laird, if ye’ll allow?—”
“I’m nae askin’,” Aidan cut in. “Ye’re still under me command, aye, but those are yer people. Ye’ll lead the relief and make sure the raids stop.”
Bruce said nothing. Then he nodded, shoulders squaring. “Aye, me laird. I’ll go.”
“Good,” Aidan said. “Gordon, choose the men yerself. I want them mounted and ready before the next bell. They’ll take the east road through Glen Loy—it’s slower, but safer. The rain’s still softenin’ the ridges.”
The men began to move, chairs scraping, boots echoing across the hall. But Aidan didn’t sit. He stayed standing at the head of the table, hands braced on the rough oak, gaze fixed on the fire.
It had been weeks since any true quiet had touched the Highlands. The rain had stopped, but the air still carried its heaviness. He could feel it even now, pressing against his skull.
And through it all, one thought threaded through the rest: Catherine. She was still in the village.
He’d left her there only hours ago. He’d told himself it would be safer that way. That the village was well-guarded, that the danger lay elsewhere. But the part of him that still felt the heat of her voice didn’t believe it.
Duty, he told himself again. Focus on that.
He straightened, forcing the tension from his shoulders. “See that they’re provisioned,” he said to Gordon, voice clipped. “And have the messenger fed and rested before he rides back tae Glenfinnan.”
“Aye, me laird,” Gordon said.
Aidan turned toward the doors, intent on checking the yard before departure—but then, faint and out of place, came another horn. This one was closer.
He froze, head snapping toward the sound. The hall fell silent. Then, another blast, louder this time.
Then the cry from the watchtower—“Riders at the gate!”
Aidan’s hand went to his sword as he strode toward the courtyard. “Open the postern only,” he ordered. “I want eyes on them before they’re allowed through.”
The guards swung the smaller gate wide enough for view but not passage. The morning mist parted, revealing a line of riders at the base of the hill—five, maybe six, cloaked in dark tartan. At their head rode Edwin MacLeod.
Aidan’s pulse went still. The man’s smirk was visible even at distance. He sat tall in the saddle, arrogance draped over him like armor, his men fanned out behind him with deliberate ease.
