Aidan stepped forward until the iron bars of the gate caught the light between them. “What in God’s name are ye daein’ on me lands, MacLeod?”
Edwin reined his horse closer, just enough that the steam from its nostrils curled through the bars. “A pleasure tae see ye too, Cameron. I’d hoped tae find ye home.”
“State yer purpose and be quick.”
Edwin’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “I think ye ken me purpose.”
Aidan’s jaw hardened. “If ye’re here tae talk o’ alliances, speak tae me Council.”
“I’m nae here fer alliances.” His voice dropped. “I’m here fer Lady Catherine.”
The words hung like frost between them.
Aidan’s hand tightened on the hilt at his side. “She’s made her answer plain enough.”
Edwin’s eyes glittered, catching the morning light. “Aye, she said nay. But she’s stubborn. A woman’s mind changes when she’s reminded what’s good fer her.”
Aidan took a step closer, his voice dropping to steel. “Ye’ll watch yer tongue.”
“I’d rather watch her come home.”
“Ye’re mistaken if ye think she’s goin’ anywhere wi’ ye.”
Edwin tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “And ye’re mistaken if ye think I came unprepared tae change that.”
Aidan’s tone sharpened. “Ye’ve two breaths tae explain yerself before I have me men drive ye off me land.”
“Drive us off?” Edwin laughed softly. “Och, I thought ye might say that, which is why I prepared.” He leaned forward in the saddle, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, me laird—dae ye ken what happens when wet wood finally catches flame?”
Aidan frowned. “What are ye talkin’ about?”
“It burns slower,” Edwin said, his grin widening, “but it makes more smoke.”
Aidan’s blood ran cold. The meaning struck him before the smell did—the faint acrid sting of burning peat carried on the wind. He turned sharply toward the east. Beyond the rise, in the direction of the village, a column of gray smoke was unfurling against the pale sky.
The sound that tore through Aidan’s chest wasn’t human. He was already shouting orders before the guards had time to breathe. “Sound the horn! Bruce, tae me! Mount the riders—now!”
Panic rippled through the yard as men scrambled to obey. Gordon appeared at his side, half-dressed, sword in hand. “What is it?”
“The village,” Aidan snapped. “It’s burnin’.”
He turned back, but Edwin was already wheeling his horse. The bastard’s smirk lingered even as he rode away, his laughter faint over the pounding of hooves.
Aidan’s vision narrowed. The world reduced itself to heat, smoke, and the image of her face. He didn’t think. He only moved. By the time his horse was brought around, the men were ready. Fifty strong, armor hastily strapped, eyes wide with alarm.
“Ride,” Aidan said.
He spurred his horse down the slope, the thunder of hooves splitting the morning air. The gates of Achnacarry opened wide, the banner snapping in the wind. The cold air cut at his face as they tore across the field, smoke thickening ahead.
He could smell it now—burned thatch, scorched timber, the sickening scent of ruin. Every stride carried him closer to it, to the thought he couldn’t bear to voice.
Catherine.
Please, God—let her be alive.
Wind tore at Aidan’s cloak as his horse thundered through the wet grass, the scent of fire clawing its way into his lungs. The village was still half a mile off, the smoke curling thick above the trees like a signal from hell itself. Behind him, the pounding of hooves came like a heartbeat—his men, close, steady, ready.
Then he heard shouts from the rear gate.
