She ran. Her lungs burned, her throat scraped raw from the smoke, but she didn’t dare stop. The path that had been soft with rain that morning was now a trail of ash and ember. The roofs of two cottages had already caught—bright orange tongues licking greedily at the thatch.
She reached the far end of the lane where the ground dipped toward the river, her lungs burning, her skirts heavy with mud and rain. The huts here were smaller, crooked things with sagging roofs and walls that leaned against the wind as though they’d long ago given up standing proud. One stood a little apart from the rest, its door hanging half-open, blackness yawning within. She stumbled toward it, tripping on the uneven step, her palms scraping against the wet wood as she pushed herself inside and was swallowed by the dark.
The air was thick with the scent of peat and damp wool, of smoke that had seeped into the walls years before and never left. She pressed her back to the nearest beam, chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts that filled the silence. Her pulse thudded in her temples so violently she thought it might split her skull.
Outside, the night was alive with the pounding of boots and the fractured sound of men shouting—MacLeod voices, fierce and unrelenting. She could hear them calling to one another, their words broken by the storm, the flames, the chaos. And then, just as suddenly, the noise fell away.
Silence. Only the low crackle of distant fire and the faint rush of the river winding somewhere beyond the trees.
She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath, to make herself smaller, quieter. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, thunderous and desperate, and she thought with a kind of sick panic that if she could hear it so loudly, surely they could too.
One breath. Then another. And for the smallest, most fragile of moments, she dared to believe she was safe.
Then the light changed. It began as a dim shimmer beneath the door—a dull, red glow that grew, deepened, spread until the darkness itself seemed to breathe with it. She turned her head slowly, every muscle tight with dread, and through a narrow gap in the wall she saw the first tongue of flame slip across the yard. It moved with a terrible, eager grace, devouring everything it touched, the wet earth no match for it. Oil must have been poured there. The realization struck her like ice. It wasn’t chaos. It was planned.
Her hands trembled. She could taste the smoke already, feel the heat rising as if the air itself had turned against her. She backed away from the wall, heart pounding harder, as the beam above the door creaked. The sound was low and wrong, like the groan of a wounded animal.
“No,” she whispered, eyes stinging. “Please?—”
It came down in a storm of sparks.
The crash knocked her sideways. She hit the floor hard, coughing as smoke filled her mouth. The beam landed acrossthe doorway, blocking out the only light. The air thickened. Heat pressed in from every side.
Catherine tried to push herself up, but her hands slipped in the soot. The edges of her vision swam. For one mad instant she thought she saw her mother’s face in the smoke—then it was gone, replaced by the blinding red of the fire.
She clawed at the fallen wood, nails splintering. “Help!” Her voice broke. She tried again, louder this time. “Aidan!”
Her throat seized from the smoke, but she kept calling. “Aidan!”
Somewhere outside, through the roar of flame, she thought she heard a man’s voice answer. It was faint, hoarse, but it was there.
She couldn’t stop shaking. The air was burning now, every breath a punishment. She pressed the hem of her skirt to her mouth, coughing, blinking against the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be the woman her brothers believed her to be—the one who never faltered, never bowed her head. But all she could think wasI’m going tae die here, and the thought was so small and so sharp it hollowed her out completely.
Another crash outside. Then she heard fast, heavy boots.
“Catherine!” The sound of her name broke through the noise like the first breath after drowning.
“Aidan!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Here! I’m here!”
Something struck the door from the other side. A blade cut through the smoke—a sword slicing through the beam. She heard him curse, then the splinter of wood as he forced the last piece aside.
When the door finally gave, the rush of cool air hit her like water. Aidan’s broad silhouette filled the doorway, streaked with soot. His plaid was scorched along one edge, his hair damp and dark from rain and sweat.
“Christ, Catherine?—”
He was beside her in an instant, his hands on her shoulders, checking for blood, for burns. She tried to speak but only coughed.
“I—”
“Hush,” he said roughly, gathering her up. “I’ve got ye.”
The world tilted as he lifted her against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his tunic, steady and furious. Outside, the night was alive with shouting. His men were dousing flames with buckets of river water, their voices echoing through the chaos.
Aidan carried her clear of the burning hut, setting her gently against a trough. His hand stayed on her arm as if afraid she might vanish if he let go.
“What happened?” he demanded, kneeling in front of her.
