“I wasnae,” she murmured. “Nae until the end.”
He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “I should’ve been there sooner.”
“Ye were,” she said softly. “When it mattered.”
His arm tightened just slightly, his breath warm against her hair. “I thought I’d lost ye.”
The admission hung between them, heavier than the rain.
Catherine stared ahead at the road, her throat tight. She wanted to speak, to tell him something—anything—but the words refused to form. Instead, she let herself lean into him, just enough that he would feel it.
He didn’t move away.
The rhythm of the horse’s gait was steady, the night alive with the quiet rush of wind and water. The fires were far behind them now. Ahead, the dark silhouette of Achnacarry rose against the storm, its windows glowing faintly like beacons.
By the time they reached the gate, her eyelids were heavy. Aidan swung down first, then lifted her easily into his arms. The warmth of the hall hit them as he pushed the door open, light spilling over the stone floor.
Servants gasped softly when they saw her—the soot on her face, the tear in her sleeve. Marian ran forward with a blanket, eyes wide with worry.
“She’s fine,” Aidan said before Catherine could speak. “Get her warm food, a bath ready.” His voice softened. “She’s had enough fear fer one day.”
Catherine wanted to protest, to tell him she could walk, she could speak for herself, but her voice caught. Her body was too tired to fight.
As he set her down by the fire, she looked up at him. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the faint tremor in his hand as he brushed soot from her hair.
“Ye’re safe now,” he said again, quieter this time, almost as if he needed to hear it himself.
And she felt protected.
CHAPTER TWENTY
She stood before him in the quiet of the hall, her hair damp and tangled, streaks of soot tracing her cheeks like war paint. Even like that, with blood on her sleeve, smoke clinging to her skin, fear still trembling faintly in her hands, she was beautiful in a way that made something inside him ache. Her eyes, red from tears, still caught the firelight and held it as if it belonged to her.
He wanted to touch her. God help him, he wanted to draw her close, to press his mouth to her hair and tell her he would always be there to protect her, that she’d never have to run again. The urge came sudden and sharp, cutting through the exhaustion and the chaos still ringing in his head. He could almost feel what it would be like—her warmth against him, her breath against his throat—and for one dangerous moment, he let himself imagine it.
Then he caught himself.
No. That was not for him.
Aidan turned his gaze toward the hearth, forcing the thought away. He could not afford to think of her like that when her brothers trusted him with her life, not when the weight of his failure still hung in the air like smoke. She needed steadiness, not whatever weakness stirred in him when she looked at him like that.
“Go take a bath,” he said quietly, his voice roughened by smoke and something else. “Ye’ll feel better once ye’re in the water.”
Catherine blinked, as if pulling herself back to the present. Her lips parted slightly, and he caught the faint tremor in her breath before she nodded.
“Thank ye, Aidan,” she whispered.
The sound of her voice did something to him, soft and small, but steady enough to make his chest tighten. He wanted to reach out, to brush away the soot still smudged along her jaw, but he kept his hands at his sides, every muscle taut with restraint.
“Go,” he said again, more gently. “Rest. That’s an order.”
She hesitated, then turned and walked toward the corridor. The firelight followed her as she moved, glinting against her hair, tracing the line of her neck where the pulse still beat fast and fragile beneath her skin. He watched her until the shadows took her, until her footsteps faded, until the hall was once again only stone, silence, and smoke.
He stood there a long while after she was gone, his heart still beating faster than it should have. The hall felt colder for her absence.
He drew in a breath and turned toward his study and the table where the council papers lay scattered—maps, troop records, last week’s patrol logs.
Outside, the wind howled against the shutters, carrying with it the faint smell of smoke from the village. He hated that smell. It reminded him of every failure he’d sworn he’d never repeat.
