Gordon entered without knocking, as he always did, rain dripping from the edge of his plaid. “The villagers are settled. Nay casualties.”
Aidan gave a short nod. “Good.”
“Ye should rest,” Gordon said, lowering his voice. “Ye’ve nae sat since dawn.”
“I’ll rest when I ken why me men let a band o’ MacLeods intae me land.” The tone was quiet, but it cut through the room like steel.
Gordon hesitated before answering. “Most o’ them fled once Edwin pulled back. We counted six dead in the field—more scattered through the woods. The rest are limpin’ home wi’ their tails between their legs.”
Aidan’s jaw flexed, the flicker of fury and guilt plain in his eyes. “They should’ve never crossed that border.”
“Aye,” Gordon said softly. “But they’ll think twice afore they try again.”
Gordon said nothing for a moment, then sighed, the sound of it weary. “The men are gatherin’ fer Council, as ye asked.”
“Then let’s nae keep them waitin’,” he said, his voice low, the edge of command sharpening it back into something steady.
He reached for his cloak, still damp from the rain, and crossed the hall in long, deliberate strides. The torches along the corridor hissed faintly as the movement hit them, their light flickering over the walls. Each step echoed against the floor, heavy with the weight of what had almost been lost.
He pushed open the door to the council chamber, where the air was thick with damp wool and firelight and the scent of scorched timber that had followed him from the village.
Aidan took his seat at the head of the long oak table, his hands flat against the wood, his jaw set. Around him, his men shuffled in their chairs—Gordon, Bruce, Donnach, three elders from the village, and Fergus. All of them looked as though they’d been dragged through the storm, faces drawn and pale from exhaustion.
Finally, Donnach cleared his throat. “We had nay warning, me laird. The MacLeods came from the east, movin’ quiet through the tree line. The guards didnae notice the torches until the flames?—”
Aidan’s voice cut through the room. “Then the watch was blind. I want tae ken why.”
The older man faltered. “We were short numbered. Half the watch was helpin’ wi’ repairs after the flood. There was confusion.”
“Confusion?” Aidan repeated softly, leaning forward. “Confusion lets a MacLeod torch three huts and nearly take a woman under me protection? Confusion is what ye’re givin’ me?”
No one spoke. The fire popped sharply, sending sparks up the chimney.
Bruce shifted in his chair. “It wasnae their intent tae harm the villagers, me laird. They thought Lady Catherine was in yer keep. The fire was meant tae scare ye—make ye hand her over.”
The name lodged in Aidan’s chest like a blade. He stared at the young man for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Aye. I ken well what they wanted.”
Bruce hesitated. “Some of them went tae the village after MacLeod heard us mention where they were.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his temples. The room felt too small, too hot. Catherine’s scream still rang somewhere in the back of his mind, that sound of panic and fight tangled together. He’d never forget it. He could still see her in the smoke, her hair matted, her skin streaked with soot, her eyes wild with terror, and the way she’d trembled in his arms after, trying to hide it from him.
He had sworn no one would ever touch her. And yet, they nearly just had.
He looked up sharply. “From now on, there’ll be double patrols at dawn and dusk. Every road, every bridge. If a rabbit twitches on Cameron soil, I want tae ken.”
Gordon nodded once. “Aye, me laird.”
“The guards at the north border—replace them. I want men who can keep their eyes open through rain.”
“Yes, me laird.”
“And Bruce,” Aidan added, his tone quiet again, which somehow made it worse. “Ye’ll now return tae yer clan with a two dozen of me men to sort out the situation. Thank ye fer staying on and helping us today.”
Bruce swallowed. “Aye, me laird. And thank ye, me laird.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rain and the occasional scrape of wood as someone shifted. Aidan’s gaze swept the table, filled with men who’d sworn to protect that land, to protect their people, and all he could feel was the sharp, gnawing edge of anger. Not only at them, but at himself.
He’d seen it coming, hadn’t he? The signs were there. Edwin’s desperation, his warning, the unease that had been growing like a sickness through the glens. He should have known they would strike again, that they’d come for her.
