But even as he said it, he knew rest would not come easy to a woman who turned guilt inward. He had seen that quiet self-punishment born from pride and heart before. Catherine was too strong to show weakness, but that strength came at a price.
The hall grew louder around him, laughter from the guards mixed with the scrape of chairs and the clatter of serving dishes, but he found himself unable to stand it. He tried to listen to Gordon speaking beside him, but the words slipped past unheard. The only thing he could hear was Catherine’s name echoing in his mind.
Aidan shifted in his chair, the muscle in his jaw tightening. He reached for his cup, found no taste in the wine, and set it down again.
He leaned toward Gordon, his voice low. “See that the men keep tae the barracks taenight. I’ll check the patrols meself come dawn.”
Gordon nodded, but before he could answer, Aidan was already pushing his chair back. The scrape of wood on stone turned a few heads, but he didn’t stop. He muttered a brief “Carry on,” to no one in particular and left the table, the sound of laughter and clinking plates fading behind him with every step toward the door.
The air outside the hall was cooler, cleaner, touched by the faint scent of rain that drifted through the open corridor. His footsteps echoed against the flagstones, each one heavier than the last. He told himself he was only checking on her, thatno laird worth his name would let such thoughts fester in the women he was protecting. But he knew it was a lie. He was going because he needed to see her.
Halfway up the stairs, he slowed. The candlelight threw a long shadow across the wall, his own, stretched and distorted. For a moment he almost turned back, reminded himself that it was late, that this would only make matters worse. But he didn’t.
When he reached her chamber door, he hesitated only long enough to steady his breath before knocking softly.
There was a pause, the faint rustle of fabric, then the latch lifted.
Catherine stood there, half in shadow, wrapped in a simple night robe that clung to her shoulders where the damp from her bath hadn’t yet dried. Her hair was loose, dark against the pale linen, curling slightly at the ends from the heat. Her face was clean from the soot, though her eyes were rimmed red from weeping. For a moment, she simply stared at him, her lips parted in surprise.
“I thought ye were me sisters,” she said at last, her voice small.
He shook his head once. “Nay. Just me.”
For a heartbeat she didn’t move. Then she stepped back, slow and uncertain, leaving a small space for him to pass. The faint scent of soap and lavender drifted into the corridor as she did—asoft, clean scent that should have meant peace, but all it did was twist something deep inside his chest.
He closed the door behind him. The latch clicked, soft as a breath, and suddenly the quiet between them was louder than anything he’d heard all night. “They told me ye’re blamin’ yerself fer what happened.”
Catherine’s eyes flicked to his, then away just as quickly. Her fingers gripped the fabric at her waist until her knuckles whitened. “It’s the truth, is it nae?” she said, voice trembling but defiant. “If I hadnae been there, none o’ it would have happened. He was after me, nae the village.”
Aidan’s pulse gave a slow, dark throb in his throat. “Dinnae say that.”
She swallowed, shaking her head. “But it’s true.”
He took a step toward her, the kind of step that carried the weight of command even when his voice stayed low. “It’s a convenient truth, Catherine,” he said, his tone roughened by anger he didn’t bother to hide. “The kind o’ lie men like Edwin tell themselves so they can sleep at night. He’d have burned half the glen if it suited him. Ye were only the excuse.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away.
Aidan stopped a pace from her, his gaze catching on the small tremor in her hands, the rise and fall of her chest as she tried tokeep her composure. “People like that will use anyone fer their evil,” he said, quieter now, the fury giving way to something heavier. “That daesnae make ye the cause o’ it.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Then what daes it make me?”
He drew a slow breath through his nose, the muscle in his jaw tightening until it almost hurt. “It makes ye a reminder o’ what he will never have.”
Something in her face changed at that, something fragile and deep, as if the words had reached a place she had tried too long to protect. Her lips parted, and for a moment she simply looked at him, her breath catching somewhere between defiance and disbelief.
The quiet stretched between them, thick and alive, until it felt as though the very air might break beneath the weight of it. The candles hissed softly, their flames bending in the faint draft, and outside the window the rain tapped against the stone like a heartbeat neither of them could slow.
“Ye sound as though ye ken what it feels like,” she said at last, her voice low, uncertain, almost afraid to ask.
He turned his head slightly, the light catching the hard line of his jaw. “Aye,” he said, his voice quiet but rough. “I ken it.”
The room seemed to still around them, the air thick with the weight of things neither dared speak aloud. He could feel her eyes on him, searching for something she could not name, and he wanted to look at her, to tell her that he understood far more than he should. The pain of being blamed for another’s cruelty, the loneliness that came after, the way it hollowed a person until all that was left was silence. He had carried it for years, and now, looking at her, he saw that same ache written in her face.
Something gentler rose in him then, unbidden and dangerous. He wanted to ease the strain in her voice, to reach across the small distance and touch her hand, to tell her she was not alone. The candlelight flickered between them, warm and low, glinting on the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to her hair. He wondered if she could feel what he felt, that quiet pull beneath the skin, that fragile thread drawing one wounded soul toward another.
“Ye cannae live blamin’ yerself fer the sins o’ other men,” he said, his voice steadier now, though every word seemed pulled from somewhere deep within him. “If ye dae, they win twice. Once when they hurt ye, and again when they make ye carry it.”
Her lips parted again. He saw the faint tremor in her hand as she reached to tighten the sash around her waist, her fingers clumsy from the weight of everything she could not say. The light of the candles slid over her skin, catching on the hollow of her throat, on the small curve where her pulse beat fast and unsteady. He told himself to look away, to grant her the dignity of distance, but his gaze would not obey.
