Silence settled heavy in the glen, broken only by the ragged breaths of men and the restless stamping of weary mounts. Catherine’s pulse still raced, her palms damp against the sodden fabric of her skirts. Relief and fury warred within her until she thought her chest might split.
Aidan turned, his blade still dripping red, his chest rising hard beneath the weight of his soaked plaid. For a long moment he only looked at her, as though counting the beats of her breath, making certain she was still standing.
Then he stepped closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Ye’re unhurt?”
Her lips parted, but the words caught. She forced a nod. “Aye. Only… shaken.”
His gaze swept over her, taking in the torn edge of her cloak, the mud on her cheek. “Shaken’s allowed,” he said quietly. “Alive’s what matters.”
Catherine stared at him, the warmth of his nearness cutting through the chill like a brand. There was blood on his jaw, a faint tremor in his hand where his sword hung low. For a heartbeat she thought he might reach for her, but he only gave a short nod and turned away, calling his men to order.
“Mount up,” he commanded, his tone back to iron. “We’re finished here.”
The birlinn waited at the shore, its mast stark against the mist. Catherine moved stiffly toward her horse, her sisters drawn close to either side of her. Alyson’s face was pale, her silence taut with unshed words, while Sofia’s hand trembled in hers. Catherine’s own legs shook as she set her boot to the stirrup, but she forced steel into her spine as she swung back into the saddle.
She would not let them see her break.
The line of riders re-formed, the wounded gathered, the dead left behind. Slowly they made their way down toward the loch. Catherine kept her eyes forward, her chin high, though her mind whirled with all she dared not speak—her hatred for Edwin, her unwilling admiration for Aidan’s fury, her shame at her own fear.
When at last they reached the water, the birlinn’s hull gleamed dark and steady, ropes creaking as the men prepared it for boarding. Catherine drew a long breath, salt and pine mingling in the air. This was it—the true leaving. Once the oars struck water, Keppoch and all she had known would lie behind her.
And ahead was Achnacarry. Cameron lands. Aidan’s keep.
CHAPTER FOUR
The birlinn had rocked like a beast in its sleep. For hours, the water had heaved beneath them, the oars dipping in and out of the water with a rhythm that burrowed into Catherine’s bones until she thought she would never hear silence again.
She had hated every moment of it.
Not because of the water, despite having little fondness for the thing, but because Aidan Cameron had stood at the helm the entire crossing, silent and still as if carved from the very stones they sailed past. He had not once looked at her. Not when she stumbled over the planks as the boat pitched, not when the spray soaked her cloak through, not even when Sofia had grown pale from the rocking and Catherine had steadied her with a hand that trembled for reasons she refused to name. He had stood there, hands firm on the tiller, eyes on the horizon, his jaw set in that cool, unreadable line that made her want to throw something heavy at it.
She told herself she didn’t care. He was her brother’s friend, her reluctant escort, nothing more. But the longer his silence stretched, the more it clawed at her chest.
The battle had been for her. The men who had bled in the glen had done so because of her name, her defiance, her refusal to let Edwin MacLeod speak her fate aloud as though it were a promise already sealed. Aidan had been the one to save her, to stand between her and that cursed carriage. And now he would not even look at her.
When they finally reached shore, Catherine’s legs trembled as they met the earth again. She hid it with movement, gathering her skirts, helping Sofia down, pretending the weight in her limbs was nothing but exhaustion. Aidan barked orders to his men, and she hated that even his voice seemed untouched by the chaos of what had come before.
By the time they mounted their horses again, dusk had begun to fall. The journey through the glen was quieter this time, save for the distant roll of thunder that warned of rain. Catherine’s body ached from the long hours of travel, but she refused to show it. Aidan rode ahead, his shoulders straight, the dark plaid sweeping behind him like a shadow she could not shake.
Each time she tried to speak—to say something sharp, anything that would force him to turn and meet her eyes—the words caught. Pride sealed them behind her teeth. He would not see her reaching. He would not have that power.
When the towers of Achnacarry rose at last through the mist, the sight caught her breath despite herself. The keep stood against the dark like something born of the mountain, stone stacked high into the low clouds, the peaks of its turrets shrouded in rain.
Sofia gasped softly beside her. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Alyson smiled faintly. “It’s safe.”
Catherine swallowed the words that came to her tongue, something wry and proud, and forced her tone light instead. “Aye. Safe enough tae drown in one’s boredom.”
The great gates creaked open as they approached. Aidan rode through first, his men fanning out behind him, the MacDonald sisters following close. The courtyard was wide, the stones slick with rain. Servants hurried, bowing as the laird dismounted.
Catherine swung from her horse before any man could offer her a hand, though her boots nearly slipped on the wet stone. Her pride steadied her where balance did not. The servants moved quickly, taking the reins, guiding the horses toward the stables. Aidan gave a few clipped instructions, his tone all business, all command. Still he did not look at her.
The sting of it was ridiculous, and she hated herself for feeling it.
A steward bowed before them, ushering the sisters toward the inner hall. The air inside was warmer, heavy with the scentof pine smoke and heather. Catherine’s eyes swept the place—massive beams of oak overhead, stone floors worn smooth by generations of Camerons, banners in deep red and black fluttering faintly in the draft.
It was grand, she supposed. Impressive in that cold way that suited its laird. But something in her twisted at the sight. She could feel his presence in every inch of the place, his restraint. It was infuriating.
