When he finally did, the air between them broke like a spell.
She looked at him, dazed, confused, her robe slightly askew, her hair falling over her shoulders like spilled gold. He wanted to reach for her again, to finish what they’d started, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t stop himself.
He forced himself to look away, to steady his breath. “I should go.”
Her voice caught. “Aidan?—”
He turned back to her, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The candlelight carved shadows along his jaw, the softness in his eyes at war with the steel of his restraint.
“Dinnae think less o’ yerself,” he said quietly. “Ye’ve done naethin’ wrong.”
Then he left before she could answer, closing the door softly behind him.
Outside, the corridor was dark and silent. He pressed a hand to the cold stone wall, breathing hard, the ghost of her warmth still clinging to him. He walked the length of the hall in silence, butinside, he felt anything but calm. Every step away from her felt like betrayal, every breath like fire.
By the time he reached his own chamber, his control was threadbare. He poured himself a drink, but the liquor did nothing to steady his pulse.
He had tasted her. He had wanted her. And he knew, with a clarity that struck like pain, that it would not be the last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The kitchen was already warm when Catherine slipped inside, though the sun had barely cleared the hills. A soft haze of flour and light hung in the air, catching in the beams that fell through the small window over the hearth. Someone had left a pot of porridge to simmer, the scent of oats and cinnamon wrapping around her as she crossed the flagstones. Outside, she could hear the distant clatter of hooves as the men prepared the horses for the day.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. The cooks had finished their morning work hours ago, leaving the room empty except for the quiet creak of the rafters and the occasional pop from the fire. It was peaceful.
Catherine brushed her palms over her skirts and exhaled. She’d gone there to do something for the horses before her thoughts swallowed her whole.
If she stood still for too long, she would start thinking about the night before again. About his hands on her face, his breathagainst her neck, the way her knees had almost given out when he had said her name. The memory burned behind her eyelids, vivid and unbearable. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his expression in those final seconds—the war inside him, the way he’d stepped back as if the distance were the only thing keeping them both from ruin.
She shook her head quickly, muttering under her breath. “Enough.”
The horses, she reminded herself. Treats. That was why she was here.
Her gaze landed on the row of shelves along the far wall, stacked high with jars and sacks. Somewhere up there, she knew, was the jar of oats she’d seen the day before. It was perfect to busy her hands. Something that didnotinvolve thinking about the taste of Aidan Cameron’s mouth.
The jar sat just out of reach.
Catherine looked around for a stool and spotted one tucked by the hearth. It was old, a bit uneven at the legs, but it would do. She dragged it across the flagstones, the sound sharp in the quiet, and climbed onto it, steadying herself with one hand against the shelf.
She stretched up, fingers brushing the cool glass. Almost there.
The stool wobbled beneath her. She shifted her weight and bit her lip, willing it to stay still long enough to reach. The jar tilted toward her fingertips.
“Come on, just a little?—”
“Catherine?”
The voice came from behind her, low and familiar, and so unexpected that the world seemed to jolt sideways. The stool tilted sharply.
She gasped, fingers closing around the jar just as her balance gave out. For one terrifying instant she was weightless, but then a pair of arms caught her, strong and certain, pulling her against a chest she knew far too well.
The impact stole her breath. The jar stayed miraculously intact in her hands, though she clutched it like a shield against the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, her heartbeat drumming in wild rhythm with his.
Aidan’s arm was firm around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, the effortless strength in him making her feel both small and unsteady. His plaid brushed her skirts, his scent of pine clinging to him, grounding and dizzying all at once.
She blinked up at him, her lips parted, her voice lost somewhere between shock and something she dared not name. The nearness was unbearable and his breath touched her templewhen he spoke, his heartbeat steady and too close, a rhythm she felt rather than heard.
“Ye’ve a talent fer findin’ trouble,” he said quietly, his tone caught between amusement and something far more dangerous.
