The steward led them up a wide stair toward the guest chambers. Catherine trailed slightly behind her sisters, her gaze skimming the shadows below where Aidan spoke with one of his men near the fire. He stood half-turned, head bent, one hand resting at his sword hilt as though he could not quite let go of battle. The light caught the side of his face, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the firm line of his mouth as he gave another order.
Still, not once did he glance up. The ache in her chest flared sharp.
By the time they reached the landing, Catherine’s temper was a living thing. Every step echoed the memory of his indifference, every flicker of torchlight seemed to mock her. She could feel the heat of her own pulse beneath her skin. When she heard his voice below again, something in her snapped.
She turned on her heel when they reached their rooms.
“Dinnae wait,” she said to her sisters, her tone too bright to be safe. “I should like tae thank our host.”
Alyson frowned. “Catherine?—”
But she was already halfway down the stairs.
Aidan looked up only when her shadow fell across the stone. “Ye should be resting,” he said. His tone was even, distant.
Catherine smiled sweetly, though her blood hummed like struck steel. “I thought it polite tae offer me gratitude, me laird.”
His brow lifted, wary now. “Is that so?”
“Aye.” She swept her gaze around the vast hall, letting it linger on the banners, the weapons gleaming along the walls, the massive hearth that could have swallowed her whole. “Ye’ve built quite the fortress, havenae ye? Grand enough tae make a man feel mighty indeed.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Aidan’s eyes fixed on her, cold and steady. He said nothing, only watched her with that quiet stillness that made every heartbeat feel like a challenge. Then, slowly, he crossed the distance between them.
“Ye’ve a bold tongue, Lady Catherine,” he said. “Too bold, perhaps, fer a woman who nearly cost the lives o’ me men.”
“If yer men were so easily undone by one woman’s troubles, perhaps they’re nae the warriors ye boast them tae be.”
His gaze darkened. “Careful, lass.”
Her cheeks flamed. She hated that he could make her feel anything at all—anger, humiliation, the strange pulse that thrummed beneath both. She turned sharply, her skirts snapping around her legs.
“Enjoy yer grand castle, me laird,” she said without looking back. “May it keep ye company.”
And she was gone, her footsteps echoing up the stairs, her heart a wild drum against her ribs as she ascended the stairs.
Catherine reached her chamber and closed the door behind her, pressing her palms to the wood as if to hold herself upright. The room was warm, the fire already lit, but she felt cold. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the window’s dark glass, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes too bright, mouth tight with fury.
She hated him. She hated his calm, his restraint, the way he could make her burn with a single look and then pretend she was nothing at all.
And yet, beneath the fury, something small and frightened trembled inside her. She pressed her hand to her chest, felt her heart hammer against her palm, and whispered, barely audible, “Ye’ll nae see me break.”
Then she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and let the fire warm her face until the tremor in her hands was gone.
The echo of her footsteps haunted the hall long after she vanished up the stairs. The sound was soft at first, fading beneath the hiss of the hearth, but it lingered in Aidan’s mind, sharp as a blade drawn too slowly.
He stared at the space she’d left behind—the shadow of her skirts still burning in his vision, the faint trace of her voice curling through the air like smoke. The words she’d thrown at him still hung between the stone walls, bright as sparks from a dying fire.
His jaw flexed. She’d come at him like a storm, all wit and fury, her chin high, her eyes alive with fire he hadn’t known how to quench. And part of him hadn’t wanted to.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his brow, the motion rough. He could still smell her, a hint of rain and the faint sweetness that had clung to her.
“That went well,” came a voice from behind.
Aidan’s head turned, slow, controlled. Gordon, his right hand, leaned against one of the pillars, arms crossed, the ghost of a grin playing at his mouth. Of course he’d been there through thewhole damned thing. The man had the instincts of a wolfhound when it came to scenting trouble.
“Ye’ve a talent, me laird,” Gordon went on, his tone half amusement, half exasperation. “It’s nae every day a woman looks ready tae throttle ye after ye’re providing her shelter.”
Aidan’s gaze narrowed. “If she wishes tae throttle me, she’ll need better aim.”
