Aidan looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. “And if I let it happen? If I let this thing take root, and it ruins everythin’ I’ve built with the MacDonalds—what then?”
“Then ye’ll live with the truth, instead o’ lyin’ tae yerself.”
Aidan turned away, jaw locked. His breath came slow, controlled. He watched the wind move through the valley likewater, bending the grass in long waves. He let himself imagine her there—hair loose in the wind, her laughter breaking the quiet. The image cut deeper than any blade.
He swung back onto his horse, voice rough when he spoke. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s head back.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the patrol. The sun had climbed higher, washing the hills in gold, but inside him everything felt grey.
The courtyard was alive again by the time they returned. Hooves clattered against the flagstones, men called orders, the clang of iron rang faintly from the smithy. Aidan dismounted without a word, handing the reins to the nearest stable hand. His body moved on habit, but his thoughts hadn’t returned with him.
“Laird,” called one of the younger riders, jogging toward him with a sealed parchment in hand. “Message from the south. Brought by a messenger who said it couldnae wait.”
Aidan took it, recognizing the seal before the lad spoke another word. The MacLeod crest, just as arrogant as its master. His stomach knotted.
He turned the letter over once, thumb tracing the wax, but he didn’t open it yet. The day already carried enough weight. He tucked the message inside his coat and walked through the gates, each step measured, silent, deliberate.
Inside the hall, the air was heavy with the scent of smoke and peat. A fire burned low in the hearth, and for a moment he stood there, letting the warmth touch him, trying to quiet the storm still beating behind his ribs.
He crossed the hall and climbed the stone stairs, boots echoing faintly. The corridor at the top was quiet. A maid passed, curtseying quickly, eyes averted; he barely noticed. His hand lifted, almost without his will, and he knocked once on her door.
When it opened, the world righted itself and unsteadied again in the same breath.
She stood there in a pale gown, hair still loose from sleep, a single curl brushing her throat. Her eyes found him instantly—calm at first, then flickering with that wary curiosity he’d come to crave more than peace itself.
“Me laird,” she said softly, the words cautious, almost formal.
“Come ridin’ with me.”
The directness startled even him. He hadn’t meant to sound like an order, but it came out that way.
Catherine blinked. “Now?”
“Aye. The air’ll dae ye good.”
Her mouth parted, like she meant to protest, but then she studied him, and whatever she saw there silenced the question. She nodded once. “Give me a moment.”
He waited in the corridor, the walls pressing close. When she stepped out again, she wore her riding cloak, the hood pushed back, and her gloves in hand. The sight of her—bright against the dull stone—was enough to unravel whatever restraint he’d gathered.
They said nothing on the way to the stables. The silence between them felt alive, thick as the mist curling over the yard.
They moved through the courtyard without a word, the clang of hooves muffled against the damp earth. Aidan led the way, his shoulders set, every movement a deliberate act of control. The morning mist clung to the stones and to her, settling in her hair until it shimmered faintly with dew.
When he handed her the reins, their fingers brushed. It was barely a touch, yet it struck through him sharper than the cold. Catherine met his gaze only once before looking away, and that brief glance carried more than speech could bear. He mounted, gave a curt nod, and they rode out, leaving the castle walls and everything that bound them behind.
By the time they reached the open moor, the wind had shifted. It came rolling off the sea, cold and briny, filling the air with salt and the distant crash of waves. Catherine rode beside him, her cloak billowing, her hair catching light like copper flame whenever the clouds broke.
They spoke little. She asked once where they were going; he only said, “Ye’ll see.”
Hours passed that way—hooves against heather, gulls crying overhead, the sky turning from grey to silver. It wasn’t until they crested the final rise that she drew in a quiet breath.
The sea spread wide below them, wild and endless. The cliffs dropped sharply to a narrow inlet where waves struck the rocks with thunderous rhythm, spraying foam high into the wind.
Catherine reined her horse to a stop beside him, eyes wide. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
He nodded once, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Aye. And cruel.”
She turned to him, brow furrowing. “Cruel?”
