Aidan huffed a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “I always am.”
The wind shifted again, bringing with it the faint cry of gulls. She sat up slowly, gathering her cloak around her shoulders. He reached for his shirt, shaking off the sand, and bent to pick up his belt. That was when she noticed something falling from the inner pocket of his coat and landing near the plaid.
A folded parchment, its seal still unbroken.
Catherine leaned forward and picked it up before he noticed. “What’s this?” she asked, turning it over.
Aidan glanced down, frowning. “Letter. Came this mornin’. From MacLeod.”
“Edwin?” Her tone sharpened, suspicion quick.
“Aye.” He straightened, fastening his belt. “I havenae opened it. Whatever it says, it’ll be nonsense.” He shrugged, careless, though his jaw tightened. “If ye’re curious, read it. It’ll likely be him rantin’ about our supposed betrothal.”
Catherine hesitated. The trust in that single gesture—him letting her open something sealed and meant for him—hit deeper than she expected. She broke the remaining wax with her thumb and unfolded the letter carefully, the paper stiff with salt and travel.
The writing was familiar, neat and arrogant all at once. She read the first few lines aloud under her breath, then stopped. Her stomach turned.
Aidan noticed instantly. “What?”
She swallowed hard, scanning the rest before looking up at him. “Ye should see this.”
He took the letter from her hands. His eyes flicked across the page, his expression darkening with every line. When he finished, he exhaled sharply, the sound closer to a growl than a breath.
“I guess the idiot’s gone and aligned himself with Campbell now,” he muttered.
Catherine’s pulse spiked. “Campbell? Ye mean—Angus Campbell?”
“The same.” He folded the letter slowly, his movements controlled but his eyes colder than the sea behind them. “MacLeod’s sworn allegiance tae him. Promised land and soldiers in exchange fer… what else? Fer ye, most likely. Campbell’s wanted a foothold in the MacDonald line fer years, and Edwin’s too much o’ a fool tae see he’s bein’ used.”
Her breath caught. “Then—this is about me.”
“Aye.” He met her gaze, voice low and dangerous. “It always was.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The waves crashed harder now, as if the sea itself had turned against them.Catherine clutched the edge of her cloak, her mind racing through every warning her brother had ever given her, every time she’d dismissed Edwin’s letters as harmless obsession.
Aidan was still staring at the horizon, his shoulders tense beneath his shirt. “This means trouble,” he said finally. “Campbell’ll use him. He always daes. And if MacLeod’s already pledged himself, we’ll have both their armies stirrin’ before long.”
Catherine’s voice came out quieter than she meant it to. “Then what will ye dae?”
Aidan looked back at her, eyes dark, resolute. “What I have tae. Keep ye safe.”
There was no bravado in his tone this time—only truth. And for the first time since she’d met him, she understood that his protectiveness wasn’t born of pride or possession. It was love, though neither of them dared name it yet.
The tide reached higher, foam curling over the sand. Catherine touched his arm gently. “We’ll face it,” she said softly. “Whatever comes.”
He looked at her for a long time before nodding once. “Aye,” he said quietly. “We will.”
But even as he spoke, she could see it—the shadow that crossed his face, the awareness of what was coming. Trouble didn’t justmean war. It meant the past had found them again, and this time, it wasn’t letting go.
The wind rose, carrying the cry of gulls over the cliffs, and somewhere deep in her chest Catherine felt the faint, unshakable certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The afternoon light had begun to sink low over the ridges, slanting gold across the valley as they rode back toward Achnacarry. The air was still heavy with sea salt, the kind that clung to skin and stayed even after the wind turned colder. Catherine rode beside him in silence, her hair unbound, the sun glinting in loose strands that caught against the curve of her neck. Each time she shifted in the saddle, he felt it like a pull beneath his ribs—an echo of what had passed between them on the shore, the warmth of her breath, the tremor of her voice when she whispered his name as though it were a secret she had kept too long.
He should not have touched her. He knew that. He knew it in the same way he knew that night must always give way to day, that there were some things a man could not keep, no matter how fiercely he might wish to. And yet as they rode, the memory lived inside him like a fever, every heartbeat returning him to the rhythm of her body, the taste of her mouth, the way her hands had clung to him.
He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight, reins coiled around his gloved hand until his knuckles whitened. She did not look at him in an obvious way, but he could feel her eyes now and again—the quiet curiosity of a woman who had begun to see past the armor he had spent years building. He almost wished she would speak, that she would say something sharp or mocking, anything to break the silence. But she didn’t. Perhaps she understood that words could do little against the tide of what now bound them.
