The nearer they drew to the castle, the heavier the air grew. Aidan could already see the stone towers rising from the trees, stern and gray against the late light. Duty pressed down on him like a blade at his throat, and the letter in his coat felt heavier than any weapon he had ever carried. He knew what it meant. Trouble. More than that—war. And she, the woman riding beside him was the spark.
They reached the gates of Achnacarry as the sun dipped behind the hills, the light burnishing the stone towers with a faint, amber glow. The guards at the gate straightened at the sight of him.
“Laird Cameron!” one of them called, voice rough with relief. “We thought ye’d be gone till nightfall.”
Aidan gave a curt nod but didn’t slow. His gaze swept the yard—men hauling water barrels, stable boys rushing forward to take the reins, the flutter of banners. All of it felt distant, muffled beneath the pounding in his chest.
He pulled his horse to a halt in front of the steps. The animal snorted, tossing its head, restless from the long ride. Aidan swung down in one smooth motion, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The movement jarred the ache in his muscles, a reminder of her touch, still ghosting across his skin, his pulse still unsteady from what they’d shared.
“Take him tae the stable,” he said, nodding toward his horse, his tone clipped enough to cut through the noise of the yard. “Make sure he’s fed and watered.”
The lad nodded and hurried off.
Catherine had stopped beside him, still mounted, her fingers resting lightly on the reins. The wind lifted a strand of her hair, brushing it against her cheek. There was a faint flush still on her skin from the ride, from the memory of the shore. She looked down at him as if searching for some trace of what had been between them only hours before.
He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Ye should rest,” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “It’s been a long day.”
Her brows drew together. “Aidan?—”
But he was already turning away, climbing the stone steps two at a time, every line of his body rigid with restraint. The guardsstepped aside, murmuring something about the messenger who’d arrived earlier, but he barely heard them.
Behind him, he caught the faint sound of her dismounting, the low murmur of her voice as she spoke to one of the maids who had come running from the doorway. He did not look back. If he had, he might have gone to her again, might have said the words he had no right to say.
The hall loomed before him, dark and solemn. As he crossed the threshold, the noise of the courtyard faded, swallowed by the stillness inside. He stood there a moment, letting the cool air of the stone wrap around him like armor, until the last trace of warmth from her presence began to fade from his skin. Only then did he move, his voice carrying low and steady through the space.
“Call the Council,” he said. “At once.”
The echo of his command lingered as he crossed the hall, the sound of his own footsteps ringing too loud against the stone. Servants moved quickly, vanishing through side doors, their whispers carrying like the rustle of dry leaves.
Aidan barely noticed them. The weight of the letter in his coat seemed to burn against his chest, a reminder of everything waiting to be faced. By the time the fire was stoked and the chairs drawn around the long oak table, the men were already filing in, one after another, their voices low and expectant. He took his place at the head, the mask of command settling over him once more.
Aidan laid the letter on the table, smoothing the crumpled parchment with a steady hand.
“From MacLeod,” he said. “Delivered earlier today.”
Gordon leaned forward. “What daes the bastard want now?”
Aidan’s voice stayed even. “He claims an alliance with Campbell. Says the king will back his claim tae Catherine MacDonald. He means tae take her by force if need be.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Someone cursed under his breath. Another muttered that this was what came of harboring MacDonald blood under a Cameron roof.
“She’s nay cause fer this,” Aidan said quietly.
“Aye, but she draws it tae us,” one of the older men replied. “The lass brings trouble, me laird. Ye ken it. MacLeod, Campbell—it’s all the same. Every man that wants her is asking fer a piece o’ what’s ours. Ye’ve risked enough fer her kind.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. He felt the heat rise in him, the instinct to strike back, to silence the man where he stood. Instead, he only said, “Mind yer words in me hall.”
The man fell silent, but the air remained thick with judgment. They spoke of strategies, of moving the sisters south before the next assault, of writing to Tòrr MacDonald. Aidan heard the words but scarcely listened. His mind kept circling thesame thought—that every choice he made now would tear at something he could not repair.
By the time the meeting ended, dusk had settled. The torches along the walls burned low, their smoke curling upward into the rafters. The men filed out one by one, leaving Aidan alone with the parchment and the echo of their warnings. He stood there for a long while, staring at the flames, the heat biting against his palms.
He had known loss before, but nothing had ever hollowed him quite like this sense of having something precious within reach and knowing he must let it go. He had told himself that what happened on the shore was madness, a moment born of fear and tenderness, never to be repeated. But the lie sat sour in his throat.
When at last he left the hall, he went to find the MacDonald sisters. They were in the solar, the glow of the hearth touching their faces. Alyson was mending a torn hem; Sofia sat beside her, braiding a cord. Catherine stood near the window, arms folded, gaze turned toward the hills as if she could still see the sea beyond them. When she turned, her eyes caught his, and for a moment, the rest of the room disappeared.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll nae take much o’ yer time.”
