Alyson and Sofia rose immediately. The quiet in the room deepened. Aidan forced the words out evenly, each one heavier than the last.
“I’ve just come from the Council. There was a letter from MacLeod that makes it clear he’s nae finished with this. He’s joined hands wi’ Campbell, and the king’s name is behind them both. I cannae risk ye three here any longer. Tòrr and I agreed—if danger reached this close, ye’d be sent south tae Perth, tae the Lowlands. It’s time.”
Alyson’s sewing fell from her lap. “Ye mean fer us tae leave at once?”
“Aye. Before dawn tomorrow.”
Sofia exchanged a look with her sister. “And what o’ us? Dae we have a say in this?”
Aidan’s gaze shifted to Catherine, who hadn’t spoken, only watched him in silence, her eyes steady enough to burn straight through him.
“It’s nae a request,” he said, though the words scraped his throat raw. “I’ve written tae Tòrr already.”
No one moved. The only sound was the hiss of the fire. Catherine’s face was unreadable—too calm, too still. He wished she would rage, that she would shout at him, anything to make it easier to turn away. Instead, she only nodded once, curt and quiet.
“Then I suppose there’s little more tae say.”
He inclined his head, turned on his heel, and left before the tremor in his voice could betray him. He had made it halfway down the corridor before he heard her steps behind him.
“Aidan,” she called, and the sound of his name on her tongue nearly undid him.
He stopped but didn’t turn. “Ye should be packin’.”
“Dae ye truly mean it?” Her voice broke through the still air. “Ye’ll send me away after all that’s happened? After?—”
He turned then, sharply. The corridor was dim, the light from the sconces gilding the edges of her hair. “Aye. I mean it.”
She stepped closer. “Is that what this is, then? A dismissal? Ye’d rather see me gone than risk what folk might say?”
His chest tightened. “It’s nae about what they say.”
“Then what is it about?” she demanded. “Tell me, because I cannae understand how a man can look at me the way ye dae—how he can touch me as if he’d die without it—and then speak like I’m naught but a burden.”
He closed the space between them before he could think better of it. “Ye think this is easy fer me? That I want tae watch ye ride away while I stay here tae fight off the men comin’ fer ye? Christ, Catherine—ye’ve nay notion what that daes tae me.”
Her eyes glistened, fierce and unyielding. “Then dinnae dae it.”
He almost reached for her then. His hand lifted halfway before he caught himself, fingers curling into a fist. “I have tae. If ye stay, they’ll come again, and next time I might nae be there tae stop them.”
“I dinnae need ye tae stop them.”
“Aye, ye dae,” he said, softer now. “I’ll protect ye till me last breath, but I cannae keep ye here.”
She shook her head. “I’ll nae be sent away like some pawn in yer wars.”
He stepped closer still, the heat of her body reaching him. “If I were any other man, I’d keep ye here. I’d damn the world fer it. But I’m nae just a man tae ye, Catherine—I’m the laird o’ this clan, and that means I have tae choose me people over me heart.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind outside pressed against the stone walls, low and steady. He saw the hurt in her eyes then, the same hurt he felt tearing through himself, and knew there was nothing he could say that would ease it.
She drew a breath, unsteady. “Then I hope yer people ken the price they’ll pay fer it.”
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She turned, her skirts brushing the stone as she walked away. He watched her go until the shadows swallowed her, each step echoing like a blow.
When the silence returned, he leaned back against the wall, pressing his hand over his heart as if he could still the ache there. The scent of her lingered in the corridor, faint and salt-sweet, a ghost of everything he had just lost.
He stayed there long after the torches had burned low, until the cold began to bite through his clothes. He told himself it was the right choice—that sending her away was the only way to keep her safe—but the words rang hollow in the dark. Every part of him knew the truth: that he had already lost her, and that the emptiness waiting for him would be worse than any wound he’d ever borne in battle.
He closed his eyes, drawing a long breath, and for a fleeting instant he let himself remember her as she had been that morning as the sunlight had touched her skin, her hand against his chest, the whisper of his name caught between their mouths. It was a cruel mercy, that memory, burning bright enough to light the dark but never enough to warm it.
