When at last he straightened, he turned toward the window at the end of the corridor. The last of the day’s light had gone, leaving only the reflection of his own face in the glass. He barely recognized the man staring back—a man who had chosen duty over love and would pay for it with every quiet hour that followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The air in the courtyard was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of rain from the western hills. Afternoon light spilled in slanted bands through the clouds, soft and gold against the gray stone of Achnacarry. The world seemed quieter than usual, as if the castle itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to end. Catherine crossed the yard with slow steps, her cloak drawn close, the hem brushing against damp earth.
Her trunk was already closed, her cloak folded by the door, but she couldn’t bring herself to wait inside for the hour of departure. The walls of the chamber felt too still, too final. So she stepped out into the courtyard instead, her feet moving without thought, carrying her toward the stables at the far end of the yard.
They stood half in shadow, their open doors breathing out the smell of hay and horseflesh and warm air. For a long moment she simply stood there, listening to the shuffle of hooves, the snort of a restless mare, the soft creak of wood. It was strangelycomforting, that ordinary sound, when everything else in her life was about to change.
Inside, the light dimmed, but it was gentle and golden, filtering through narrow slats in the boards. Her eyes adjusted slowly, and she found herself among familiar faces—the horses she had fed, spoken to, brushed until their coats gleamed. Rosie nickered softly when she saw her, and Catherine reached out to stroke her muzzle, the motion steady though her hands trembled.
Rosie’s breath warmed her palm. Catherine smiled faintly, then turned toward the far stall, to the one that held the wild mare no one else could touch. Now the creature stood quiet at her approach, head lifting the moment she heard Catherine’s voice. There was recognition in her dark eyes, a calm that existed only for her. Catherine’s throat tightened as she stepped closer, her hand finding the smooth line of the mare’s neck with a tenderness that steadied her own trembling.
“Ye’re a stubborn one,” she murmured. “I ken how that feels.”
The mare flicked her ears, then lowered her head, as if listening. Catherine slipped a hand along her neck, fingers tracing the smooth velvet of her coat. There was a calm in her presence, the kind that made Catherine’s chest ache.
“Will ye miss me?” she whispered, her voice catching on the last word. “Though I suppose ye’ll be happier here than I’ll be wherever he means tae send us.”
She kept stroking the animal gently.
“I wish I could stay,” she said softly. “Just fer a little while longer. Long enough tae feel that this place was mine, even if only in memory.”
The voice behind her came quietly, low and rough as gravel.
“Ye’ll always have a place here.”
Catherine froze. Her hand stilled against the mare’s neck. She turned slowly, and there he was—Aidan, standing just beyond the half-open stall door, the light from outside cutting along his shoulders. His expression was unreadable. For a moment neither of them spoke.
“I didnae hear ye come in,” she said, her voice thinner than she wanted.
He stepped forward, boots scuffing softly against the straw. “I saw ye from the yard,” he said. “Couldnae let ye say goodbye tae them alone.”
Catherine smiled faintly, though it felt fragile. “I’ve done worse things alone.”
He didn’t answer. His gaze moved to the mare beside her. “Ye took a liking tae her.”
“She listens,” Catherine said.
Aidan’s mouth curved just slightly, the ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. “Did I ever tell ye how I came by her?”
Catherine shook her head. “Nay.”
He came closer then, resting one hand on the wooden gate, his voice quiet but rough around the edges. “Me faither bought her when I was sixteen. Said a good laird needed a horse he could master. She was wild even then—kicked, bit, near tore down the fences tryin’ tae get free. He said if I could ride her, I’d prove meself fit tae lead one day.”
He drew a slow breath, his gaze shifting past Catherine to the mare, something tender flickering behind the steel of his eyes. “I tried fer months. Dawn tae dusk. She’d rear every time I went near, eyes white with fury. The harder I pushed, the more she fought. Me faither stood at the fence and laughed. Said I’d never break her because I had too much o’ me maither in me. He said kindness makes a man weak.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Catherine’s throat tightened. She could see the boy he had been, the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders, the sting of failure cutting deeper than any whip.
“And did ye ever ride her?” she asked softly.
Aidan’s mouth curved, but there was no smile in it. He shook his head. “Nay. Nae once. She’d look at me with those same eyes she gives ye now—steady, defiant, unafraid. Like she kent I’d never hurt her, but she’d never let me forget that I’d tried.”
Catherine turned to the mare, running her hand along her mane. “Maybe she was waiting fer someone who wouldnae try tae break her.”
Aidan’s eyes flicked to her then, and the space between them seemed to shrink. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Maybe she was.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It hummed with everything unsaid. Catherine felt it in her pulse, in the warmth creeping up her throat, in the way her fingers refused to leave the horse’s neck because she didn’t know where else to put them.
