His hand lingered there, strong and gentle, and she swore the world had gone still to watch. Her lips parted on a breath she could no longer control, the taste of his nearness thick in the air.
And then, a voice, sharp and distant, cut through the quiet.
“Catherine!” Alyson’s voice.
They both froze.
Aidan stepped back first, hand falling away as if burned. The cold rushed in where his warmth had been, and Catherine felt the loss of it like pain. She turned, blinking against the sudden sting in her eyes.
Alyson appeared in the doorway, breathless, her cloak already on, Sofia just behind her. “We’re ready,” she said. “The horses are saddled.”
Catherine nodded, her voice barely steady. “I’ll be right there.”
Her sisters hesitated, glancing between her and Aidan, but said nothing. They turned and left, their footsteps fading toward the yard.
When they were gone, Catherine looked back at him. He was standing as he always did, straight, composed and impossible to read. Only his eyes betrayed him, and in them she saw everything he would never say.
She forced a small smile. “Thank ye,” she said softly. “Fer the name.”
He inclined his head. “Safe travels.”
She turned before he could see her tears.
Outside, the air had grown colder, the clouds thickening over the hills. The horses waited, restless and stamping, their breath rising in pale plumes. Alyson was already mounted; Sofia adjusted the strap of her cloak. Catherine moved to her mare and rested a hand on her neck before climbing into the saddle.
Aidan stood at the edge of the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, watching. He didn’t move or speak, but Catherine could feel his gaze as surely as if it were a touch.
“Ready?” Alyson called.
Catherine nodded. “Aye.”
The gate creaked open. The path ahead wound through the valley, still slick with rain. As the horses started forward, Catherine glanced back once. Aidan was still there, a dark figure against the pale stone of the keep, the wind tugging at his hair. He didn’t raise a hand, didn’t call after her, but she felt the weight of his silence more than any farewell.
The castle grew smaller behind them. The hills rose up ahead, mist clinging to their slopes. Catherine’s throat ached. She reached down, her fingers brushing the horse’s mane.
“Whisper,” she murmured.
The mare’s ears flicked, and Catherine smiled faintly through the blur of her tears. She looked back once more, just once, andwhispered his name under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear.
Then she turned her face to the wind and rode on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The wind that swept down from the northern hills carried the stench of iron and smoke. To most, it smelled of war. To Edwin MacLeod, it smelled like triumph waiting to be taken. He stood at the edge of the camp, boots sunk into the black mud, watching the fires burn low across the valley. Men moved like shadows between the tents, Campbell men and his own, gathering steel, tightening straps, sharpening blades until the air itself hummed with the promise of blood.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It had taken months of whispers, coin, and cunning to get them there, but at last the pieces had fallen into place. The men thought him a man wronged, an heir cheated of his bride, a noble robbed of his due by Cameron’s arrogance. And why shouldn’t they? He had written his tale well, every word laced with half-truths and grief. Even the king had pitied him.
He reached into his coat and drew out the letter. The seal of the English king glimmered faintly in the firelight, red wax catchingthe gold. His fingers traced it with something close to reverence. “By royal decree,” it read, “the betrothal between Edwin MacLeod and Lady Catherine MacDonald is hereby recognized and upheld under English law.”
He folded it again, tucking it back against his chest as if it were scripture. She would have to obey.
A sound behind him broke his reverie—footsteps in the mud, the jingle of chainmail. He didn’t turn until he heard the voice.
“Ye’re enjoyin’ the view?”
Laird Campbell fell into step at his shoulder, broad and grim, the shadow of his hood cutting his face in half. There was a hunger in the man’s grin, the sort that liked steel and the smell of horses. “Fine sight, is it nae? Men ready, banners up, blades glintin’. Good day fer takin’ what’s yers.”
Edwin’s smile widened. “Aye, it is.”
