When she rose, Sofia clutched her hand one last time. “Be careful,” she breathed.
“I will,” Catherine said again, though her heart hammered so hard she scarcely believed the vow.
She slipped out of the cottage, pulling the door closed with slow, careful fingers. She could already hear the faint rustle of movement from the escort—Aidan’s men preparing the horses outside as dawn crept over the horizon. If they saw her now, they would stop her, argue, escort her back to safety.
She could not allow it.
She pulled her cloak tight around her. The air was crisp and pale with morning, the mist curling low and silver across the fields. She kept low, watching the silhouettes of the guards, their attention fixed on preparing for departure.
Unseen, she moved to the far fence where the horses waited. Her mare lifted her head the moment Catherine stepped through the mist, ears pricking forward as though she had known all along that Catherine would come.
Catherine’s fingers brushed her muzzle. “We’re goin’ back,” she said quietly. “He’ll scold us fer it, but I can live with that.”
She fastened her cloak, pulling the hood low, and mounted with practiced ease. For a moment she looked back at the cottage, and the faint curl of smoke from the chimney. She imagined the two figures within and felt a pang of guilt twist through her, but it faded beneath the steadier burn of resolve.
She turned the mare north.
The path was empty, the hills rising before her like the edges of some vast dream. The wind met her face as she rode, cold and clean. With every stride, the ache in her chest eased, replaced by something fiercer, something certain. She had thought love would make her weaker, but it hadn’t. It had made her brave.
By the time the first sunlight broke through the clouds, Achnacarry’s dark walls were all she could see in her mind. Her heart beat faster at the thought.
She pressed her heels gently to the horse’s sides. It leapt forward, hooves pounding against the earth, sending clods of mud flying behind them. Catherine bent low over her neck, the wind pulling her hair loose from its braid.
Ahead, the Highlands waited, and somewhere beyond those ridges was the man who had tried to send her away. She was done letting him decide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The clang of steel rang across the courtyard, sharp and unrelenting. It cut through the morning fog, echoing off the stone walls of Achnacarry like the sound of war already begun. Aidan stood at the edge of the training grounds, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the men before him. Sweat and breath rose in the cold air, the steady rhythm of blades striking, shields locking, boots grinding through dirt.
It should have steadied him. It usually did. But today, even the sight of order could not quiet the disquiet that lived in him.
He had been awake since before dawn, long before the first horn had sounded to summon the men. He’d walked the walls in the half-light, watching the mist burn off the valley, feeling the weight of what was coming settle deeper on his shoulders. The world was moving toward fire again, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Only brace for it, and pray his people did the same.
“Move faster on the pivot,” he said, his voice carrying across the grounds. “If ye hesitate, ye’re dead before ye swing. Again.”
The men obeyed, the rhythm quickening. Aidan’s sharp eye caught every flaw, every moment of hesitation. He barked corrections, calm but cutting, the kind of authority that left no room for argument. Around him, the captains watched in silence, waiting for his word.
Gordon stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on the men. “They’re better than they were,” he said.
“They’ll need tae be,” Aidan replied. His gaze didn’t move from the field. “We’ve already called fer the evacuation o’ the villages near the border. The women and children left before sunrise. Once the scouts return, I want a watch stationed in the northern wood. If MacLeod means tae move, he’ll dae it through the valleys.”
“Aye,” Gordon said. “And if he’s marchin’ with Campbell, they’ll bring more than a handful.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “Let them. The ground’s ours. They’ll bleed before they cross it.”
The conversation went on in short, efficient bursts on defensive lines, supply routes, scouting positions. He gave orders easily, his voice steady, his expression carved from stone. But under it all, beneath every measured word, his mind kept drifting. Every time the wind shifted, he thought he could hear hooves—her horse’s hooves—returning through the mist.
He pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t afford it.
“Me laird!”
The shout came from the gate. A young guard broke from his post, breathless. “There’s a rider comin’ from the south!”
Every sound in the courtyard seemed to fall away. The clang of steel, the bark of orders—all of it dulled under the sudden, ringing pulse in Aidan’s ears. He turned sharply. “Who is it?”
“Cannae say, me laird. But they’re ridin’ fast.”
Aidan was already moving. His stride lengthened, purposeful, cutting through the men who stepped back as he passed. Gordon called after him, but he didn’t slow. The sound of hooves grew louder, and something in him knew before he saw her.
