He reached the gates just as the rider burst through the mist. The horse came to a halt in a spray of mud and breath, its flanks streaked with sweat, its coat shining dark beneath the gray sky. And atop her—cloak thrown back, hair whipped loose, cheeks flushed with cold—was Catherine.
For a moment, Aidan could do nothing but stare. The breath left him as if he’d taken a blow.
“Christ,” Gordon muttered somewhere behind him, but Aidan barely heard.
The world had gone still. The only sound left was the dull thunder of his own heartbeat.
She burst through the gate in a spray of earth and breath, pulling the mare to a stop so hard the beast reared and snorted, steam rising from its flanks. She stood there motionless, framed by the gray morning light, the wildness of her hair catching the wind.
It hit him like a blade to the chest.
Catherine swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the mud. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes burning bright with something fierce and alive. She looked straight at him, unflinching, as if the miles between them had never been real.
Aidan couldn’t breathe. His throat closed around her name.
“What are ye daein’?” The words came out rough, uneven. He took a step toward her before he realized it, every instinct in him torn between fury and disbelief, between the urge to pull her close and the need to keep her safe.
Her chin lifted. “What I should’ve done from the start,” she said. “Be here.”
The steady sound of her voice hit him harder than any weapon.
Aidan’s heart twisted. Relief came first, sharp and staggering, followed too quickly by the ache he’d carried since the moment she’d ridden away. He had spent hours convincing himself shewas gone for her own good, that he’d done right by sending her from him. And now she stood before him, alive, stubborn as ever, undoing every bit of sense he had left.
“Ye shouldnae have come back,” he said at last, his voice low, almost broken, the steel in it barely holding. “Christ, Catherine, ye shouldnae have.”
But even as he said it, he knew he didn’t mean it. The sight of her was both his punishment and his salvation.
“I couldnae stay away,” she answered. “Ye think I could sit safe in Perth while ye fight fer everythin’ that matters? I’ll nae be hidden while ye bleed fer me.”
Her words struck him like a flame to tinder. He closed the distance between them before he knew he’d moved, his voice low, tight. “Dae ye ken what ye’ve done? If MacLeod’s movin’, this is the first place he’ll strike. Ye’ve ridden straight back intae danger.”
“I’ve ridden home,” she said, unwavering. “If danger’s here, then I’ll face it wi’ ye.”
The courtyard had gone silent behind them. Every man watched in stillness, as if afraid to breathe.
Aidan looked at her and something inside him broke. He saw the mud splashed on her cloak, the tremble in her fingers from cold, the defiance in her gaze that had always undone him. She waswild and stubborn and so goddamned brave, and he loved her for it, though he’d never dared to say the words.
“Come,” he said roughly, his hand closing around her arm before she could argue. His palm was warm through the damp fabric of her sleeve, his grip firm but not cruel—steady, like he was afraid that if he let go, she might vanish again into the mist. “Ye’re cold from the ride.”
Catherine didn’t answer. Her breath came in small, uneven draws, the flush of the journey still high on her cheeks. Aidan’s jaw tightened as he turned, leading her across the yard.
The men parted without a word. Every face lowered, every sound swallowed by the weight of the moment. The echo of their boots on the stone steps was the only thing that filled the silence and their two steady heartbeats moving through a sea of quiet eyes.
Inside, the air shifted. Warmer, aye, but charged in a way that scraped at his control. He didn’t speak as they climbed the stairs. The sound of her breathing followed him, catching now and then as if she were trying to keep her composure. It made something inside him twist painfully, that sound.
When they reached her chamber, he pushed the door open and stood aside for her to enter. The room felt colder than he remembered, as though her absence had seeped into the very stone. A few half-packed belongings sat by the hearth where she had left them; the ashes there were gray, lifeless.
Aidan crossed the room without hesitation, shrugging off his gloves. He crouched before the hearth, his movements quiet. His hands, those hands that had once wielded a sword like an extension of himself, now moved with surprising care as he stacked the kindling and struck the flint.
The first sparks flared weakly, catching on the dry twigs. He coaxed them to life with a breath, and soon a thin tongue of flame rose, then another, until the fire began to crackle, light spilling across the chamber walls.
Behind him, he could hear her shifting, could feel her watching. Her breathing had slowed but not steadied. He imagined her hands, cold and slightly trembling, as she stood there, uncertain whether to speak or simply to watch him burn with all the words he hadn’t said.
He stayed crouched a moment longer, staring into the flames. The light flickered over his face, throwing the angles of his jaw into sharp relief, catching in the strands of his dark hair. His shirt clung faintly to his back from the heat of his work, and the smell of smoke and pine resin filled the air, thick and intimate.
When he finally straightened, he looked at her. Really looked. The fire behind him made her skin glow, the travel-stained cloak slipping from her shoulders, revealing the curve of her throat, the rise and fall of her breath. His heart stuttered, his restraint thinning with every second that passed between them.
“Ye’re frozen,” he said quietly, though the words came rough in his throat. “Sit by the fire.”
