But it wasn’t command so much as confession. It was his way of saying he’d missed her, that her coldness was his doing, that that was the only way he knew how to make it right.
And as she moved closer to the hearth, the shadows bent around them both, the silence between them no longer empty but trembling with all that had been waiting to be said.
“Ye shouldnae have come back,” he said again, quieter this time. “I sent ye away fer a reason.”
“I ken,” she said softly. “But I’m here now. And I dinnae regret it.”
He turned to her then, and something in his control faltered. The sight of her was too much. He took a slow step toward her, his voice rough.
“Ye think this is easy fer me? Every mile ye rode away, I told meself I was protectin’ ye. Every mile, I hated meself fer it. I can fight a thousand men, Catherine, but I cannae fight the thought o’ ye in harm’s way.”
Her eyes shone in the firelight. “And what o’ the harm ye did by sendin’ me away?”
He stopped just in front of her, their breath mingling in the stillness. “Aye,” he said hoarsely. “I did that. And I’d take it back if I could.”
The fire popped softly in the hearth. His gaze drifted down to her hands, small and cold where they gripped her cloak. He reached out and took them gently in his own, rubbing warmth into her fingers.
“It might be wrong,” he said slowly, “but I’d rather ken ye’re safe where I can see ye than wonder if ye’re alive and cursed fer it. Let the world judge me fer it—I’ll bear it. But I’ll nae send ye away again.”
Catherine’s breath caught, her eyes searching his. “Ye’d keep me here? Even if it puts ye at risk?”
“I’ve been at risk since the day I brought ye here.” His voice dropped, deep and quiet. “The danger’s worth it.”
The room seemed to shrink around them. The light from the fire painted her skin gold, her eyes dark and wet. Aidan’s hand moved to her cheek before he could stop it, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. Her breath shuddered against his fingers, and he felt it like a plea.
Neither spoke and the world outside the door ceased to exist.
She lifted her face toward him, and his resolve frayed. He could see the question in her eyes, the same one that burned in him: how much longer could they hold against it?
“Catherine…” His voice was a rasp, barely a sound.
“Aidan,” she whispered.
The space between them vanished until her breath brushed his lips. His hand trembled as it found the curve of her jaw, his thumb tracing the place where her pulse beat beneath her skin. He could feel it, wild and alive, echoing his own.
The fire cracked behind them, casting them both in gold, the light shimmering across her face as though the world itself were holding its breath. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. Every thought, every duty, every reason to stay away, burned away under the heat of what stood between them.
Her lips parted just slightly as he leaned closer. Catherine’s eyes widened, searching his, and for one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then his hand fell away, and the world came rushing back.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The space between them vanished, and she felt him everywhere—the warmth of his chest against her, the faint rasp of his breath on her lips, the tremor in his hand where it cupped her jaw. The sound of the fire filled the silence, low and restless, like it too could sense what was about to happen.
When his mouth finally met hers, the world tilted. It was not gentle. It was everything they had denied, unspoken words, breaking loose in one stolen instant. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair, and she leaned into him helplessly, tasting the salt of his skin, the roughness of his unshaven jaw.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel his pulse answering it where his thumb pressed below her ear. The warmth of him swallowed her whole, and all the anger, the fear, the endless arguments about duty and danger melted into something fierce and wordless.
He whispered her name between kisses, a sound that felt more like prayer than speech. When she drew back, gasping, their foreheads touched.
“I want ye, Aidan” she managed, though her voice betrayed her.
He looked at her then, eyes dark and unguarded. “I ken,” he said. “I cannae stop.”
And neither could she.
The next kiss was slower, deeper, filled with the terrible tenderness of two people who knew this moment might be all they would ever have. His coat fell from his shoulders; her cloak slipped to the floor. Every movement was a confession. Every breath felt stolen. She had never known that wanting could feel like that—half hunger, half ache, something too human and too holy to name.
