His hand slid up her spine, slow and reverent. “Catherine,” he whispered again, softer this time, as if the name itself was a vow.
She turned her head toward him, meaning to answer—when a sharp knock came suddenly, cleaving through the silence like a blade.
Aidan went still. His breath stopped against her skin. Then he lifted his head, the tenderness that had just softened his features hardening again, the laird returning where the man had been.
“Me laird,” came Gordon’s voice from beyond the door, muffled but urgent. “Ye’re needed in the yard. Scouts just returned.”
The fire cracked, scattering sparks into the air. The warmth that had wrapped around them only moments before thinned.
Aidan drew a slow, reluctant breath, then leaned his forehead to hers once more. His eyes closed for the briefest moment. “Stay here,” he murmured, his voice low, raw. “Please.”
Catherine’s hand slid down his wrist, finding his pulse beneath her palm. It was racing, fast and uneven.
“Aidan—” she began, but the rest fell away, swallowed by the sight of him pulling back, the change in him almost painful to watch.
He rose, gathering his coat from the chair. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, as though the act of dressing himself in duty again required every ounce of his strength. When he turned, the man she had just held was gone. The laird stood in his place—shoulders straight, jaw set, command slipping over him like armor he’d worn too many times before.
Only his eyes betrayed him. They found her in the firelight, dark and desperate, and in that single look she saw the truth—he didn’t want to go, but he already knew he must. The world outside was calling him back, and it would not wait.
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. For a moment, the silence between them felt alive—something tender and breaking, stretched so tight it might never mend. His gaze held hers, and she thought, for one impossible heartbeat, that he might come back to her instead of turning away.
But he didn’t.
The door opened, the draft of cold air brushing against her bare skin like a warning, and then he was gone.
The days blurred into one another, marked only by the reports that kept coming and the distant sound of the blacksmith’s hammer echoing across the yard. Each dawn brought more scouts, more tidings of movement in the hills—MacLeod and Campbell both, driving their men through the glen with the arrogance of those who thought the Highlands would bow to them.
Aidan didn’t sleep much. He spent the nights in the war room, maps spread across the table, the fire burning low.
By the third day, the tension in the air was thick enough to taste. The men had sharpened every blade, checked every bowstring.
When noon came, Aidan sat in the hall with his captains, the long table crowded with trenchers and untouched bread. Catherine sat at the far end, speaking quietly to one of theservants, her hair pinned up but a few strands loose where the firelight caught them. She had been quieter since that night, steady on the surface but her eyes told him otherwise. He could feel her silence more keenly than most men felt sound.
He kept his distance in public. He had to. Every time their eyes met across the table, his thoughts went dark and dangerous. He could still feel her skin under his hands, still taste her breath when she whispered his name against his mouth. He had built walls his whole life, and now, for the first time, one woman had torn through every last one of them with nothing but a look.
He lifted his cup, meaning to drink, when the doors of the hall burst open.
“Tòrr MacDonald, Laird o’ Glencoe!” the guard called, breathless.
Instinct pulled him to his feet at once. His chair scraped back against the floor, the sound sharp in the hush that followed.
By the time Tòrr strode in, Aidan was already standing, every inch of him drawn taut. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword out of habit, though there was no threat yet—only the weight of what had come through those doors. Michael followed close behind, both men spattered with mud and travel dust, their cloaks torn by wind and rain, their faces carved in grim lines that told him everything before a word was spoken.
The hall fell silent. Even the fire seemed to still, its crackle muted beneath the gravity that entered with them.
“Aidan.”
Tòrr’s voice carried across the hall, roughened by wind and distance, but there was something in it that loosened the tightness in Aidan’s chest before he could stop it. Weeks had passed since they’d stood in the same room, and for the first time in too long, the sight of him felt like solid ground.
“Tòrr.” Aidan crossed the space between them in a few strides, his hand finding his friend’s shoulder. “It’s been too long.”
Tòrr huffed out a low breath that might have been a laugh. “Aye. Ye look worse every time I see ye.”
Aidan’s mouth twitched. “And ye look the same—stubborn bastard that ye are.”
Behind Tòrr, Michael grinned faintly, the expression weary but genuine. “He’s nae wrong, Aidan. Ye look like ye’ve gone and forgotten what daylight looks like.”
Aidan gave a small snort. “Still got that tongue on ye, Michael. I’ll take that as proof ye survived the journey.”
