Catherine’s voice broke through it softly. “And if they reach the walls?”
Aidan turned his head toward her. Their eyes met across the table. For one long, breathless moment, he forgot the room, the war, the eyes watching. There was only her, the fear she was trying to hide, the faith that had brought her back, the love neither of them had dared to name.
“Then we’ll still fight,” he said quietly. “And I’ll see ye safe, nay matter what it costs.”
Aidan exhaled, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. The world outside was shifting toward war, but the war inside him had already begun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Morning light pressed faintly through the narrow window of Aidan’s office, the kind of pale gold that softened every edge except the one that lived between them. Catherine stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath, her fingers brushing the inside of his wrist as though she could not help herself, as though her body had grown accustomed to seeking his without permission.
He cupped her cheek with a hand that was far steadier than he felt, his thumb tracing the soft line where her pulse fluttered fast and warm beneath her skin. “If Tòrr finds me like this,” he whispered, voice low enough to barely stir the air, “I’ll nae survive the mornin’.”
Her smile was small but bright, the kind that always made something inside him unravel. “Then dinnae get caught,” she murmured, and before he could respond, she rose on her toes and kissed him.
It was a quiet kiss, a stolen one, the soft, lingering kind that lived between heartbeats, as if they both knew how fragile these moments were. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer for a breath, for one more taste, for something he could carry with him once the world began to burn again.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor.
Aidan broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, pressing his forehead to hers for a brief heartbeat before he stepped back. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “Wait until I call ye.”
She nodded, though her eyes lingered on him in a way that made him want to stay, consequences be damned.
He slipped out the door, closing it just enough to hide her. Catherine held her breath as his shadow moved across the light spilling under the frame. A moment later, his voice came low, rough with the kind of amusement he never let anyone else hear.
“Ye’re clear, lass,” he said. “Come quick afore one o’ them turns the corner.”
She cracked the door open, slipping into the hall as lightly as a whispered prayer. Aidan shook his head when she nearly ran straight into his chest, his hand catching her elbow, steadying her.
They both stifled quiet laughter, and for an instant the war, the fear, the weight of everything waiting outside the office wallsfaded. Then a distant horn sounded from the courtyard, low and grim.
The lightness between them dimmed at once.
Aidan’s hand fell from her arm. Her smile faded. The air shifted back into something tight and heavy and waiting. Without a word, they walked toward the hall.
The hall still smelled of smoke from the night before. The fire burned low in the hearth, its light washing over steel and shadow alike, catching the glint of mail where Aidan’s men stood gathered beneath the banners. The air was thick with too many voices, too much movement, yet somehow the silence beneath it all was louder.
It had been only a day since Tòrr and Michael arrived, their tempers barely held in check, their presence a reminder of every promise Aidan had made and now had to keep. Catherine had sat quietly at the far table while they spoke of patrols and alliances, her eyes fixed on the flames, her fingers restless in her lap. She hadn’t said a word, but Aidan had felt her there, like the faint warmth of a fire one could not step away from.
He was just about to dismiss the Council when the heavy doors burst open.
A guard stumbled through, mud streaked up his legs, his breath ragged. “They’re here,” he gasped, voice cracking. “MacLeod riders. Hundreds o’ them—the banners bear Campbell’s mark as well.”
For one suspended heartbeat, no one moved. Then the hall erupted.
Chairs scraped against stone. Men shouted for arms, for orders, for someone to tell them it wasn’t true. The sound built into a wave, crashing through the room. Aidan rose slowly, though his pulse thundered in his throat.
“Silence.” The word cut through everything.
The noise fell away, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the distant echo of boots in the corridor. He looked toward the messenger, whose face had gone pale beneath the grime.
“How close?”
“Less than two miles, me laird. They’ll reach the outer walls afore the next bell.”
Tòrr swore under his breath. Michael reached for his sword. Catherine stood, one hand gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
Aidan saw all of it—the fear, the readiness, the disbelief—but none of it touched his face.
