“Gordon,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Get the outer gates barred and archers on the ramparts. Then, take twenty men tae the east wall—I want eyes on every ridge. Tòrr, Michael, with me.”
The orders fell from him like blade strikes, clean and final. Men snapped to attention, scattering toward the door. The sudden motion sent a gust of cold air swirling through the room, fluttering Catherine’s loose hair.
He turned toward her then, though he shouldn’t have.
“Stay inside,” he said quietly. “Help the healers. Dinnae step beyond the hall.”
Her eyes lifted to his, defiant even through fear. “Ye think I’ll stand idle while others bleed?”
“It’s nae a question, Catherine.” His voice hardened, though the sight of her standing there, flushed with determination, nearly broke the edge of it. “I’ll nae argue it. Nae taenight.”
Tòrr’s gaze cut sharply between them. “Ye’ll stay where ye’s told.”
Catherine’s mouth opened, but before she could speak, a sound came, a low, distant rumble, like thunder rolling down the glen. The first signal horn.
The hall seemed to tilt.
“Move,” Aidan said.
Men surged for the doors, the clang of armor echoing through the chamber. Catherine stepped back as the flood of bodies swept past her, her skirts brushing the mud already tracked across the floor. Aidan waited only long enough to see the healers begin clearing the tables for the wounded.
He caught her gaze once more. There were words he wanted to say, things he had no right to speak. Instead, he gave her the smallest nod, the kind that might have been a promise if the world were not on fire.
Then he turned and strode for the doors.
The wind cut low through the courtyard, carrying the metallic tang of rain and steel. It curled beneath his cloak and along the back of his neck, biting cold enough to wake the pulse in his jaw.
He paused beneath the archway, letting the weight of the air settle against his chest. The keep behind him was still alive with noise. Then, through it all, he heard the sound he couldn’t seem to forget: her voice, carrying from the great hall.
He shouldn’t have turned back, but he did.
Through the half-open doors he caught a glimpse of Catherine, bent beside the hearth light, a strip of linen in her hands, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair coming loose down her back. When Tòrr called her name, she lifted her head. Aidan saw the exhaustionin her eyes, and something else beneath it—the quiet kind of courage that had no business looking as fragile as it did.
Then she briefly turned and looked at him, before turning back to her brother. Tòrr was standing near her, Michael beside him, both watching every movement with the suspicion of men who already sensed too much. Aidan did not have time to worry about that right then, so he straightened, forcing his voice low and calm.
“See tae the gates,” he’d told Gordon, loud enough for the hall to hear. “And keep the women inside.”
Then he turned away, pretending he hadn’t noticed the way Catherine’s fingers stilled, as if she’d wanted to say something more.
The doors shut behind him with a dull thud.
He drew a breath that felt like stone in his throat and started across the yard. The men straightened as he passed, every torch flare painting brief light. He kept his pace even, his hand tight around the hilt at his belt. Inside, the noise of the hall faded, replaced by the hum of rain on the roofs, the creak of leather, the distant roll of thunder crawling down the glen.
He’d been in enough battles to know the waiting was the worst part. The stillness before everything broke. But that night the silence pressed heavier than it should have. Because behind the stone and the smoke and the walls built to keep danger out, therewas a woman he could not stop thinking about, and the thought of losing her felt far too close to weakness.
So he forced the breath out through his teeth, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the dark, as men moved along the walls. Gordon barked orders at the gatehouse, his voice cutting through the wind. Every step Aidan took felt heavier than the last, though his face betrayed none of it. Out there, he was laird first—not the man who’d kissed her only moments ago, not the fool who still felt the shape of her mouth when he breathed.
“Any word from the scouts?” he asked, striding toward the parapet.
Bruce met him halfway, face pale beneath the torchlight. “Aye. MacLeod banners. They’re close — a mile, maybe less. Campbell’s colors among them, though nae sight o’ the man himself.”
Aidan’s jaw tightened. “He’ll wait until the blood’s drawn, then swoop in tae claim what’s left.”
“Aye,” Bruce said grimly.
“Then we’ll make sure there’s naught fer him tae claim.”
He turned, calling for his captains. The orders came fast, clipped—hold the western flank, close the north wall gates, set archers above the stables. He spoke like a man carved from steel, but beneath it, the old heat stirred, that thing he’d spent yearsmastering, the raw, reckless anger that made his blood hum whenever someone threatened what was his.
