And then, he heard a single scream.
Catherine.
Catherine was inside. She had been there since the fighting began, tending the wounded with trembling hands while the doors shuddered under every blow. And now she was screaming.
Aidan froze, the blood draining from his face. His body moved before his mind caught up, muscle and instinct fusing into one.
“Gordon! With me!”
He cut through the line before him, sword flashing in a precise arc that cleaved through two men. One went down clutching his chest; the other barely had time to scream before Aidan’s blade silenced him.
“Hold the gate!” he shouted behind him. “Hold it!”
He pushed forward, every heartbeat louder than the last.
MacLeod soldiers had already reached its doors, their axes slamming against the wood, sparks flying with every blow. The sight clawed at his chest. He sprinted, mud splashing up his legs, vision narrowing to a single point at those doors, and the thought of what waited behind them.
A body lunged at him from the side. Aidan pivoted, caught the strike on his blade, then turned the momentum into a counter, a smooth, savage thrust that cut through the man’s ribs. He pulled the sword free and kept running.
Every sound became distant. There was only the pounding of his boots and the crackling roar of fire while he reached the steps, cutting down another man as he went. The air was thick with heat and ash. He slammed into the great door with his shoulder, forcing it open.
The sight inside froze him where he stood.
Tables overturned. Blood across the stone. Smoke coiling through the rafters. And among it — the shape of a woman struggling against the grasp of a soldier, her hair catching the firelight like gold.
Catherine.
He moved without thought, slicing through the man nearest her, his blade catching the torchlight as it came down. The soldier fell, gurgling, blood pooling fast beneath him.
Aidan pushed forward, breath harsh in his throat, his arm slick with blood and sweat. Every muscle burned, but he barely felt it. Each strike brought him closer to her, closer to the sound of her voice, closer to the one thing he could not lose.
He saw Edwin then, beyond the flames, dragging her toward the far door, shouting orders to retreat. Aidan’s pulse spiked, his vision sharpening to a knife’s edge.
“Catherine!”
Her head turned just once, enough for him to see the fear there, and the trust. Then Edwin pulled her through the archway, and both vanished into the smoke.
Aidan charged after them, sword raised, cutting through the last of the MacLeod warriors in his path. Each swing was heavierthan the last, his breath ragged, his heart hammering like a drum of war. Every drop of blood he spilled felt like penance. Every enemy he cut down brought him closer to her.
He didn’t think of strategy, or honor, or the war he was meant to win. Only of her name, and the vow that he would reach her before the night claimed them both.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The air inside the great hall was choking with smoke. The fire that had begun in the corner hearth had spread along the rushes, licking up the walls where the tapestries hung, curling them into black, wrinkled skins. Catherine’s eyes stung, but she barely noticed. Her hands were slick with blood as she pressed linen against a soldier’s wound.
“Hold still,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “Ye’ll be fine, I promise ye will.”
The man tried to nod, tried to thank her, but his head fell sideways, his lips already paling. The healer was at the next table, tying bandages with trembling hands, and two of the kitchen girls ran back and forth with buckets of water, their skirts soaked through.
The sounds outside had grown louder—the clash of metal, the shouts of men, the deep rumble of the gates breaking. Catherine heard them all but forced her breath to steady. She had promised herself she would not hide. Not tonight.
Another man stumbled through the doorway, dragging his leg, his tunic torn open. She moved to meet him, catching him before he fell.
“Here,” she said. “Sit here.”
He obeyed, collapsing near the hearth. The flames painted his face in uneven gold.
Then, something felt different. For a moment, she thought it was just the wind, but then the noise came, a sound too heavy to be a breeze. The crash of wood splintering. The thunder of boots.
