Catherine turned toward him slowly, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. “What?”
He was still looking at her, his eyes fixed on her with that same steadiness he wore in battle. But this was different. There was no rage there, only fierce and unguarded truth.
“Let me marry ye,” he said again, quieter this time, almost reverent. “So ye’ll stay. So nay one will question what’s already true.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath her. She felt her pulse rise into her throat, felt the air catch in her lungs, felt the heat of his words sink straight into her bones. For all the things she’d imagined—his hands, his voice, his kiss—she had never imagined this. The sound of him asking for her, not out of duty or desperation, but out of love so bare it undid her completely.
Her lips parted, but no words came. The only thing she could do was look at him, and in that look, everything she’d ever feared or wanted seemed to dissolve.
Tòrr exhaled with a long, weary sound. “Christ above,” he muttered. “Ye choose yer moments well.”
Aidan didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “There’s nay other way.”
Tòrr turned to her then, his expression softening, though his voice was steady. “Is this what ye want, lass?”
Catherine’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear him. What she wanted? She had wanted this man through every storm, through every fight, through every sleepless night that had torn them apart. She had wanted him when she hated him, when she feared him, when she’d told herself she would never forgive him.
And now he was standing there, offering everything.
She didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” she said, her voice trembling but sure. “It is.”
Something eased in Tòrr’s face, though he shook his head as if to clear it. “Then so be it. But ye’ll dae it proper. The priest’s still in the hall tending the wounded. Ye’ll be wed at first light.”
Aidan nodded. “First light then.”
Inside the chapel, the light was soft and gray. Catherine stood before the altar, her hands trembling slightly despite how hard she tried to keep them still. Her gown was simple, her hair loosely braided down her back.
Aidan stood opposite her, his tunic dark and freshly cleaned, though a thin line of bandage still wrapped his arm. He looked tired, older somehow, but when he smiled at her, it felt like the first warmth she’d seen in days.
Tòrr and Michael stood nearby, silent witnesses. The priest’s voice echoed faintly through the small space, his words slow and measured. Catherine barely heard them. Her heartbeat drowned everything else.
When Aidan reached for her hand, she let him. His palm was rough and something in that simple touch steadied her more than prayer ever could.
“Dae ye, Aidan Cameron, take this woman?—”
“I dae,” he said before the priest had even finished.
Her lips trembled.
“And dae ye, Catherine MacDonald?—”
She looked up at him. His eyes caught the morning light, fierce and soft at once. “I dae.”
When the priest blessed them, Aidan didn’t wait for permission. He stepped forward and kissed her; a kiss that felt like a vow, slow and sure and filled with everything he hadn’t said. The chapel fell away. The world fell away. There was only him.
When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll give ye a proper wedding once the land’s quiet,” he murmured. “With yer sisters here, wi’ music and feastin’, wi’ the whole o’ the Highlands hearin’ ye say me name.”
She smiled through the tears that had started to fall. “And what if I dinnae wish tae wait?”
He laughed under his breath, low and warm. “Then we’ll dance tonight. Here, if ye like. Just like last time.”
Her brow furrowed. “Last time?”
He nodded. “A year ago, at the masquerade in yer hall. Ye wore a silver mask. I dinnae think ye recognized me, but I recognized ye.”
She blinked, the memory stirring faintly. “That was ye?”
He nodded once. “Aye. I should’ve kent then I’d never forget ye. I watched ye dance wi’ half the men there, and all I could think was that none o’ them deserved ye.”
