His feet stomped heavily against the ground. His steps slowed only when he neared the stables.
He drew in a long breath, the familiar scent of hay, leather, and horses taking his thoughts off her, easing the heaviness in his chest only for a moment.
His breathing slowed as he stepped into the stables. There was comfort in the routine of it. In work, and in the presence of the only creatures that he had ever allowed himself to openly care for.
His horse neighed softly as he approached it, running his fingers through its long dark mane before pausing to look around the stables.
There was no one around but him and the horses. The wooden posts looked like they had not been cleaned in a while, so he picked up a brush, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms.
Surely, it isnae much work, he told himself, as though he were not doing it to force his mind into silence.
He got to work at once, the bristles dragging against the wood in harsh, repetitive motions.
Surely she wouldnae leave.
He splashed water from a small bowl on the post, then continued to scrub.
She wouldnae leave the Highlands for the Lowlands.
He dropped the brush once he was satisfied, then picked up a rag.
She isnae used to life outside these walls. She has lived here since she was a wee lass. Surely, she would hate it.
His mind filled with images of Edith all over again, of the way she had trembled beneath his touch. Of the way she had rested fragile against his chest when he’d carried her in his arms. Of her swollen lips and her flushed face.
He thought of her laugh too—the one she did not know how to perform, the one that had startled out of her in the fields weeks ago and again at the fair as she watched children clamor for Caelan’s attention.
That laugh had nothing to do with the arrangement. It belonged entirely to her, and somehow, impossibly, he had started to recognize the difference between it and every other sound she made for the benefit of watching eyes.
He had not earned that laugh. Not truly. Not the way Martin had, apparently, with his quiet lessons and his careful praise. Not the way Scarlett had, simply by existing as her oldest friend.
Aaron had earned her arguments. Her sharp tongue. Her stubborn refusals. And for one reckless night in a carriage on a dark road, he had earned something else entirely.
He was not certain which version of her he wanted more.
“Saints,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the rag against the post until his knuckles whitened.
He had lost control. Worse, he had wanted to.
He straightened abruptly, but the air still carried the scent of wild lavender, faint and stubborn, clinging to him the way it had clung to everything since the carriage.
Perhaps I should prevent her from leaving.
He was the Laird. He could pass it as an order or prolong their betrothal if he wished. But he was not a man to go back on his word, and knowing Edith, she would raise hell if he tried.
Sirius stirred nearby, sensing his unease. She neighed, shifting her weight against the stall door. He walked toward her, running his hand over her neck.
“Ye at least daenae ask questions,” he muttered.
He lifted the latch on the gate and led her out slowly—a new distraction. But even there in the quiet dark of the stables, he could not escape Edith.
He could still feel the warmth of her mouth against his. He could still hear her breathing his name without the careful distance she usually maintained.
He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening as his fingers caught in Sirius’s mane.
This was not who he was. He had spent fifteen years building himself into a man who did not lose control. Not to anger, grief, or anything that threatened the careful order he had constructed around Hallow Castle and everyone in it.
He had buried whatever softness he might have once carried beneath duty so thoroughly that he had nearly convinced himself it had never existed at all.
