Author: Lyla Rosewood

 
Three months earlier

Lorna had been sitting in the solar so long her legs had gone stiff on the bench, and the heat from the hearth did not comfort her so much as remind her time was passing. Aileen sat beside her on the bench, trying very hard to sit like a lady and failing in the quiet ways only Lorna would notice, her heel tapping then stopping as if she had remembered she was not supposed to, her fingers twisting at the ribbon on her sleeve.

Her stomach had been clenched since sunrise, and the longer the castle remained without news, the more she felt it move through her.

“He should be back by now,” Aileen said, and it came out sharper than she meant, because she immediately glanced at Lorna as if to apologize for speaking aloud.

Lorna turned her head slightly, not fully, just enough to let Aileen know she was listening. “Court daesnae move like us.”

Aileen’s brows knit. “He’s nae askin’ fer a feast invitation. He’s askin’ the king tae stop MacTavish.”

“He’ll dae what he can,” Lorna said, and reached out with her fingertips to cover Aileen’s restless hand, a small touch that was meant to anchor, not command. “Da has never gone tae the king wi’out a plan.”

Aileen’s fingers kept moving beneath hers anyway. “Plans dinnae matter if the king daesnae care.”

Lorna wanted to tell her that the king must care, because a king who did not care was a danger even to himself, but she could not bring herself to offer comfort she did not feel.

Instead she said, “The king cares about peace.”

Aileen made a sound that might have been a laugh if she had been older. “He cares about himself.”

Lorna’s mouth tightened. “Aye. And peace keeps his crown steady. That’s the only reason it matters.”

Aileen turned toward the hearth, her face caught in the glow, and for a moment Lorna saw how young she still was in the shape of her cheeks, in the way her lashes looked too long for her eyes. She was young enough that she still wanted things to be fair, and old enough that she had started to realize fairness was not a promise the world made to anyone.

“I hate that we have tae wait,” Aileen whispered.

Lorna’s hand tightened a fraction. “So dae I.”

Aileen looked back at her, quick as a blade. “Then why are ye actin’ like ye arenae scared?”

Lorna held her gaze. “Because if I start showin’ it, I might nae stop.”

Aileen’s expression softened, and the anger drained into something smaller, something more honest. “I’m scared too.”

Lorna slid her hand up, gently smoothing the ribbon at Aileen’s sleeve the way their mother used to smooth Lorna’s hair when she was upset, and the memory of it hurt like the sudden press of a bruise.

“I ken,” she murmured. “But ye’re here. Ye’re safe right now. That’s what we hold onto until Da comes back through that door.”

They sat in silence after that, the kind that made Lorna hear everything, the faint movement of servants beyond the corridor, the shifting of logs in the hearth, the far-off sound of a door opening somewhere below.

Minutes dragged, then another stretch, and Lorna began to count the changes in light as it slid across the floor, the way she used to count her mother’s breaths when she was ill.

Then, finally, there was a sound from the courtyard, muffled at first through the stone, then clearer, the rhythm of hooves, the scrape of boots, a short call from one of the guards.

Aileen’s head snapped up. “That’s him.”

Lorna was already standing, the movement sharp enough that her skirt brushed the bench.

They reached the great hall just as the doors opened. Their father stepped inside, and for a heartbeat Lorna’s relief was so fierce it made her dizzy, because he was there, solid and familiar, and then she saw his face.

Alistair MacAlpin moved like he had carried something too heavy for too long, cloak damp at the shoulders, hair wind-tossed, the edges of his mouth fixed in a line that did not soften when he saw his daughters. His eyes, usually steady, looked dulled and lifeless.

Aileen ran to him first, grabbing his sleeve with both hands. “Da. What happened? Did he decide?”

Lorna stopped a step behind Aileen, because something in her had gone very still, her instincts catching danger before her mind shaped it into words. Alistair’s hand came down on Aileen’s head, gentle, and that softness made Lorna’s throat tighten.

“Aye,” he said, voice low and rough. “He decided.”

Aileen leaned forward. “And? What did the king say about MacTavish?”

Alistair looked at Lorna then, and for a brief moment his eyes flickered with something that looked like apology, and Lorna felt her stomach drop.

“He spoke o’ peace,” he said. “He spoke o’ keeping the clans from tearing each other apart. He spoke o’… appearances.”

Aileen’s fingers tightened. “Appearances?”

Alistair exhaled, slow and heavy, as though he had been holding his breath since the king’s chamber. “He says the crown cannae be seen tae favor us too openly.”

Aileen’s face flushed. “So he’s punishing us?”

Alistair’s jaw tightened, but he did not deny it, and Lorna’s chest went cold at that small confirmation.

“What is it?” Lorna asked, because Aileen could rage, and her father could speak around the truth, but Lorna needed the shape of it, needed the blunt edge.

Alistair’s gaze stayed on her, and she saw the strain there. “He’s decided one o’ me daughters must go tae Iona,” he said.

The hall did not change, but Lorna felt as if the air had been pulled away, the sound of everything fading so the words landed cleanly, cruelly, with nowhere to hide.

Aileen stared at him as if she had misheard. “Go tae Iona?”

“A nunnery,” Alistair added, and his voice turned rougher on the word. “Exile, in all but name. He says it will show we’re willing tae sacrifice fer peace. He says it will protect our honor and keep MacTavish from pushing further, because it sends a message that the crown is watching.”

Aileen’s mouth opened, and for a moment she looked so small that Lorna’s heart twisted. “But… we did naething.”

“We are a clan,” Alistair said quietly. “We are always something in the eyes of the crown, whether we like it or nae.”

Aileen’s eyes darted to Lorna. “One o’ us?”

Alistair nodded once.

Aileen’s voice cracked. “It could be me.”

It was the first time Aileen had spoken the fear aloud, and the sound of it made Lorna feel sick.

Alistair’s hand tightened on Aileen’s shoulder. “Aye.”

Aileen’s face went pale, then flushed, then pale again. “But I’m young.”

Lorna watched her sister’s expression shift, watched the panic build behind her eyes, and something inside Lorna rearranged itself with a quiet, terrible clarity. Aileen still woke at night sometimes, though she pretended she didn’t, still clutched at Lorna’s sleeve when thunder rolled, still looked for their mother in the faces of older women and then looked away quickly when she realized what she was doing.

Lorna had been old enough when their mother died to understand grief, and she had been old enough to carry some of it for the others, to become steady because someone had to be.

She could do this too. Duty, she told herself at once, because love felt too soft a word for what rose in her chest, too tender to bear a decision like this without breaking.

She stepped forward. “It willnae be Aileen.”

Aileen turned toward her, eyes wide. “Lorna…”

Alistair’s gaze sharpened, and there was warning there. “Lorna, lass—”

“I’ll go,” Lorna said, and the words came out clean, steady, as if she had been holding them ready for years.

Aileen made a strangled sound. “Nay.”

Lorna did not look away from her sister. “Aileen, listen.”

“Nay,” Aileen repeated, louder this time, and she shook her head hard, tears already rising. “Nay, ye cannae.”

Lorna reached for her sister’s hands, and she held them firmly, not gently, because Aileen was trying to pull away and she could not let her. “Ye are too young.”

“So are ye!” Aileen snapped, and her voice broke. “Ye’re nae old, Lorna.”

“I’m older than ye,” Lorna said, and she kept her tone calm because she could feel Aileen tipping toward panic. “And I have had time here. I’ve had time wi’ Da. I’ve had time wi’ the clan. Ye have barely begun.”

Aileen’s eyes spilled over. “That dinnae mean ye should be taken.”

“It means,” Lorna said, voice softer now, “that if someone must be taken, it should be me.”

Alistair’s face tightened, grief and anger moving under his skin. “We’ll think on it. We’ll speak tae the priest. We’ll send word tae the abbot. We’ll see if there’s another way.”

“There isnae,” Lorna said gently, and she turned her face to her father now, meeting his eyes with a steadiness she did not feel. “Da, ye kent the moment ye walked in here that the king’s mind was made.”

Alistair’s jaw clenched. “That daesnae mean I accept it.”

Lorna’s chest ached. She wanted to run to him, to be a daughter again, to beg him to fight it, to promise her it would be all right, but she had already watched him carry too much, and she could not add this to his shoulders if she could lift it herself.

“It’s nae about acceptance,” Lorna said. “It’s about choice. If ye dinnae choose, the king will.”

Aileen sobbed, the sound raw. “Lorna, please.”

Lorna turned back to her sister, and she felt her own eyes burn, but she forced herself to keep breathing, slow and steady, because she could not afford to break in front of Aileen now.

“Look at me,” she said quietly.

Aileen’s gaze lifted, blurred with tears.

Lorna smoothed Aileen’s cheek with her thumb, a small, steadying touch. “Ye’ll stay here. Ye’ll stay wi’ Da. Ye’ll grow strong in this house, and ye’ll never be alone again, nae if I can help it.”

Aileen’s breath hitched. “But ye’ll be alone.”

Lorna swallowed hard. She did not answer the truth, because the truth would make Aileen feel guilt, and guilt was a poison that would sit in her for years.

Instead, she said, “I’ll be safe.”

Aileen shook her head, tears falling faster. “Safe daesnae mean happy.”

Lorna’s lips pressed together, and for a second she almost lost her composure, almost let her face twist with the fear she had been holding back since the first hour of waiting, but she steadied herself again.

“I can manage,” she whispered.

Aileen grabbed her wrist suddenly, fierce. “Why are ye daein this?”

Lorna’s chest tightened, and for a heartbeat she could not find the right words, so she said the word she had always used to keep herself upright. “Because it’s me duty.”

Aileen stared at her, and something in her face shifted, because she was young, but she was not foolish, and she could hear what Lorna was not saying.

Alistair’s voice came low, strained. “Lorna…”

She turned to him again. “Da. Please.”

Alistair looked at her like a man watching the ground give way under his feet. “If ye insist,” he said, voice rough. “If ye truly insist, then… then it will be decided.”

Aileen let out a sound that was half sob, half protest, and she threw herself against Lorna, arms wrapping tight around her waist.

Lorna caught her at once, holding her close, pressing her cheek against the top of Aileen’s head, and she felt her sister shaking, felt the way the grief moved through her in waves that made her body tremble.

Aileen cried into her gown. “Thank ye,” she gasped, and the gratitude in her voice was so heavy and wrong that it made Lorna’s eyes sting. “Thank ye, Lorna. Thank ye.”

Lorna tightened her arms, holding her as if she could keep her from falling apart just by holding on. “Hush,” she murmured, smoothing Aileen’s hair slowly, over and over, because the motion gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on besides the thought of Iona. “It’s all right.”

“It isnae,” Aileen whispered, muffled against her. “It isnae all right.”

Lorna swallowed hard. “It will be.”

Aileen pulled back just enough to look up at her, cheeks wet, eyes red. “How?”

Lorna’s throat tightened, but she forced the words out, soft and steady. “Because ye’ll live. Ye’ll have a life. Ye’ll have choice. And Mam would want that fer ye.”

The mention of their mother made Aileen’s face crumple again, and she clung tighter.

Lorna held her, breathing slowly, trying to press calm into her with every touch, while inside her mind ran in sharp circles, images of sea and stone and silence, and the sense of a door closing that she could not stop.

Alistair’s hand came down on Lorna’s shoulder, heavy and warm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice broke slightly on the word.

“Dinnae,” she whispered.

“I should have—”

“Ye did,” Lorna said quickly, and she finally lifted her eyes to his, forcing herself to meet him. “Ye did everything. This is the king’s daeing, nae yers.”

Alistair’s gaze held hers, and she saw the same helpless fury there that she felt, the same knowledge that power could crush you politely and call it order.

“We’ll prepare,” he said, voice low. “We’ll dae it proper. Ye’ll go with honor.”

Lorna nodded once. As if honor could warm a bed at night, as if it could replace Aileen’s weight leaning against her shoulder, as if it could soften the loneliness of stone walls far from home.

Aileen’s arms were still tight around her, and Lorna held her back, because this was the last thing she could give her right now, the certainty that someone would not let go.

She pressed a kiss to Aileen’s hair, small and fierce, and she felt the decision settle into her bones with a kind of calm that terrified her, because calm made it real.

“I would dae anything fer ye,” Lorna whispered, so quietly only Aileen could hear, and she meant it with every part of herself.

Aileen sobbed again, and Lorna held her through it, her face composed, her hands steady, while inside her chest something tender and terrified curled tight around the name of a place she had never seen.

And she did not say it aloud, because speaking it would make it true, but she already knew, once she walked away from this hall, life would never return to what it had been for any of them.

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Two years later

The council chamber finally emptied as the last of the men bowed their heads and took their leave, the low murmur of voices fading down the corridor until only the quiet weight of stone and fire remained. Duncan stayed where he was for a moment longer, hands resting on the edge of the table, listening to the echo of boots retreating, letting the tension of leadership ease its grip inch by inch. The meeting had been a long one, filled with talk of boundary lines, livestock disputes, winter stores, and the slow, patient work of peace that followed war, and though none of it troubled him the way danger once had, the responsibility of it still settled deep in his bones.

But when he finally straightened and turned from the table, there was no heaviness in him, only a quiet pull drawing him onward through the castle, toward warmth, toward something waiting that belonged wholly to him.

The corridor outside the council chamber was lit with late-afternoon firelight, the sun already dipping low enough to slant through the narrow windows, and as Duncan walked, the sounds of the keep wrapped around him in their familiar rhythm: a servant’s soft laugh somewhere below, the clatter of wood being stacked near the kitchens, the distant thud of boots in the training yard. This was the sound of a place at ease, of people moving without fear, and each time he noticed it, something in his chest eased in response.

When he reached the solar, he slowed without meaning to, one hand resting against the stone doorframe as he looked inside.

The fire burned low and steady in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room, and near it, seated in the wide-backed chair Duncan had once dragged closer to the flames on a winter night long ago, sat Lorna.

She was turned slightly toward the fire, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of her belly, the other holding open a book whose pages were worn soft from use, and in her lap sat their daughter, small and sturdy and utterly absorbed, her dark curls tumbling over her brow as she listened with solemn concentration. Lorna’s voice carried through the room in a low, even cadence, gentle without being sing-song, the words of the story shaped with care, as though she were offering them something precious rather than simply reading aloud.

Duncan stayed where he was and watched, his chest tightening with a feeling so full and sudden it stole his breath.

Catherine leaned back against Lorna’s arm, one small hand curled into the fabric of her mother’s gown, her feet bare and tucked under herself, and as Lorna turned a page, the child leaned forward eagerly, pointing at something on the paper with an excited murmur that made Lorna smile and pause, indulging her curiosity before continuing. The fire crackled softly, the light catching in Lorna’s hair, and as Duncan watched, he felt the familiar, grounding certainty settle over him.

This was the life he had nearly lost before he ever knew he wanted it.

He remembered other fires, other rooms, the way his mother’s voice had once filled a space like this, the way his sister had leaned against her with the same trusting weight, and for a moment the memories pressed close, sharp with their sweetness. But they did not hurt the way they once had. They stood beside the present, not in its place.

Lorna shifted slightly in her chair, her hand brushing over her belly as though adjusting for comfort, and Duncan’s gaze followed the movement instinctively, the quiet awareness of the life growing there stirring something deep and reverent inside him. He had felt the child move beneath his palm only that morning, strong and insistent, a reminder that the world did not simply continue but expanded, that the future arrived whether one was ready or not.

And he was ready. He had never been more ready for anything in his life.

Catherine chose that moment to look up, her gaze lifting past the book, past her mother’s shoulder, and fixing on him with sudden recognition.

“Da,” she said, the word still rounded and imperfect, but unmistakable.

Lorna turned, her eyes finding him instantly, her expression softening into a smile that reached deep into him, as if it knew every version of him that had existed before this moment and welcomed them all.

“There ye are,” she said quietly, closing the book partway but not rising. “We were wonderin’ when ye’d be done.”

Before Duncan could answer, his daughter scrambled to her feet with the determined clumsiness of a child still mastering her own body, slid off Lorna’s lap, and barreled across the rug toward him with her arms outstretched and a delighted laugh bursting free.

Duncan bent without thinking, his arms opening just in time to catch her as she collided with him, her small body warm and solid and utterly trusting as she wrapped herself around his neck.

“There ye are,” he murmured back, his voice rough with something that might have been laughter if it had not been edged with emotion.

He lifted her easily, the familiar weight settling against his chest, and spun once, twice, the room blurring at the edges as her laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained. Lorna laughed too, a soft sound that carried across the space, and Duncan slowed, pressing his daughter briefly against his shoulder before lowering himself to sit beside Lorna near the fire.

Their daughter wriggled in his arms, still energized, pointing toward the book with insistent babble, and Duncan adjusted his grip, settling her more securely against him as he leaned back, one arm braced comfortably, the other resting across her small back.

“Were ye listenin’ well?” he asked her, his tone solemn enough to make her pause and nod emphatically.

“Story,” she said proudly.

“Aye,” Lorna said, reopening the book and shifting slightly so she could lean more comfortably against the arm of the chair. “A very important one, apparently.”

Duncan watched her as she spoke, the gentle curve of her smile, the ease in her posture despite the weight she carried, and he felt again that surge of gratitude so fierce it bordered on ache. He had learned, in those past two years, that happiness did not arrive all at once, that it came in moments like this, unannounced and ordinary and devastating in their beauty.

Lorna resumed reading, her voice filling the room once more, and Duncan listened, though the words themselves mattered less than the sound of her speaking them, the cadence steady and sure. Catherine fidgeted for a while, her attention wandering, small fingers tracing the edge of Duncan’s sleeve, then his hand, then settling at last against his chest, where she rested her head with a sigh that carried the unmistakable weight of fatigue.

Duncan felt the moment it happened, the way her body softened, the tension slipping free as sleep claimed her without ceremony.

He adjusted only enough to support her head more comfortably, his hand sliding up to cradle her back, and he glanced at Lorna, who had noticed too, her lips curving into a quiet, knowing smile even as she continued reading for another page, then another, before finally closing the book with care.

“She’s out,” Lorna murmured.

“Aye,” Duncan said softly.

The fire popped gently, the room settling into a hush that felt sacred rather than empty, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. Duncan watched the rise and fall of Catherine’s breath, felt the warmth of her against him, and thought of the man he had once been, the one who had believed peace was something earned only through vigilance, never through rest.

He had learned otherwise.

Lorna shifted slightly, her hand finding his knee, her thumb tracing a small, absent pattern there as she looked at him, her gaze thoughtful.

“Dae ye ever think about it?” she asked quietly.

He did not need to ask what she meant.

“Aye,” he said after a moment. “More often than I expected.”

She nodded, her eyes dropping briefly to their sleeping child before lifting again. “Sometimes I look at her,” she said, “and I cannae quite believe she’s real. That this is.”

Duncan leaned back a little further, careful not to disturb the weight in his arms, and exhaled slowly. “I think about the night MacTavish came,” he said, his voice low but steady. “About how close everything came tae breakin’ apart before it ever had the chance tae be whole.”

Lorna’s fingers tightened on his knee for a moment, then eased. “And yet here we are.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Here we are.”

He turned his head to look at her fully, taking in the familiar lines of her face, the strength that lived beneath her gentleness, the way her presence still grounded him as surely as the land beneath his feet. “I’ve led men intae battle,” he continued quietly. “I’ve stood in places where fear ruled every breath. But naethin’ has ever terrified me the way the thought o’ losin’ this daes.”

She did not flinch from the truth of it. She met his gaze, her own steady and clear. “That fear is part o’ the love,” she said. “It always was.”

Duncan considered that, then nodded slowly. “Aye. I think ye’re right.”

They sat like that for a long while, the quiet stretching comfortably between them, until the fire burned lower and the light shifted, painting the room in deeper gold and shadow. Duncan shifted at last, careful and deliberate, and Lorna rose to help him, taking their daughter gently into her arms and settling her against her shoulder.

“I’ll put her down,” Lorna said softly.

Duncan watched them cross the room together, watched the care with which Lorna moved, the way she murmured something low and soothing as she carried their child toward the adjoining chamber, and when she returned a short while later, her expression peaceful, he reached for her hand without thinking, drawing her down beside him once more.

She leaned into him easily, her head resting against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her, his hand settling over her belly, feeling the subtle movement beneath his palm.

“Soon,” he murmured.

She smiled. “Soon.”

Outside, the sky deepened toward evening, the first stars beginning to emerge, and Duncan sat there holding the woman who had changed his life and the quiet certainty of everything they had built together.

He had once believed that survival was the highest victory a man could claim, but now he knew better. Peace, love, the slow unfolding of a life shared and safeguarded, the sound of laughter by a hearth and the weight of a child asleep in his arms, these were the things worth fighting for, worth protecting, worth living long enough to see through.

And as the fire burned low and the castle settled into night around them, Duncan MacInnes held his family close and knew, with a certainty deeper than any vow, that he had finally come home.

The End.

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One year earlier, The MacDonald Castle

The night was all gold and shadow.

Aidan Cameron stood at the edge of the great hall, a glass untouched in his hand, his eyes sweeping the crowd as though the entire room were an enemy line. Music filled the air—lilting, polished, the kind that made men forget wars and women forget rules. Candles flared from every corner, their light catching on silk and metal, on laughter that came too easily and glances that lingered too long.

He had come because Tòrr MacDonald’s invitation carried the weight of alliance and obligation, but mainly because they were as close as brothers after many battles fought together.

He wasn’t built for rooms like this. Too loud. Too bright. Too full of faces that smiled and meant nothing.

Still, he had played the part of the courteous laird before, of the careful listener, the man who danced when it suited him and bowed when the woman in front of him was pretty enough. He could do it again.

He set the glass down and adjusted the black mask that covered the upper half of his face. A necessary thing tonight, if only to dull the recognition that followed him wherever he went. Aidan Cameron. Laird of Achnacarry. The man whose temper had near burned half a valley.

Let them not know him for an hour. Let them see what they wanted instead.

He started to move through the crowd, the sound of fiddles threading through the hum of voices. Everywhere he looked, there were colors and the soft press of bodies swaying in time. A woman brushed past him, her perfume sweet and sharp. Another offered him a smile that was more invitation than greeting. He gave her a polite nod and kept walking.

He was about to turn back toward the balcony when he saw her.

At first, it was only the flash of movement that caught his eye, a glimmer of silver among the gold. Then she turned slightly, and his chest went tight.

She was standing near the far wall, half-hidden by a cluster of guests, her mask catching the candlelight in a shimmer that made her look almost otherworldly. Her gown was pale, silver threaded with white, the kind of color that made every other woman in the room look too loud, too heavy. The curve of her shoulders was bare, her hair pinned high but with a few strands fallen loose, brushing her neck like soft rebellion.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Something in him, a part he’d thought long dead, woke like a blade drawn from its sheath.

He didn’t know her. That was the point of the night, wasn’t it? Masks, names forgotten, everything reduced to possibility. But God help him, he wanted to.

Aidan Cameron had known desire before, plenty of it, but it had always been simple and quick, controlled. This was different. This was a pull. A quiet, steady ache that settled low in his chest and refused to let go.

She laughed at something someone said, a soft, quick sound that reached him even across the noise of the hall. It wasn’t practiced or sharp like others he’d heard that night. It was warm, unguarded.

And just like that, he was lost.

He spent the next hour pretending he wasn’t watching her. He spoke to the men who sought his attention, exchanged the expected courtesies, even danced once, a formality he endured with the patience of a man waiting out a storm. But every time he glanced up, she was there somewhere in the crowd, and every time, it felt like gravity.

He caught the faintest trace of her voice once, low and bright all at once. It stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in years.

By the time the clock struck midnight, he’d made up his mind. He didn’t care who she was, or whether she belonged to another. He would have one dance. Just one. And if he was careful, she’d never even know who he was.

It was near the end of the night when he finally saw her alone.

The music had slowed, most of the crowd spilling into the corridor for air and wine. She stood by the window, her gloved hands resting on the edge of the sill, the moonlight painting her bare shoulders in silver. The faint wind through the open shutters made the candlelight tremble.

He crossed the floor without thinking.

“Ye look like a woman who’s about tae leave,” he said, stopping a step behind her.

She turned, startled at first, then curious. Her mask was lighter than his, silver trimmed with lace, her mouth soft and unpainted.

“Maybe I was,” she said, her tone even, teasing. “Or maybe I was waitin’.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Fer someone in particular?”

“Maybe,” she said again, her eyes bright with challenge.

He smiled, slow and careful. “Then I’ll take me chances.” He held out his hand. “Dance wi’ me.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to the nearly empty floor, then back to him. “And if I say nae?”

“Then I’ll wait here until ye say yes.”

A small laugh escaped her. “Persistent, are ye?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, weighing something he couldn’t possibly know, then placed her hand in his. “One dance,” she said.

He led her onto the floor. The music began again, softer now, slower. Aidan drew her close, careful at first. Her hand rested against his shoulder, light as breath, but he could feel the warmth of her through the layers of silk and linen, the faint tremor that wasn’t fear but anticipation.

They moved together easily, as if they’d done it before. She was smaller than he’d expected, but strong, balanced. Every step was a silent exchange—her challenge, his reply.

“Ye’re good at this,” she said quietly.

“Years o’ practice,” he murmured. “Keeps folk from askin’ too many questions.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Ye’re hidin’ from someone, then?”

“Everyone hides from someone.”

Her lips curved. “Mysterious.”

“Dangerous,” he corrected softly.

Her eyes flickered, the faintest shift of her expression betraying intrigue. “Should I be afraid o’ ye?”

“Aye,” he said, his voice low. “But ye’re nae.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. “And why would I be?”

He smiled faintly, his hand tightening at her waist. “Because I cannae decide if I want tae dance wi’ ye or steal ye away.”

Her laugh was soft, breathy, the sound of something fragile daring to live. “Steal me away? Ye dinnae even ken who I am.”

“That’s simple enough tae fix,” he said, his voice low, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Show me.”

She tilted her head, eyes bright beneath the silver mask. “And ruin the mystery so soon?”

“Aye,” he murmured. “I’ve never been fond o’ mysteries.”

“Then ye’re at the wrong sort of gathering,” she said, smiling now, her tone playful but her gaze steady on his. “It would defy the purpose o’ a masquerade, wouldnae it? I can be whoever ye want me tae be taenight.”

He stilled. There it was—that voice, that turn of phrase. He’d known it for years, long before tonight. Catherine MacDonald had never been a stranger to him; she had grown up in the same halls he’d walked with Tòrr, slipping in and out of council rooms with her sharp tongue and sharper wit. He remembered her standing beside her brothers during a meeting once, uninvited yet unbothered, arguing over a treaty she had no reason to defend, her eyes bright and unflinching as she told him he was too ruthless for his own good.

He hadn’t forgotten her then, and he knew he wouldn’t forget her now.

His heart gave a slow, heavy beat. Christ, it’s her.

He should have stepped back. Should have ended it there. Tòrr was a friend, near enough to a brother, and this was his sister. A MacDonald.

But when she looked up at him, her eyes wide beneath the mask, all reason burned away.

“What are ye thinkin’?” she asked softly.

“That I’ve made a mistake.”

She smiled faintly. “A bad one?”

“The worst kind.”

They kept dancing. Neither spoke for a while, the space between them humming with something neither of them dared name. Her hand brushed his chest once, light and accidental, and he thought it might undo him.

He wanted to ask her everything — what she was thinking, if she knew it was him, if she felt the same strange pull that he did. But he didn’t. He just memorized the way she moved, the curve of her neck, the sound of her breath when she laughed again.

When the song slowed to its final notes, she looked up at him. “Ye never told me yer name.”

He hesitated. “Would ye want tae ken?”

“Aye,” she said softly. “So I’ll ken who tae curse later.”

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then maybe it’s better ye dinnae ask.”

Her brow furrowed beneath the mask. “And if I asked anyway?”

He leaned close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath at her ear. “That would defy the purpose, wouldnae it?”

She drew back slightly, her lips parting in protest, but he was already stepping away, the space between them opening like a wound.

“A moment more,” she said quickly, reaching for his arm. “If ye willnae tell me yer name, then take off the mask.”

He froze. Every instinct in him screamed yes. He wanted her to see him, to see the man beneath the iron reputation, to see what she’d done to him with one glance. But he couldn’t.

“Temptin’,” he said finally, his voice low. “But nay.”

Her eyes searched his, and something flickering there. Frustration perhaps, maybe even hurt. “Then what was this, stranger?”

He looked at her for a long moment, memorizing every line of her face beneath the silver mask. “A mistake,” he said softly. “One I’ll nae forget.”

He turned and walked away before she could answer.

The music swelled again behind him, laughter spilling through the hall, but it all sounded distant. He stepped out onto the balcony, the cold air cutting through the heat still burning in his blood.

He braced a hand against the stone rail and let out a slow, uneven breath. He should have felt relief. He didn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her, the tilt of her smile, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her hand in his. He didn’t even know why he’d left. Maybe because staying would have meant losing control completely.

Below him, the gardens were lit by scattered torches, the night deep and quiet. Somewhere behind him, he heard the faint echo of her laughter again, and it twisted through him like a blade.

He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered a curse.

He’d meant to come to this gathering as a diplomat, a soldier, a man who knew his place. Instead, he’d found himself undone by a woman he wasn’t supposed to touch, one who would never even know it had been him.

And yet, as he turned to leave, he knew he’d see her again. The world was small, and his will too weak, for it to end there. He’d find her, not as a masked stranger, but as himself. And when he did, he’d finish what they’d started.

Aidan Cameron walked away from the light of the hall, the mask still on his face, the scent of her still clinging to him like sin.

One thing he knew for sure.

He would not forget her.

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One year later

The road wound through the valley like a ribbon of silver, the morning mist lifting slow and soft from the heather. Catherine held her cloak close as the wind teased at its edges, her cheeks flushed from the chill. The air smelled of pine and distant rain, and somewhere far behind them the faint sound of the river echoed through the glen.

They had been riding since dawn, and though she’d asked Aidan more than once where he was taking her, he had only smiled—that quiet, infuriating smile that told her she would learn when he wished her to.

“Ye’re enjoyin’ this far too much,” she said at last, pulling her hood lower as they crested a rise.

He gave a low chuckle, his voice rough with the cold air. “Maybe. I like keepin’ ye guessin’.”

She tried to look unimpressed, but the warmth in his tone made it impossible. Aidan Cameron rarely teased anyone, but with her, it came as natural as breathing. The past year had carved something gentler into him, quieter, as though the part of him that had once only known battle had finally found peace.

Peace. The word still felt strange to her sometimes. Achnacarry was whole again, its gates rebuilt, its people thriving. Tòrr had returned often, Michael too, and there had been laughter in the hall where once there had been only fire and shouting. And somehow, through it all, she and Aidan had learned to live as husband and wife. That thought made her smile, though she hid it quickly when he glanced over.

She had her own secret today, one he didn’t yet know. Every time she thought of it, her heart fluttered like a startled bird. But she would wait for the right moment. He had his surprise; she would have hers.

The trail narrowed as they reached the lower ridge, and through the mist ahead she saw the dark outline of stables and fencing. Horses. Dozens of them, moving like shadows across the pasture.

“Aidan,” she said, her voice caught between laughter and disbelief, “tell me ye didnae bring me all this way tae buy a horse.”

He didn’t answer at first, but the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. “I might’ve,” he said.

Catherine groaned, though she couldn’t quite hide her amusement. “Ye could’ve sent a man fer that.”

“Could’ve,” he agreed. “But then I’d miss seein’ the look on yer face.”

She tried to glare, but it melted into a smile before she could manage it.

By the time they reached the pens, the morning had brightened. A broad-shouldered man hurried out to greet them, wiping his hands on a rough wool coat. His bow was deep enough to suggest he knew exactly who he was speaking to.

“Me laird, me lady,” he said breathlessly. “A rare honor. Ye’ll find nay finer beasts than the ones bred here. Strong backs, steady temper—fit fer a king if it please ye.”

Aidan dismounted, handing the reins to one of the stable lads. “We’ll see.”

Catherine swung down beside him, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The merchant’s gaze flicked to her, polite but patronizing in that way some men had when they thought a woman’s interest in horses ended with a gentle mare and a fancy saddle.

“Perhaps somethin’ light fer the lady,” he said. “A palfrey, gentle-tempered. We’ve one that’d suit her fine hands.”

Aidan’s brow arched faintly, but he didn’t speak. Catherine did.

“I’m sure ye dae,” she said, voice sweet enough to make the merchant smile in relief. Then, after a beat: “But I’m lookin’ fer somethin’ wi’ fire. Somethin’ that bites back.”

The man blinked. “Beg pardon, me lady?”

She pointed toward the far end of the enclosure where a dark horse stood apart from the rest, tall and restless, its coat black as river stone. It stamped once, ears flicking, the tension in its body like a held breath.

“That one,” she said.

The merchant followed her gaze, then laughed nervously. “Och, nae that beast. He’s half-wild still. Near killed the last lad who tried tae bridle him. Nae fit fer ridin’ yet.”

Catherine’s lips curved. “So perhaps ye tried taming him wi’ fear instead o’ patience.”

Aidan’s low chuckle rumbled beside her. “I’d listen tae her. She’s near impossible tae argue wi’.”

The merchant looked between them, uncertain whether he was being jested with. “Me laird, I’d advise—”

“Ye’d advise me tae trust me wife,” Aidan said lightly. “Which I dae.”

The man opened his mouth, then shut it again, clearly deciding it was safer not to protest.

Catherine moved toward the fence, her steps slow and even. The dark horse tossed its head once, wary, then still again. She stopped a few feet away, keeping her voice low as she spoke, more to the animal than to the men watching.

“Ye’ve been penned too long, havenae ye?” she murmured. “Ye’ve forgotten the feel o’ open air. I ken that.”

The horse flicked an ear, the muscles along its neck tightening. Catherine waited.

Aidan leaned on the fence, watching with quiet amusement as the merchant whispered a hurried prayer under his breath.

Then the horse took one step forward. Then another. Its breath came out in a snort, white in the cool air. Catherine reached out a gloved hand, slow and steady, until her fingers brushed the rough line of its jaw. The animal shuddered once, then lowered its head.

The merchant made a strangled sound. “Saints preserve us.”

Aidan laughed, a deep, unrestrained sound that made her turn, smiling despite herself. “Told ye,” he said. “Impossible tae argue wi’.”

The merchant mumbled something about miracles and retreated toward the stables.

When they were alone, Aidan crossed the space between them, his arm brushing hers. “Ye’ve got a way wi’ beasts,” he said softly. “Even the wild ones listen tae ye.”

She smiled faintly, still stroking the horse’s neck. “Maybe because I married one.”

He chuckled, the sound low in his throat. “Careful, lass. I’m tame now.”

“I’ll believe that when ye start listenin’,” she said.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her temple. “I listen,” he murmured. “I just prefer me own way o’ hearin’.”

She laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “Ye’re impossible.”

“Aye,” he said. “And yet ye married me anyway.”

They stood like that for a long moment, the wind curling between them, the smell of hay and leather filling the air. The horse nudged Catherine’s shoulder once, almost playfully, before wandering off to graze.

When she turned back to Aidan, his gaze had softened in that way it only ever did when they were alone, with quiet warmth beneath all the rough edges.

“I like him,” she said. “He’s got spirit.”

Aidan nodded. “Aye. Reminds me o’ someone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ye’re flatterin’ yerself.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling now, the expression small but rare. “We’ll take him.”

They walked together toward the merchant’s booth, where the man was still muttering about cursed luck and fearless women. Aidan settled the payment easily, though the merchant’s hands shook as he counted the coins.

When it was done, Catherine lingered near the fence again, watching the dark horse toss its mane in the sunlight. Something about him, perhaps its strength or the refusal to bow, filled her with a quiet pride.

She turned back to Aidan, who was adjusting the reins of his own mount. “Perhaps,” she began lightly, “we should buy another.”

He looked up, one brow arched. “Another? Ye’ve barely chosen this one.”

She stepped closer, fingers twisting absently in her gloves. “Aye, but I was thinkin’… he’ll need company.”

“Company?” he echoed, amused. “Ye plannin’ tae start a stable now?”

Her smile faltered just enough for him to notice. “Nae exactly.”

Aidan’s expression softened. “Catherine?”

She took a breath, her voice quieter now, trembling at the edges. “The other one should be fer our bairn.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. The world seemed to still around them, all of it fading into silence.

When he finally looked at her, his eyes were wide, startled in a way she’d never seen before. “Our… bairn?”

She nodded, her throat tightening with emotion she could barely contain. “Aye. I was goin’ tae tell ye sooner, but I wanted tae let ye have yer surprise first.”

He stared at her for a long heartbeat, and then, for perhaps the first time in his life, Aidan Cameron forgot how to speak. His mouth parted, then closed again. When words finally came, they were little more than a whisper. “Ye’re certain?”

She looked up at him, through the tears gathering in her eyes. “Aye. I am.”

Something inside him broke open then like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He took her face in his hands, rough palms trembling as if he feared she might vanish.

“Christ, Catherine,” he said, his voice thick. “Ye’re tellin’ me I’m tae be a faither?”

“Aye,” she breathed. “If ye can manage it.”

That made him laugh, unsteady and disbelieving, before he pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, her cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the wild thrum of his heart beneath her palm.

He held her for a long time, his hand buried in her hair, his breath uneven against the crown of her head. “Ye’ve given me everythin’,” he murmured. “Things I didnae even ken I wanted.”

She looked up at him, her own tears falling now, though they came with laughter. “Ye’ve given me love, Aidan Cameron. That’s nay small thing.”

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching a tear as it fell. “Love,” he said softly, as though testing the word. “Aye. Maybe we’ve both earned it.”

She leaned into his touch, her heart so full she thought it might burst from the weight of it. “We’ll raise the bairn here,” she said. “Let him grow wi’ the glen and the wind and the sound o’ the river.”

“Him?” Aidan teased.

“Or her,” she said quickly, smiling through the blush that rose in her cheeks.

He laughed again, the sound low and warm and utterly real. “Whichever it is, they’ll be stubborn as sin.”

“Then they’ll fit right in,” she said.

He bent to kiss her then, a slow, tender kiss that tasted of sunlight and promise. When they finally drew apart, she could still feel the echo of it against her lips.

Aidan looked out toward the hills, his arm slipping easily around her waist. “We’ll build more stables,” he said absently. “A proper place fer the horses and the bairn’s pony both.”

She laughed, her head resting against his shoulder. “Ye’re already plannin’.”

“Aye,” he said. “A man’s got tae keep busy, else he starts thinkin’ too much.”

“Ye never stop thinkin’,” she murmured.

“Only when ye kiss me.”

She swatted at his arm, but he caught her hand and kissed her fingers before letting go.

They stayed there for a while, the two of them framed by light and open sky. The wild horse grazed quietly nearby, the valley stretching wide and green around them. It felt, to Catherine, like the world and everything in it was simply right.

She turned to him, her eyes soft. “Dae ye remember what ye did the day we wed?”

He looked down at her, his expression curious. “I did a great many things.”

She smiled. “Ye danced.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I did.”

“Well,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “Dance wi’ me now again.”

There was no music, only the wind and the soft thud of hooves in the distance. But Aidan drew her close anyway, his arm steady around her waist as they moved slowly across the grass. The sunlight caught in her hair, the glen opening around them like a promise kept.

Catherine closed her eyes, letting the quiet wash over her, feeling his hand, the warmth of his breath, the steady rhythm of his heart. She had thought once that love would be fire, fierce and consuming. But this peace, this warmth, this life they had built together was gentler and stronger than fire.

When she opened her eyes again, Aidan was smiling down at her, and she thought, not for the first time, that there was nothing in all the world she would ever want more than this.

Somewhere in the distance, the river sang. And as the sun rose higher over the valley, Catherine Cameron knew that home was not a place but a person. And she had found hers.

The End.

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