Page 11 of The Heather Wife
Because it was easier to bear blisters and bruises than the quiet shame of how they looked at her here—her new clan, the folk she was meant to serve.
They didnae want her.
Didnae see her as one of their own.
Just a highborn bride, bartered off to stitch together peace and land.
Calum's precious Elspeth was one of them. She worked hard—or seemed to—taking credit for Sorcha's efforts and being praised as the true Lady of the keep.
It felt all too familiar.
Back home, her own clan had seen her value only in what she could offer—until her eldest brother wed, and his young bride took up the mantle of Lady MacAlasdair. The people had embraced the newcomer with open arms, as ifSorcha's time had quietly come and gone.
No one had spoken the words aloud, but Sorcha had heard them all the same: her place had shifted.
Now, in a new clan, among strange folk, with a husband who didnae want her and a keep that resented her, she was beginning to wonder—
Had she ever belonged anywhere at all?
They whispered that Calum was born of war and sorrow. That his mother, the Laird's wife, had died bringing him into the world. That grief had near hollowed his father, and Calum had been reared more by warriors and steel than a mother's arms.
Sorcha didnae ken if that was truth or tale, but she believed it—
Saw it in the way he carried himself. Alone even when surrounded. Always watching. Always calculating.
For a time, it seemed that might be the worst of it—the quiet cruelty, the bitterness from the servants, the way her husband wore indifference like mail.
But all of that changed one month after their wedding.
War came to her father's keep.
And the warriors of Strathloch were called to aid them in battle.
Sorcha stood at her window as the men gathered in the yard below, watching through the narrow pane of glass. Calum mounted his horse with the ease of long practice, dressed in riding leathers and armor half-fastened. He cast off his plaid with a flourish, slinging it across the saddle in a way that drew a cheer from the men nearby.
Elspeth was the one who handed him his sword. The one who adjusted his bridle and laughed at something he said.
Sorcha couldn't hear the words—but she saw the way Elspeth's hand lingered at his side. The way he let it. And whenhe turned to ride out, it was Elspeth who stood watching him go, her hair golden in the morning light, dabbing her face with a kerchief while waving as he rode from the keep.
Sorcha stepped back from the window.
She would not watch him ride away.
He belonged to the keep. To its folk. To the war.
And she would make certain never to forget that truth—not for a single heartbeat.
Chapter Six
Calum
He watched her from the far end of the great hall—chin lifted, back straight, every motion measured and still somehow defiant. She didn’t once look at him.
Not when they muttered curses beneath their breath. Not when she slipped near the larder—where someone had spilled water across the stones. Not even when Elspeth shoved her, sending the pot of stew from her hands to the floor with a dull thud, and the room turned on her like hounds scenting blood.
She said naught. Just cleaned the mess, her gown stained, her pride swallowed whole.
And still, she didna break.
