Page 13 of The Heather Wife
Calum tensed. “How so?”
“Letting yer wife be mocked under yer own roof. Letting her shoulder burdens not hers to bear, while folk watch and sneer. Ye think that makes ye look strong?”
Calum’s jaw clenched. “Ye knew when the wedding was arranged that I loved Elspeth. I told Sorcha plain—she’d be wife in name only.”
“Aye, and it was foolishness then, and worse now.” His father’s gaze turned sharp. “She’s yer wife. Lady o’ this keep. And when ye let folk treat her like less, they begin to think you’re less.”
Calum said nothing.
“She’s strong, that one. Stronger than half the men here. She’s done her duty—to her clan and now to ours—though we’ve shown her naught but contempt. And still she works. Still she endures. Mark me, lad—she’ll make ye strong, if ye let her.”
He took a slow sip from his tankard. “But lift up Elspeth at yer wife’s expense, and you’ll weaken the very spine of this household.”
At training the next morn, a rider galloped into the yard, the MacAlasdair crest bright on his cloak. The lad dismounted, breathless, and pressed a sealed missive into Calum’s hand.
War had come to the Highland lands.
A border feud had turned bloody, and Glenbrae’s allies were called to rise.
Strathloch would answer.
The call went out before midday. Horns sounded through the glen. Swords were drawn and whetstones passed. Armor oiled and straps pulled tight.
The great courtyard filled with men and kinfolk alike. Some jested. Some prayed. Some kissed their babes and clutched their lovers with quiet desperation.
Elspeth was there, of course—pressed against his side, straightening his cloak, placing a kiss on his cheek with trembling lips. Her hands lingered a little too long, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
As he prepared to ride, Elspeth fussed over his cloak and kissed his cheek, voice sweet and worried.
But Calum’s gaze drifted past her.
No Sorcha.
She didn’t come to see him off.
Didn’t offer a charm or a word or even a glance.
Didn’t fulfill even the thinnest thread of duty.
It was expected. Tradition. A farewell from one’s wife—spoken or not—was a blessing before war.
But she was nowhere.
And as Calum rode out at the head of Strathloch’s line, the weight in his chest pressed heavier than the blade at his back.
He told himself it was anger. Wounded pride.
Not disappointment.
But he wasna sure he believed it.
Chapter Seven
Sorcha
The days dragged on much the same—Sorcha toiled from dawn till dusk, overseeing the keep’s stores and servants, her hands roughened by work no lady ought to do. Yet no word of thanks crossed the halls, no friendly smile to warm her bones. Only sharp looks and whispers that chilled her more than the Highland winds.
Each night, when the last light had faded and the keep lay quiet but watchful, she slipped beyond the walls to the clearing hidden among the trees. There, beneath the silver moon, her sword flashed and sang in practiced arcs, her bowstring twanged sharp and true. Every ache in her limbs was a welcome dullness, a reprieve from the sharper ache that sat heavy on her heart.
