Page 25 of The Heather Wife
That was when he noticed it—a large, worn log stood upright in the clearing, the bark stripped away, the wood nicked and scarred. A pell. A practice post.
She began swinging her sword in long, powerful arcs, the blade slamming into the post with unrelenting force. Each strike was smooth, deadly, punctuated by her sharp cries that echoed through the trees.
She was training. Alone. The moon hung high above, silvering the clearing like a watchful lantern.
He watched her for what felt like hours until she finally finished. Slipping the bow over her shoulder once more, she walked to each tree she had struck, retrieving her arrows and sliding them back into her quiver. She sheathed her sword, donned her cloak, and left the clearing as quietly as she had arrived.
Calum stepped from his hiding place, taking in the clearing—the practice post, the trees scarred with arrow strikes. Turning to the one he had hidden behind, he saw a circle carved into its trunk and the arrow hole perfectly centered within it.
Calum's jaw tightened. This wasn't the work of a woman idly passing the time or seeking a bit of exercise. This was discipline. Training.
And for what?
The Sorcha he'd dismissed as cold and unfeeling was not the one standing in this clearing. That woman was dangerous in ways he hadn't understood—and perhaps in ways he still didn't.
As the night closed in around him, he turned backtoward the keep, his questions pressing heavier than before. Whatever truth lay between them, he would find it. And this time, he would not turn away.
Chapter 17
Sorcha
The village bustled with the easy rhythm of work—the clang of the smithy and the chatter of women at the well carrying through the summer air. Sorcha moved through it all with her head down and her hands full, weaving between barrels and baskets as she answered greetings with a quick nod or smile. Every other breath brought a thank you—from those grateful for the extra bread, the mended roof, or her steady hand assisting with the birth of a bairn while the midwife tended another. She replied each time with the same quiet, "'Twas naught."
Children darted between the cottages, bare feet slapping the packed earth, their laughter rising above the hum of labor. Smoke curled from the chimneys, carrying the smell of peat and cooking meat. Sorcha took it all in with the faint ache of someone who belonged here in deed, yet not in name.
She knew Calum had followed her the night before.
Calum MacRae might have thought himself a ghost in the woods, his footsteps a whisper on the forest floor. He was wrong. To Sorcha's trained ear, his "stealth" was the clumsy crash of a fallen cairn—every rustle of a leaf, every creak of abranch, a loud announcement of his presence.
Since his return, Sorcha had caught glimpses of him about the keep and town—ever near, yet never close enough in manner to invite conversation. When their paths crossed, she acknowledged him with the same cool courtesy she afforded anyone else, and passed on. Once, she had felt his gaze linger as she hefted a pail at the well; another time, she caught him standing at the edge of the yard while she directed the younger lads carrying timber. She had no notion what he hoped to gain from watching her. Whatever it was, she prayed he had gained it—and would leave her be.
Once, at the evening meal, Calum entered the hall just as Sorcha was rising from the trestle bench. His shadow fell across the table as he paused, and he murmured a quiet, “Sorcha.” The sound of her name in his voice twisted something deep in her chest. But she only inclined her head, gathered her trencher, and stepped aside before the silence between them could turn into words.
She did not trust Calum and wondered what fate he intended for the traitors and criminals locked in the keep's dungeon. Now that he had returned, she knew the moment of reckoning was near.
She had been at Strathloch for close to four months, and though she had sent a letter weeks after her arrival, no word had come from her father or brothers. She told herself they had been occupied with the border skirmish that had called Calum and his warriors to their aid, yet in truth, she held little hope they would reach out now.
Her mind turned often to Glenbrae—its high stone walls, the sound of her brothers’ laughter in the training yard, her father’s booming voice at supper. The memories should have been a comfort, but more often they cut, reminding her that she was far from home, and perhaps forgotten.
She was weary—wearied of being seen and valued only when it suited others, as if she were a pawn on another's chessboard, caught in a game she neither chose nor wished to play. Once Mairead had married her brother, become Lady MacAlasdair, and taken over Sorcha's duties, there had been no reason for them to miss her. In their eyes, she had lost all value.
When she sat to eat her midday meal, a young woman who worked as a laundress in the keep—whom Sorcha had helped with her chores a few times—settled on the bench beside her. They began to eat in companionable silence; folk were accustomed to Sorcha's quiet presence. From the corner of her eye, Sorcha noticed the lass glancing at her from time to time. She recalled her name—Katherine.
At length, Sorcha set down her knife and spoon, offering the girl a small, polite smile. "God's blessings, Katherine."
Katherine looked up, a beautiful smile blooming on her lips. "Hello, Lady MacRae. How fare ye this day? I hope ye'll not mind me sitting with ye." Her words tumbled out in a quick rush, and Sorcha noted the slight nervousness in her manner.
"You may call me by my given name, Katherine," Sorcha replied with a gentle tilt of her head. "I'm well, thank ye for asking. How are ye? Is aught amiss?"
"I'm doing very well, thank you," Katherine said, then hesitated before adding, "I was wondering... I've seen how skilled ye are with your bow. I asked my own brother to teach me—and few are better with a bow than he—but he told me it was a man's skill. Would ye... might ye teach me sometime?"
Sorcha studied her for a moment. "Ye would learn the longbow?"
Katherine nodded her assent. "Aye. The way ye defended everyone—I would like to be able to help if not as well as ye, should such a thing happen again, when most of the keep's warriors are away."
"My brothers taught me out of necessity when our keep was attacked when I was young," Sorcha said, then gave a small nod. Her gaze softened, just a little, as she remembered the weight of the bow in her child’s hands, the ache in her arms as she pulled it back for the first time, the terror and determination mingled in her chest. "I will be happy to teach ye. If ye're able to begin this eventide, meet me at the front of the keep after the change of guards at nightfall—and wear comfortable garb."
Her face brightened, relief and excitement mingling in her expression. “Thank ye, Lady—Sorcha. I’ll be there.”
