Page 29 of The Heather Wife
Calum flinched, his face twisting, but Domhnall pressed on. His eyes burned with disappointment—deeper than anger, heavier than shame.
“She does not ask for your love. But she deserves your respect. And more than that—she has earned the clan’s. And yet… after all this… she still told them she would hear you. She still gave you a place beside her. A chance, lad. A chance you have not earned.”
His gaze locked with his son's, disappointment carved deeper than anger itself.
“I have told ye, time and again. A laird’s desires count for naught. His only duty is to his people. Not to himself. Not to his pride. Had ye acted as ye should, those three traitors—and the three invaders with them—would ne’er have lingered so long in our cells. Ye failed them, Calum. And worse—you failed her.”
For a heartbeat, silence reigned again. Calum’s jaw worked, but no words came.
He gave a final pat to his shoulder—half a gesture of guidance, half a release. His steps were slow as he turned from his son, descending the stair with the weight of years in his bones. The wind caught at his plaid, tugging it like the hand of fate itself. He did not look back.
Ye’ll make your own choice now, lad,he thought grimly as his boots struck stone.Mayhap my words will take root. Mayhap they’ll wither, like all else I’ve tried to plant in you.
At the mouth of the hall, where the stair met the stone threshold, several of the Elders waited. Domhnall crossed the courtyard to join them, his cane striking in steady rhythm as they spoke in low voices—already turning from judgment to duty, from fury to the work of rebuilding.
Behind him, Calum remained on the platform, the courtyard slowly emptying around him. The clang of the smithy picked up again in the distance; the murmur of the clan returning to its labors filled the air. The storm had passed—but the weight of what came next rested squarely on his shoulders.
He cast one final glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall, silent in prayer that his son might still learn what it meant to lead—not by birthright, but by heart.
Chapter 23
Sorcha
Some mornings hurt worse than others. Seeing Calum each day in the hall, or crossing the yard, was like pressing against a half-healed wound. He was her husband—by law, by vow—yet never once had he acted as though he wished to be. Never spoken the words that might have made it true. She had long since taught herself to keep busy, to fill her hours with the work of the keep, for in labor there was no space for longing. But at night, when sleep eluded her, the what-ifs came creeping in. What if he had chosen her? What if she had not been a pawn, a duty, a regret? Those thoughts gathered like shadows, and she woke to the dawn heavy-eyed and hollow.
Which was why, this morning, she bent over her porridge in the great hall, more tired than usual and grateful for even the small comfort of warmth in her belly. The bench dipped beside her, and she turned, startled, to find a woman easing down with care, one hand braced against the swell of her own.
Sorcha recognized her at once—Mairi MacLeish, the wife of Niall, the guard imprisoned for taking coin to let raiders slip across Strathloch's borders. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes rimmed red, and her breathing came shallow, as if the weight she carried pressed hard against her lungs.
The woman folded her hands atop her stomach and gave Sorcha a wavering smile. "Lady Sorcha... I was hoping to speak with ye before your day begins."
Sorcha set her spoon down—the porridge had gone cold anyway. Her own weariness fell aside as she straightened her shoulders, tucking her heartache deep where no one might glimpse it. Folding her hands atop the table, she prepared to bear the weight of another's grief. "Aye, Mairi, I offered to give an ear to any soul who wished to speak with me, and I’ll keep my word."
The words tumbled out in a rush. "Please... I beg ye. Exile my husband, if ye must, but spare his life. Let me go with him, wherever he is sent. He has done wrong, I will not deny it, but he is my husband, the father of the bairn I carry. To hang him would be to make me a widow and this child fatherless. Surely mercy may be found?"
The plea tore at Sorcha. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. "I ken your love for your husband," she said gently. "And I do not dismiss it. Exile may seem a kinder punishment, aye—but ye must remember..." Her gaze dropped briefly to the rough-hewn wooden table, worn smooth by years of use. "There are clansfolk who lost their loved ones because of his choice. One soldier—he lost both wife and bairn the night the raiders came; he returned from doing battle at Glenbrae to learn his hearth was empty. To the folk who lost their kin, no sentence short of death will ever be justice to them."
The woman's lip trembled, tears welling. "But no judgement will mend their hearts either," she whispered. "Death will not bring their loved ones back."
Sorcha closed her eyes for a heartbeat. The woman was right—yet so were the grieving. Whatever she decided, itwould cut someone to the quick. There was no path that would leave all content. Only the path that felt sound, that upheld both law and compassion, guided by the keep's ancient traditions and the will of Strathloch.
When she opened her eyes, her voice was calm, though her chest ached. "I cannot promise what judgement will fall. But I give ye my word: I’ll weigh it rightly. I willna let grief nor mercy alone blind me. Only justice."
The woman’s tears fell, but she bowed her head. "That is all I could ask."
The sound of footsteps echoed from the hall's entrance. Sorcha knew the first of the clan were gathering, waiting for her to rise and hear their voices. She reached out, laid a hand on Mairi's shoulder, and gave it a brief, reassuring squeeze. As a faint, gentle smile touched her lips, she murmured, her voice soft, "Take care of yourself, Mairi. It will do neither you nor your bairn any good to fret."
She then stood and turned to see the elderly woman Agnes, who worked in the kitchens, standing behind her. The early morning light spilled across the stone floor, gilding the hall in a soft warmth as Sorcha prepared to begin the day's duties.
"Agnes," she began, then straightened fully, leaving Mairi still sitting. "Let us walk while we talk. I’ve need to check on a mother who is expecting her bairn any day now, and the midwife is busy with another on the far side of the keep."
"Certainly, Lady Sorcha." Then Agnes reached over and took her hand, putting a warm oatcake wrapped in a handkerchief into it.
"That is for later—I ken ye tend to get so busy ye never return to eat until late in the eve, unless ye come to help serve supper."
"Thank ye, Agnes, for that. I appreciate your kindness. Come, tell me your thoughts on the matter at hand."
Then she raised her voice: "For any others who wish to speak with me, I am sure we’ll cross paths in the coming days, and we can speak then."
