Page 47 of The Heather Wife
—but none came.
When she lifted her head, Calum was kneeling where moments ago she had been standing. The arrow jutted from his chest.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent—only the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears. Then it shattered.
“Liam!” she screamed, voice breaking with rage and disbelief. Across the field, she watched him—bow still raised, eyes wide with shock. His hands fumbled as he reached for another arrow, panic spilling across his face.
Without thought, Sorcha snatched one of her own, drew, and loosed in a single breath. The arrow flew straight and true, moonlight flashing along the shaft as it struck home.
Liam staggered, the shaft driving deep into his throat. His bow slipped from his grasp as he crumpled soundlessly into the cold, trampled grass.
Sorcha turned back to Calum. He had sunk to one knee, his sword still clutched tight, blood spreading dark across his shoulder and chest.
“Calum!”
She dropped beside him before she could think, pressing a hand to the wound where the arrow jutted from his shoulder. Blood welled hot and fast against her fingers, slick and real and terrifying.
He grimaced, teeth bared. “It’s naught—just a graze.”
“Liar,” she hissed, her voice shaking. “Hold still.”
Her hands pressed against the wound, slick and trembling, as if she could will the blood to stop with sheer fury alone.
Around them, Strathloch’s men surged forward, shouts and steel clashing against the raiders’ retreat. Somewhere, someone was calling for the healer.
Calum’s gaze found hers, the edges of his breath turning white in the cooling air. “Ye’re safe,” he said, voice rough.
“Because of ye,” she whispered. “Fool man.”
His eyes softened, even through the pain. “Aye. But I’d do it again.”
Something in her broke at that—a soundless crack beneath her ribs.
Suddenly a scream tore through the chaos. Sorcha’s head snapped up at the sound.
“My boy!” Marion Dunn stumbled from the shadows, her skirts torn, her face contorted with horror. She fell to her knees beside her son, wailing—but then her gaze lifted, finding Sorcha through her tears. Hatred flared, sharp and bright. “Ye’ll pay for this!”
She surged to her feet, charging across the field with a knife in hand, grief twisting into rage.
Sorcha rose, moving toward her—but Duncan was faster. He caught Marion’s wrist mid-swing, twisting until the blade fell with a thud to the ground. She fought like a wild thing, kicking, clawing, shrieking, her grief spilling over into madness.
“See to her,” Sorcha said coldly, never lifting her hand from Calum’s wound. “I’ll no’ make the mistake of granting mercy again.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened, his voice rough with breath. “A shame,” he said. “I’d have liked to see her hang afore the whole clan for her treachery.”
He set his stance, fingers firming on the hilt. “But some wickedness asks for swifter justice.”
Then he drove his blade clean through Marion’s chest. She gasped once—a ragged sound—then sagged against the steel and went still, her blood dark against the frost.
Sorcha turned back to Calum. He was sagging forward now, his strength fading. She pressed her hands around the arrow shaft, eyes darting over the wound.
“Hold fast,” she breathed. “I’ve got ye.”
He tried to speak, but she cut him off. “Save your breath, Calum.”
Her fingers fumbled at her belt before finding the hilt of her dirk. She drew it with a sharp breath and cut through his tunic. The fabric parted cleanly, and the sight beneath made her stomach twist—the wound was deep, ugly, and bleeding far too fast. She gripped the arrow’s shaft at its base and snapped it near the wound, her palms slick with his blood. Calum hissed but did not cry out. She tossed the fletched end aside, heedless of where it fell, and pressed her cloak hard against the wound, her hands trembling as the night around them fell to an awful stillness.
Her throat burned as she leaned her weight into the pressure, praying to staunch the flow—to hold what life he had left inside him. Around her, the din of battle dimmed to the rustle of wind and the far-off clatter of retreat.
