Page 48 of The Heather Wife
She had tended wounds before—too many. At Glenbrae, when raiders struck or a hunt went wrong, she had set her jaw and done what needed doing, her hands steady, her mind clear. But this was different. This was her husband. The sight of his blood on her hands, the ragged sound of his breath—it tore through her like nothing she had ever known. Her composure splintered; all she could think was that she could not lose him. Not now. Not like this.
“Duncan!” she shouted. “Get men—help me move him!”
He was beside her in moments, calling two of the warriors to help lift Calum. Together they raised him carefully, one man at each side.
“The healer’s readying the hall,” Duncan said. “We’ll carry him there.”
Sorcha nodded, unfastening her cloak and pressing it firmly against Calum’s wound before stepping close beside them as they lifted him. She stayed near as they made for the keep, her hands dark with his blood, her breath catching with every uneven step.
Halfway across the field, something made her look back. Moonlight spilled cold across the fallen—Marion and Liam lying side by side, their faces turned to the sky, eyes unblinking in death. For a heartbeat, Sorcha could not look away. The stars burned sharp above them, cruel in their brightness, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to what had been lost.
Her throat tightened. Let him live, she prayed—not for mercy, but for justice left undone. Please—let him live.
He had fought so hard, tried so fiercely to make things right between them. He still owed her his penance—his promise—to mend what he had broken.
Surely fate could not be so merciless as to take him now—not when he had only just begun to make amends. Not when she had only just begun to love him.
Chapter 41
Elder MacRae
The horn’s cry rolled through the keep—low, long, and terrible in its warning.
Domnhall MacRae rose from his seat by the hearth, the cane already in his grasp.
That sound was no false alarm. It was the voice of war—old and merciless—and he’d hoped never to hear it again since the raid on Strathloch near half a year earlier.
By the time he stepped out of the great hall, Strathloch had erupted into motion.
Men poured from the barracks, buckling leather and mail, blades catching firelight as they went.
But what gave him pause—what struck him square in the chest—was the sight beyond them.
Women.
They had not run to the keep to hide in the cellar, nor barred themselves inside their homes.
They filled the courtyard instead—armed.
Some bore the shortbows Sorcha had seen fitted in the armory months ago; others carried the training staves she had carved for them with her own hands.
No panic. No tears.
Only resolve.
“By the saints,” Domnhall murmured beneath his breath. “She’s forged them well.”
Elder MacFarlane came up beside him, face drawn but eyes fierce.
“Orders, MacRae?”
Domnhall lifted his cane, his voice cutting through the clamor.
“To the walls! Archers aloft! Any with staves—guard the gate! We hold ’til our laird returns!”
The women and men alike surged to obey, and the keep began to find its rhythm—the old rhythm of defense.
Flames bloomed along the ramparts as torches were lit.
