Page 6 of The Heather Wife
The words struck like a blow—unexpected, unearned, and final.
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
She’d come with no illusions. She knew this marriage wasn’t hers to choose. But part of her—a silly, naive part—had hoped there might be a beginning. A shared purpose. A kindness. Even a glimmer of more. It had been so long since she’d felt cared for.
Instead, she’d been dismissed before she’d even spoken.
“I understand completely,” she said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She saw the flicker of surprise on Calum’s face. It didnae move her.
Sorcha dipped into another curtsy. This one lower. Measured. Then she turned and left the solar without a word.
She did not speak again until it was time to leave.
She waited in the stone hall, seated on a carved bench, hands folded, spine straight. She heard footsteps before she saw him—a step heavier than most, the sound uneven.
“Lady Sorcha,” came a voice she hadnae heard in years.
She looked up to find Laird MacRae, older than she remembered, his hair gone white at the temples. The sleeve of his left arm was pinned neatly at the shoulder. Her father had told her of the loss. Seeing it now brought the memory sharply into focus.
“My lord,” she said, rising and curtsying once more.
He smiled faintly and offered a respectful bow of his head. “Your father speaks well of you. We’re glad to welcome you to Strathloch.”
The words might have meant something—had she not already been greeted by cold stone and silence. Still, she offered a polite nod. And when it was time, she walked to the courtyard to begin her journey home.
As the carriage door opened and the step was lowered, Sorcha gathered her skirts and paused, glancing back at the keep. The sliver of hope she’d carried with her to Strathloch had been well and truly extinguished.
She donned the only armour she had.
Her expression smoothed to calm, her shoulders squared. The stony mask settled in place.
She stepped into the carriage without another look back at the place that would be her home in two short years.
And as she was taken back to Glenbrae, the foolish, fragile muscle in her chest—the one that had dared to hope—began to harden.
Because Calum MacRae had already made his choice.
And she vowed then and there… she would never soften her heart to him again.
Chapter Three
MacRae Keep, Strathloch
Sorcha MacAlasdair – Age Eight and Ten
Sorcha stood before the mirror, smoothing invisible creases in her gown.
She supposed she looked fine enough. Bonny, even. Back home, the lads in her clan—her brothers’ friends included—had often said so. Tresses of deep auburn, eyes the clear grey of a Highland loch at dawn. Her mother had once been called bonny too—her hair a deep red, her gaze just as pale and piercing. Folk oft said Sorcha was the very image of her at eighteen.
But her husband didna seem to notice.
She’d met him twice before the wedding. Both times, he’d looked at her like a spoiled hound he’d been ordered to feed.
At their first meeting, he’d barely offered a greeting before mentioning another woman.
“She is the wife of my heart,” he’d said, as if quoting some bloody tragic play.
Then, “You and I—this is only a matter of obligation.”
