Page 60 of The Heather Wife
Duncan clasped his forearm lightly — careful of the wound — and rose. “Rest easy, my laird. Strathloch’s in good hands.”
Calum managed a nod. “See that it stays that way.”
When he was gone, the room felt still again — but no longer empty.
He leaned back against the pillows, his hand resting absently over the bandage at his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath. The pain was there, but it no longer ruled him.
The latch turned softly, and Sorcha stepped back inside, hair damp and clean, the scent of soap and heather followingher. She looked wary, unsure, but her eyes softened when they met his.
Calum smiled faintly. “Ye smell less like battle now.”
“Ye smell worse,” she said, arching a brow.
He laughed, wincing. “Fair enough.”
Her gaze flicked to the table, where the sealed letter lay. “Ye’ve been workin’.”
“Aye. Sent word to Glenbrae.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “A few escaped into the hills. I’d not see them find safe ground in Glenbrae. Your father and his men should ken of the risk—and if they come across any sign, they’ll send word. I’ve promised we’ll ride to aid them if battle comes.”
He paused, his gaze steady on her. “I also made it known that you were the one who saved our clan—that Strathloch would be lost without ye.”
Something unspoken flickered in her eyes — a shadow of pride, pain, and disbelief all at once.
“I did what needed doin’,” she murmured.
He nodded. “Aye. As did I.”
A faint quiet stretched between them, the kind that neither hurt nor healed — simply was.
Then, softly:
“I’ve need of the brooch ye gave me, Calum,” she said after a moment, breaking the silence that hung between them.
He huffed out a laugh and lifted it from where it sat on the covers. He watched as she pinned it, securing his mother’s plaid once more across her shoulder. When she leaned back, her eyes lingered on the fire instead of him, the light catching in the clean sheen of her hair.
The silence between them was quiet, but not cold.
And for Calum, that was enough — for now.
Chapter 45
Calum
The keep had found its rhythm again.
Smoke rose thin from the smithy, men’s voices carrying across the yard. Winter pressed close now; the first snow had fallen in the night, soft and fleeting, melting slow beneath the morning sun. The air held the scent of cold earth and peat smoke, a promise of harder days ahead. The clang of hammers and the murmur of drills filled the days—not with fear, but with purpose.
Calum stood in the doorway of the great hall, one arm bound in a sling that crossed his chest. The healer said it would keep him from pulling at the stitches when he moved. It did—and served as a steady reminder of how close the arrow had come.
He drew a slow breath. It still hurt, but less than it had yesterday—and less again than the day before. Two weeks had passed since the attack. That morning, the healer had told him the stitches could soon be taken out, before smearing more of the sharp-smelling tincture she used to keep the wound clean and the flesh knitting true. Foul stuff, but it did its work.
Below, Sorcha crossed the yard with Duncan and Katherine at her side. The three moved as one—steady,purposeful. She’d taken back her place among them as though she’d never left it. Her hair was bound tight in a braid over one shoulder, her stride sure, her voice carrying clear as she set the next rotation for the wall watch.
The sight steadied him more than any tonic could. Still, a quiet ache settled in his chest that had little to do with the wound.
Duncan spotted him first and came forward, grinning. “Ye’re upright. The healer will have my hide for lettin’ ye stand so long.”
