Page 62 of The Heather Wife
The next words caught behind his teeth. He thought of Duncan’s message—of Eoin MacAlasdair’s offer to come north. He wanted to tell her then, to see her face, to learn if the thought brought her peace or dread. But something held him. She’d been through enough. Another day or two would make no difference.
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes fixed on some far point in the hills. Then she drew a slow breath. “When ye said ye’d write him, I’ll not lie—I feared what he’d think. Feared how it might look.” Her gaze lifted to his. “But I’m glad ye did, Calum. Thank ye.”
He said nothing at first, only met her eyes and nodded once. “It was past time he heard good of ye again.”
Her hand rose, hesitating a moment before finding his. Their fingers laced together, the warmth of her skin grounding him more than any words. She held on a heartbeat longer than she meant to, then let her hand slip free. Before he could speak, she leaned in and brushed a kiss to his cheek—light, fleeting, but enough to leave him still as stone.
“For that,” she murmured. “And for savin’ me.”
Calum’s throat worked, the words caught there. “Ye’ve saved me in turn,” he managed, rough but honest.
Her lips curved faintly—neither smile nor denial, something softer in between. “Then we’re even,” she said.
A shout rang across the yard, and Sorcha turned toward the sound. Duncan and Katherine stood near the training circle, their heads bent close as they spoke. Duncan was grinning like a fool; Katherine’s cheeks were pink as winter apples. Sorcha’s lips lifted in a quiet smile.
“She told me Duncan went to her brother,” Sorcha said softly, her gaze still on them. “To ask proper leave to court her. Brave of him—and braver still of her, to let him.”
Calum followed her gaze. “She’s strong,” he said.
“Aye,” Sorcha murmured. “Strong, and unashamed of it. I’m proud of her—and of the others. The women and lads who’ve chosen to learn, to fight. To no’ be helpless, even when the world expects them to be.” She looked back at him then, eyes bright with quiet fire. “It matters, Calum. All of it.”
He reached for her hand again, just brushing his fingers to hers. “Aye,” he said. “It does.”
“They had a fine teacher,” he added quietly.
Her eyes flicked toward him. “Flattery ill becomes a laird with stitches.”
“Truth never hurts,” he said lightly. “Not half so much as arrows.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Mind ye don’t test either.”
“I’ll try.”
They stood a while in the cold, the keep alive around them—hammer strikes, laughter, the distant bark of a dog. For once, silence between them felt easy.
Finally Sorcha drew a breath. “I’ll walk the parapet before nightfall.”
“I’ll have Duncan double the southern watch.”
She gave a short nod and moved off, calling orders as she went. Calum watched her climb the wall steps, the plaid at her shoulders stirring in the wind, the last of the sun catching its threads like gold.
He lingered in the doorway long after she vanished from sight, his mind circling back to the message Duncan had delivered. Sorcha’s father, here—at Strathloch. The thought was a weight and a wonder both. He’d tell her soon. But not yet.
The wound would mend. So would Strathloch.
And maybe, just maybe, so would they.
Chapter 46
Sorcha
The days after the raid had blurred into one another—work and rest, frost and fire. Yet life at Strathloch had begun to move again, like a wheel catching its turn.
The bleating of sheep carried across the yard, echoing off the stone walls. The herds had been brought down from the high glens, crowding the pens that ringed the lower field. Fires burned in shallow pits near the keep, smoke rising thin and sharp with the scent of peat and wool. Winter was upon them, but the folk of Strathloch moved with calm purpose—voices low, footing sure. There was much to be done, and everyone knew their task.
Sorcha spent her days between the yard and the healers’ hall, helping where she could. Two nights past, she had aided the midwife in a difficult birth. The mother had lived, but the bairn—small, still, and far too early—had not. She’d washed the tiny body herself, whispering prayers through tears that wouldn’t stop. The grief had hollowed her, raw and wordless, a reminder of all she’d lost before. Three bairns gone in her time at Strathloch, and five—one including both mother and babe—buried back in Glenbrae. Such losses never left. They simply lived quiet in the bones.
That night, she’d gone out to the walls after the healer had declared nothing more could be done, needing air. The moon hung pale above the hills, the stars clear and cold as cut glass. She’d sat there for hours, cloak drawn close, staring out across the dark glen until her eyes ached.
