Page 64 of The Heather Wife
“I’ll keep it close,” he whispered, the words brushing her lips as they formed.
And then he kissed her.
The touch stole every thought from her mind. His beard rasped softly against her skin, tickling her cheeks, but his lips—God above—were softer than she’d imagined. He tasted faintly of whisky and smoke, warmth and breath. The fire crackled, and for a moment it felt as though the world itself stilled to listen.
He cupped her waist, drawing her closer until her body met his. She rose onto her toes, her hands finding his shoulders, then the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the dark strandsof his hair. He bent lower, bracing her by laying his arm across her waist, and she pressed closer still, caught between his strength and the tremor in her own heart.
Then she felt his tongue trace the seam of her mouth—light, questioning. She gasped at the shock of it, the strange, wonderful heat that followed. When his tongue slid against hers, the sound that escaped her throat was soft and helpless.
Mairead’s words came back to her then, half-whispered on a long-ago night: “Kissing’s a dangerous thing, Sorcha—it’ll make ye forget your own name if ye’re not careful.” She understood now.
His hand tightened at her back, not with urgency, but with something deeper—need, reverence, fear of losing what he’d only just regained. And she was drowning in him, in the heat and the closeness, until breath itself seemed a thing she no longer needed.
When at last the kiss broke, they stayed close, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the dim light.
For a time, neither spoke. Then Calum’s hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ye taste of forgiveness—and mine,” he whispered.
Her lips trembled—not quite a smile, not yet. “Then it’s well ye’ve found it,” she murmured. “Because I forgive ye, Calum.” Her gaze softened, steady. “Truly.”
His eyes closed for a moment, and a faint smile touched his mouth. “Truly, Sorcha? I do not deserve such grace.”
“It’s my forgiveness to give,” she said quietly, “and I’ll give it when I feel it right.”
A small smile curved his lips. “Ye’ll ruin me if ye keep talkin’ like that.”
She huffed a soft laugh, the sound rough but warm. “Aye. Maybe I will.”
He laughed then—a real laugh, low and trembling but alive. She joined him, and the sound eased the ache in both their chests.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and silent, blanketing the yard below and smoothing away every mark of battle.
Inside the solar, they stayed where they were, wrapped in firelight and the slow, steady rhythm of each other’s breath—two souls no longer lost, but finally finding their way home.
Chapter 47
Sorcha
Winter had deepened its hold over Strathloch. The hills lay white beneath a sky the color of pewter, and every breath hung visible in the air like smoke.
It had been nearly a month since Calum sent word to Glenbrae, granting her father leave to visit for Yuletide. Word had finally returned confirming the visit, and her father was due to arrive within a fortnight for the Yuletide. The thought of seeing him again stirred something fragile inside her—a mix of longing, fear, and quiet hope.
Life within the keep had settled into a rhythm she cherished. She and Calum worked side by side now—sharing the morning councils, reviewing the guard rotations, breaking bread together each night. Some evenings they sat before the hearth until the candles burned low, speaking of everything and nothing—the clans, the harvest, the stubborn mule that refused to be shoed, and once, softly, of her mother’s laughter.
Sorcha had never known peace like this. Her heart was full. And yet, some small part of her still ached.
The ache sharpened when Duncan and Katherine stood before the clan that morning, hands joined, faces alight with pride and joy. Duncan had asked for her hand, and Katherinehad granted him her troth. Their vows were simple and earnest, but when they kissed to seal the promise, the hall erupted in cheers.
Sorcha had clapped with the rest, truly glad for them both—but as she watched her friend blush and lean into Duncan’s touch, a different kind of longing bloomed low in her chest. Not envy—never that. But yearning.
She wanted more than duty and quiet companionship. She wanted the rest of what life could offer—the closeness, the warmth, the promise of shared breath and heartbeat.
Her gaze had drifted then, to where Calum stood speaking animatedly with Duncan and Domnhall near the fire. The firelight threw gold across his face, catching in his hair and outlining the sharp line of his jaw. He was laughing—freely, boyishly—and the sound made her heart twist in a way that frightened and comforted her all at once.
She made her choice then. She would speak with him that evening.
The feast ended late, the great hall still echoing with the remnants of laughter and music. Calum offered his arm as they walked the corridor toward her chamber, the quiet between them companionable. The torches along the wall burned low, and their shadows stretched long over the stone.
When they reached her door, she hesitated.
