Page 67 of The Heather Wife
Calum watched from the steps, his hand straying to his chest where the arrow had gone in. The ache there was faint now—more memory than pain—but it kept him mindful. The healer had told him he’d been a hand’s-breadth from certain death, a breath away from losing everything he’d only just begun to rebuild with Sorcha.
Their marriage, once bound by duty, had become something far truer. What they shared now felt deeper than vows or name—it was a closeness he’d never known before, not even with his father or his oldest friends. Each morning he woke beside her, he gave silent thanks that he still could—that he’d been granted the chance to see what life might be, with her in it.
The call came from the gate before he saw them. Riders. Glenbrae colors.
He straightened instinctively. The guard at the gate hailed him, and then, through the drift of snow, he saw the man himself.
Eoin MacAlasdair rode as though the years had weighted his spine but not his pride. He swung down from the saddle with measured care, and when he looked up, Calum saw the same sharp grey eyes Sorcha had—though his held more steel than warmth.
“Laird MacRae,” Eoin greeted when they met halfway across the yard. His voice carried the tone of a man who expected respect and seldom gave it first.
“Laird MacAlasdair,” Calum returned evenly. “Ye’re welcome at Strathloch. The fires are lit, and there’s ale enough to thaw the road from ye.”
Eoin nodded, brushing snow from his cloak. “Ye’ve my thanks.”
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him—
and there she was.
Sorcha stood at the top of the steps, still as stone, her breath catching in the cold air.
Calum saw the moment it struck her—the sharp inhale, the flicker in her eyes before she forced herself to move. The space between them seemed to still, too fragile for the noise around them.
Her father took her in with a look that said he hadn’t known what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this.
She came down slowly. “Father.”
Eoin’s mouth worked before words came. “Sorcha. You look well.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Calum placed his hand at the small of her back in silent reassurance that he was there, then looked to Eoin.
“We’ll see ye inside,” he said. “There’s warmth in the hall—and ale waitin’ in the solar, if ye’ll join me.”
Duncan, standing nearby, inclined his head. “This way, Laird Eoin. The fire’s been kept lit.” He fell into step beside him, guiding the older man toward the keep.
As they went, Calum let his hand fall from Sorcha’s back, then immediately reached for her hand. Their fingers threaded together, warm and sure, before he lifted it to his lips for a soft kiss.
“Come,” he murmured, drawing her toward the hall.
The warmth met them at once—firelight and laughter spilling through the doors, voices rising like music against the stone.
With their hands still joined, Calum kept her close as they crossed the floor. He steered them toward the far wall, where Katherine sat with Agnes and Morag, her face bright as she spoke of her coming wedding.
He paused beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be but a moment, love,” he murmured near her ear. “There’s talk I’d best have with your father first.”
She looked up, warmth in her eyes, and gave a small nod. “Go, then. I’ll keep your place.”
Calum smiled faintly, then straightened and signaled to a servant. “Bring ale to the solar.” The servant hurried ahead while he turned toward the stair.
By the time he reached the upper landing, the familiar creak of the old door echoed down the corridor. The fire had already been stoked. When Calum entered, Eoin was there—standing near the hearth, warming his hands.
Moments later, they sat before the fire, mugs in hand. The storm outside whispered against the shutters; the glow within was low and amber.
Eoin studied the room before he spoke. “Ye’ve a fine keep, MacRae. Well run. Your people seem content.”
Calum smiled faintly. “Aye. Thanks in no small part to your daughter.”
