Page 8 of The Heather Wife
She could still feel the weight of the dagger in her palm. Still hear the sound of steel meeting flesh when she drove it into the man’s side—her mother’s blood still warm beneath her knees, the raider’s blood hot on her hands.
She hadn’t cried then, either.
After that day, her father and brothers had sworn she would never be helpless again.
Ewan had trained her with the longbow, patient and relentless. Fergus taught her the blade—gruff and proud when she knocked him back the first time. Even their father had joined in at times, his grief buried beneath hard purpose. A MacAlasdair might be many things—dutiful, clever, even political—but never defenseless.
She’d become something quiet and unshakable. Not hard, but honed.
They had shaped her for survival.
And now they had handed her to a man who wanted none of her strength. Only her silence.
Sorcha stood, smoothed her gown, and left the room.
She stood not long after, feigning fatigue. Tired of being gossiped about and ignored in equal measure, she’d made her excuses and retired early, slipping away from the revelry like a shadow at dusk.
That night, the fire burned low in the hearth of the bridal chamber, casting long shadows across stone. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air—a maid’s attempt at warmth and comfort.
Sorcha stood at the hearth, the flickering light catching the reddish-brown strands of her hair, lighting them like fire through honey. She didn’t move when Calum entered.
He tossed his plaid over the chair with careless hands and said, “Don’t mistake my presence here for anything more than duty. Whatever vows were spoken, this marriage is nothing to me. You are nothing to me.”
“You’ve made yourself clear,” Sorcha replied, her voice calm as still water.
He didn’t meet her eyes, but she felt him watching her—waiting for something. Anger, tears, pleading. Some sign of weakness.
She gave him none.
He poured himself a drink, then added, “You’ve your title now. Your borders are safe. Your clan’s secured. Congratulations.”
She said nothing. Didn’t even look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the fire.
“I suppose you expect me to thank you,” he said, his tone darkening. “Or fall in line.”
“I expect nothing,” she said simply. “You made your thoughts of me and our marriage known.”
“You mean when I said I didn’t want this?”
“Nay. ’Twas when you called me cold as stone. Pampered. More title than woman.”
He stiffened. He hadn’t realized she’d heard that.
“You needn’t worry,” she continued. “I will not compete for your affection. I will serve your people as is expected. I will not shame your house. But I will not beg for a place in it either.”
She crossed the room, lay on the far side of the bed, and turned her back to him.
“Sleep where you like,” she said softly. “But kindly don’t insult me in my own bed.”
A long silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving.
“We need only share this room tonight—for appearances’ sake. Come morning, I’ll move to my own chamber. We’ll be husband and wife in name only, as you’ve reminded me so often.”
He didn’t reply.
She heard the shift of his boots. The scrape of the door latch. The faint click as it closed behind him.
She lay still, the fire’s warmth brushing her back like a whisper.
