Page 17 of The Heather Wife
Sorcha met her gaze, cold and sharp as the sword in her hand.
"Well, Elspeth. It seems you've earned the cell beside this weasel."
Later, in the cold dark of the dungeon, Elspeth sat slumped on the floor, knees to her chest.
Just across the corridor, the sly raider hummed, tuneless and smug.
From the shadows beyond the bars, Sorcha's voice echoed—low, steady, and laced with fury.
"Treason ill becomes you, Elspeth. I'd say your stay will be short, but until Calum and the men return from battle, this cell's your only hearth."
Elspeth said nothing.
The cold chill of the dungeon was a world away from the warmth of the fire she had sought in the great hall. She leaned her head back against the damp wall and closed her eyes.
All her careful plans, her whispered lies, her sweet-tongued manipulation—it had all unraveled in a single, bloody night.
The truth settled like a stone in her chest, heavy and unyielding.
She had lost.
Chapter Nine
Elder Domhnall MacRae
They had lost five clansfolk during the attack—their bodies wrapped and ready for burial by the time the sun began to rise over Strathloch. Elder MacRae stood at the crest of the hill beyond the kirk, watching smoke drift from half-doused fires and shattered thatch. The scent of damp earth, blood, and old grief lingered in the morning air.
The young were digging out what was left of the granary. The old tended the wounded. And Sorcha—somewhere in between—moved where she was needed, one moment stitching a wound, the next soothing a weeping child. Even now, with her arm bandaged and blood crusting her sleeve, she worked tirelessly. An arrowhead hadn't passed clean through, and removing it had been brutal. Still, she had gritted her teeth and kept going. She was truly the Lady of their clan.
And the rest—those who once whispered about the MacAlasdair girl in corners and behind closed doors—were silent now, their eyes cast downward.
Domnhall inhaled sharply, his shoulders aching with age and regret. He had been Laird for many years, had seenmany battles and buried his share of kin. But this—this betrayal—felt heavier. He acted as Laird in Calum's stead now, while Calum was still away, assisting Glenbrae in their feud.
Too far away. Too long gone. And in his absence, his people had bled.
"We've three of the raiders alive," Fergus, one of his oldest friends and most loyal soldiers, reported grimly. "And the guard who abandoned his post at our border's eastern entrance. Confessed it clean. Said he was paid, and promised the MacAlasdair harlot would be killed. Seems half the clan had the wrong idea about our new Lady MacRae."
"And Elspeth's brother?"
Fergus nodded. "Ran when the fighting started. Thought we wouldn't notice. Found him hiding not far from here hours ago."
His lip curled. "He had a blade on his hip, polished and unused."
Elder MacRae grunted. Cowardice often hid behind a silken tongue and velvet cloak.
By midday, their dead were buried and the truth dragged out: bribery, betrayal, and cowardice. As they understood it, Elspeth and her brother had bartered their people's safety for coin and the illusion of power. The guard had sold his loyalty for a handful of silver. The raiders had been told there would be no resistance, that the clan was docile and so long as Sorcha was killed they were free to raid their stores.
And they hadn't even spoken to Elspeth yet. She still sat in the cell below the keep.
Unrepentant. Silent. Waiting for someone else to clean her mess—as always.
They hadn't counted on Sorcha.
In the days that followed, the mood shifted. First came the whispers—not of shame, but of awe.
"She stood her ground with a sword in her hand and three men dead at her feet."
"Took an arrow through the arm and didn't even falter."
