Page 22 of The Heather Wife
The laird's expression was weary, lined deeper than Calum had ever seen. "Much has been lost, son," he said grimly. Then, quietly, he added, "We unknowingly had traitors in our midst—but by God's mercy, much has been spared."
Calum's jaw tightened. "Traitors?" His voice cracked like a whip, hot anger rising to meet his father's calm, though his father had tried to speak softly, Calum's voice rose, attracting attention. "Who in hell would sell out their own blood? Was it Sorcha? Tell me the lass hasn't tricked ye all while I was away!"
Elder MacRae stepped toward him, his mouth opening to speak, but a woman's voice rang clear from the gathered folk. "Ye know naught of what ye speak, Calum MacRae!" she cried, fierce despite the tremor in her tone. Calum's eyes narrowed at the lack of title, the blatant disrespect striking sharper than any blade—but the woman did not flinch. Instead, she drew herself up straighter, chin high, her voice unwavering as she went on. "Lady Sorcha was heaven-sent that night. While three of our own fed us to the wolves, she stood blade in hand, defending our clansfolk. Without her, we'd have buried at least twice as many."
Murmurs of agreement rolled through the crowd, heads nodding, voices whispering Sorcha's name with reverence.
His father’s voice, rising to address the people gathered in the courtyard, cut like a blade.
"The names of those who betrayed us—who paid Niall MacLeish to abandon his post and opened our gates to murderers—are Elspeth and Liam Dunn.
The words slammed into Calum like a physical blow. He staggered a step, shaking his head, unable to reconcile the names with the betrayal they carried. "Elspeth?" he rasped, bewildered. "Nay... ye've got it wrong, Da. She wouldna... she couldna..."
"She did," the laird said grimly, unflinching. "And five of our folk lie cold in their graves for it. Good men and women paid the price for their treachery." His jaw worked. "Elspeth sits in the cells below this keep alongside her brother, the guard that deserted his post, and the surviving raiders, awaiting our Laird's judgment."
Calum turned his head, scanning the crowd. He saw it now—the quiet shift in their eyes, no longer proud nor welcoming, but a heavy mix of pity and silent scorn. Their loyalty had moved to his wife, firm and unshaken, while whispers of betrayal clung to the woman he silently supported by allowing her and others to mistreat his wife.
The world felt unsteady beneath his boots, everything he thought he knew tilting out of reach. The woman he'd trusted had betrayed his clan. The wife he'd doubted had stood loyal. And now, his own name was stained by the very lass who'd deceived them all.
His father let the silence linger before clapping him once more on the shoulder, quieter this time. "Come, lad. We've warriors to console, and then much to discuss."
They crossed the yard together. The laird first approached the warrior Calum had noticed earlier—the man who'd left with many cheering him off but had returned to nogreeting. His father laid a hand on the man's arm as the warrior fell to his knees, grief carved deep into his face.
"We grieve with ye," the laird said solemnly. "Your wife and wee son are sorely missed. I'll take ye to where they rest, when ye're ready."
Calum swallowed hard, words thick in his throat as he offered his own condolences, moving to another man whose brother had fallen that night, then a young lad whose sister—his only remaining family—had been among the slain. Every name was another blow, the weight of what had happened settling on his shoulders like a mantle of stone.
At last, when there were no more to speak to, Calum turned to his father. "I need to wash the road and battle from me," he said quietly, voice raw and thick. "And then I'll face them—the ones in the cells. I'll hear every damned word with my own ears... and then, Da, decisions will have to be made."
The laird met his gaze and nodded once. "Aye, son. Ye'll have your reckoning soon enough."
Chapter 14
Sorcha
The clang of the bell rang faintly through the keep, the signal that the warriors had returned. Sorcha paused, her fingers pressed into the heavy barley dough she was working. A few of the women in the kitchen left their posts at the bell's ringing, but many just continued with their work. The steady murmur of voices and the crackle of the hearth surrounded her. The smell of the stew for supper and smoke clung to the air, heavy and warm, though a draft crept under the door carrying the chill of autumn and the distant sound of boots thudding in rhythm.
When someone stuck their head in from outside to announce the men had arrived, Sorcha did not move. Why should she? The returning warriors would find their families, their loved ones. Calum would hear soon enough what had happened in his absence—and no doubt his fury would come for her.
She could already picture it: his accusations flung like blades, his eyes hard with disbelief, refusing every truth she might offer. Elspeth's poison had once been enough to blind him to the woman he'd wed. Sorcha doubted time had changed that. Her stomach tightened at the thought of his voice, sharp and cold, dismissing her in front of his folk as hehad before. She forced her hands back to the dough, digging her knuckles in as though she could bury the memory deep in the grain. The coarse meal scraped her reddened skin, stinging, but she welcomed the bite—it was easier to endure pain she could see than the ache that twisted inside her.
She pushed the thought away and kept working, kneading with sharp, precise motions. Seven flat rounds of barley bread lined the board, another three waiting for the oven. Bread had been a simple comfort for many these past weeks, and she made certain there was always enough. Work kept her hands busy and her mind from straying to the dark places it still threatened to wander. If she stopped—if she allowed stillness to creep in—the ache in her chest would be unbearable.
There had been no sense in feeling sorry for herself when she first arrived in Strathloch, and she had not allowed herself to wallow since. From the moment she set foot on this land, she had thrown herself into whatever needed doing—whether mending, tending, fighting, defending—whatever task kept her from wasting energy on Calum and his daftness, or thinking too hard about what she had naively believed might be gained in her marriage and her move here.
"Elspeth's a snake," she muttered under her breath, fingers pressing into the dough until her knuckles ached. "And Calum's no better. Together, they make a fine pair." A sharp pang shot through her chest, unbidden, but she ground it down and reached for the next loaf. She had told herself after their first meeting she wouldn't shed a single tear for that daft arse—and she meant it.
The bell rang a second time, closer this time—the sound that meant the men had reached the keep's inner gates. A hush fell in the kitchen, a collective holding of breath. One of the younger lasses dropped a spoon into the stew pot, and theclang echoed louder than it should have. No one scolded her. Instead, someone whispered a quick prayer, another crossed themselves, while all ears strained toward the doors. Even the hearthfire seemed to snap quieter, the air tight with waiting.
Sorcha kept her head bowed, working in silence, her shoulders stiff, bracing herself for the moment Calum MacRae came looking for her... and the storm that would surely follow.
For now, she kept busy—her hands shaping dough, later readying her bow—continuing the tasks she had started.
Soon, clan members began to approach her cautiously, their faces mixed with curiosity and gratitude. They asked questions about the attack, seeking reassurance or guidance. Sorcha answered where she could, her voice steady and calm, but when matters grew beyond her knowledge, she directed them to Elder MacRae.
Despite everything, she did what she could to help, understanding that the clan needed unity more than ever—even if some still harbored doubt toward her.
Chapter 15
