Page 23 of The Heather Wife
Calum
Calum strode through the dim corridors of the keep, the echoes of footsteps following his weary pace. His men were being tended to below, voices raised in hushed talks of battle and loss, but he sought only solitude.
At last, he reached his chambers—familiar yet distant after two months away. The heavy oak door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing that a servant had begun filling a tub for him when word had spread of their arrival. He reached down to test the water; it had long since lost its heat, but it would still feel like heaven after weeks on the road.
He dropped his sword and cloak, the weight finally slipping from his shoulders. The sound of steel clattering against stone made his chest tighten; once, that sword had felt like purpose, but tonight it felt like burden. Shedding the rest of his clothing, he stepped into the tub with a quiet sigh. A knock startled him, and a servant entered, carrying another bucket of steaming water.
"May I add this, Laird?"
"Yes, thank you," he replied gruffly, watching as the heat swirled through the bath. Steam curled against his face, the sharp scent of lye soap rising as he scrubbed. He dug thecloth into his skin until it reddened, as if he could scour away the shame that clung tighter than dirt.
When he finished, he climbed from the tub and toweled himself off, his gaze catching on the mirror that hung from the wall. He met the eyes of a man who had changed—hardened by grief and betrayal. There were hollows beneath his eyes, a deeper set to his jaw, and he thought he looked more like his father than ever before. Soon, he would have to confront the traitors, face the shifting loyalty of his clansfolk, and reckon with Sorcha and Elspeth. But for now, in the quiet of his room, he let himself simply breathe.
Dressing quickly in clean clothes, Calum buckled on his belt and strode to the door. His father had asked him to rest, to come to him before facing the traitors, but patience was a luxury he didn't have. He needed answers now.
Without another thought, he turned away from the stair that would lead him to his father's study and instead descended toward the dungeons, his boots striking hard against the stone steps. The air grew colder with each level he passed, the flicker of torchlight casting jagged shadows along the walls. The smell reached him before the cells did—stale water, piss, and the sour tang of sweat. He forced his jaw to remain tight, unwilling to let disgust show on his face.
The time for reckoning had come. Calum reached the bottom of the narrow, winding stair, his boots crunching against the grit on the stone floor. The dungeon air was damp and cold, heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies and stale water. Two guards straightened as he approached, fists tightening on the hilts of their swords.
"I will speak with one of the accused at a time," he ordered. A guard nodded and turned, unlocking the heavy iron door that led to the cells.
The key scraped against the lock, the sound harsh in the silence. The first cell appeared, and Elspeth rose from the bench, her face pale but her eyes sharp and calculating. Even now, after betrayal and imprisonment, she held herself with the same false sweetness he remembered—a venom wrapped in silk.
"Calum," she breathed, stepping forward as far as the chains allowed. "Thank the heavens you've come. This is all a dreadful mistake. I've been framed." Her gaze darted upward, wide and pleading. "It's Sorcha, Calum. She's the snake in our midst. She leaves the keep nightly—obviously to meet with the criminals who invaded us. She conspired with the raiders, plotted with others to destroy our people. Your father is blind to her treachery. Calum, he's never cared for me."
Calum's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, only watching as her face twisted with desperation. For a heartbeat, he almost heard her as he once had—sweet voice, downcast lashes, words made to soothe his pride. But the mask no longer fit. Beneath it, he saw only hunger.
"She's turned the clan against me," Elspeth continued, voice trembling just enough to sound believable. "She's clever, Calum—pretending loyalty, pretending to care for your people, while spinning her lies. I tried to protect you from her, and now they would see me hang for it."
Calum's jaw flexed, his silence sharp enough to cut. Without a word, he stepped to peer into the next cell, where Liam Dunn sat on a bench, his head bowed, chains rattling as he shifted.
"Speak," Calum commanded, his tone like stone grinding on stone. "Why betray your kin?"
Liam swallowed hard, finally lifting his eyes. "It weren't meant to go that far," he muttered, shame flickeringacross his face. "A bit of coin, aye... just to see the MacAlasdair wench gone. Elspeth said she didn't belong here, that you'd thank me for it." His gaze flicked toward his sister, guilt and resentment warring in his expression. "I never thought blood would spill. I thought... just thought we'd rid Strathloch of her and things would be as they once were."
Calum's fists clenched at his sides. "And yet five graves were dug because of it—and none of them were for Sorcha," he bit out, voice sharp with restrained fury.
The last cell held the border guard Niall MacLeish, a man Calum had once considered a friend, trusted with his life and the safety of his clan. He sat slumped against the wall, but when Calum stopped before his door, he scrambled to his knees.
"I swear, Laird," the man stammered, voice cracking. "Elspeth and Liam paid me to leave my post that night. Said you'd want the MacAlasdair lass gone, that it would set things right between you and Elspeth." He wrung his hands, trembling. "I never knew there'd be bloodshed. I thought I was doing what was best for our people."
Calum's eyes burned with fury, though his voice stayed low and dangerous. "You left your kin to die on a lie. You sold your honor for a sack of coin." His gaze swept over all three prisoners, his voice cutting like a blade. "And you dare speak Sorcha's name as though she were the villain, when all I've heard is that she defended this keep the night you betrayed it."
Elspeth's lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Liam's chains clinked as his shoulders sagged, and even the Niall dropped his gaze to the floor. For once, their silence was honest.
Calum turned to the guard outside the cells, his decision held for another moment in the hard set of his shoulders. "Lockit. I'll have judgment soon enough." He cast one last cold look at Elspeth. "Pray you have truth to speak before that day comes, else your own tongue will damn you."
The door clanged shut behind him, leaving only the echo of his boots as he strode back toward the stair, his mind a storm of betrayal, anger, and questions he could not ignore.
At the top of the stair, he paused, pressing his palm flat to the cold stone wall. He had wanted truth—but all he had found was proof of his blindness. And the thought that burned hottest in his chest was not for Elspeth, nor Liam, nor the guard. It was Sorcha's face, steady as steel in the midst of their scorn, and whether he had any right left to stand beside her.
Chapter 16
Calum
The light in the great hall had softened as the sun dipped lower, spilling warmth through the high windows. Calum found his father seated near the hearth, the firelight deepening the lines age had carved into his face. His old hound snored softly at his feet. Elder MacRae didn't look up at once—he simply tipped his head toward the empty chair and muttered, "Ye look like a man struck twice and still cannae decide who threw the first blow."
Calum sank into the chair, jaw tight. "I visited the cells. After washing."
