Page 26 of The Heather Wife
She dipped her head respectfully, then returned to her meal, stealing quick, shy glances every now and then, as if still scarcely believing the offer.
Sorcha turned back to her food, the faintest smile
tugging at her lips. For the first time since she had arrived at Strathloch, the silence between her and another felt easy—neither heavy nor strained. Two women sharing bread at the same table. Companionship, of a kind. It wasn’t friendship, not yet—but it wasn’t loneliness either.
Chapter 18
Elder MacRae
It had been nigh a month since Calum came home, yet the lad seemed weighed down. Since that first grim visit to the keep's dungeon, he had not returned to face the prisoners below, refusing to deal with the three members of their clan who had turned traitor and the raiders who had harmed their folk.
The clan's trust in Calum was thinning, like a fading winter's day. They whispered of his indecision, his dragging feet, and most painfully, his poor treatment of their new Lady MacRae—their Lady Sorcha. Some no longer hid their scorn. A few had even dared to speak to Calum with tongues sharpened by anger, refusing to use his rightful title and instead calling him by his given name—an insult made all the more bitter by their using Sorcha's title when they spoke of her.
He had spoken with a few of his old friends—men he had grown up with, trusted warriors now elders of the clan—who shared their concerns and the words they had heard. Unrest stirred in Strathloch, and Calum's loyalty was on many a wagging tongue.
Domnhall MacRae had been patient. Patience, however, had its limits. One evening, in the great hall's quiet shadow, he confronted his son plainly:
"The prisoners must be dealt with, lad. The clan cannot suffer for your hesitation."
Calum's shoulders slumped beneath the weight of expectation and his own pride. His voice came low, heavy with conflict:
"Father, I cannot bring myself to harm them. They have been my friends since I was a lad. I will not pass judgment on kin I grew beside."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"I will deal with the raiders—they are enemies and deserve no mercy. But the traitors... to strike them down would weigh heavy upon my soul."
Domnhall's gaze was stern, unyielding.
"Being Laird means you must make the decisions no one else has the stomach to make, and do what is right for our folk. And it is what you must do, whether it sits easy on your heart or no. The clan looks to its Laird for justice and strength."
What made it worse was that his hesitation to deal with the traitors and raiders included Elspeth—whom everyone knew he cared for greatly and had chosen over Sorcha. But now Sorcha was seen as the savior of their clan, with tales of her prowess with sword and longbow spoken of as if she were some myth.
Calum's refusal to deal with Elspeth—the woman he claimed to love—while all their folk knew the cruelty they both had subjected Sorcha to, who was now known for her loyalty to their people, was only lowering him in their eyes with each passing day he hesitated.
Whispers had reached the elder's ears even beyond the walls of Strathloch—rumors carried by passing traders and murmured in the dim corners of the great hall. He had heard, with a mix of surprise and grudging respect, that Sorcha had taken a young laundress named Katherine under her wing. The lass, it seemed, had begged Lady Sorcha to teach her the longbow, that most fearsome of weapons, so she might nolonger feel helpless should another raid darken their lands.
Her own brother, a rough-spoken man with little patience for a woman's ambitions, had grumbled half in complaint, half in grudging admiration, about Katherine's determination:
"'Tis no skill for a woman," he had told her, "but she would not be swayed."
Yet Lady Sorcha, whose own knowledge of the bow had been learned in grim necessity during the attacks on her childhood home, had agreed. She saw in Katherine not just a laundress, but a future defender of their clan, and the lass's persistence had earned her the rare honor of a teacher's patience and favor.
He found himself considering this quietly. While Calum's silence and hesitation sowed doubt and discontent among the clansfolk, Sorcha's actions inspired loyalty and hope. She moved among the people like the heather itself—resilient and unyielding—rising steadily to become more than just their Lady, but a symbol of their strength.
And Domnhall... Domnhall bore his own share of guilt. He had let the boy grow headstrong, too quick to mistake rebellion for wisdom, too quick to believe himself cleverer than his elders. He'd trusted that life's hard lessons would temper him, when instead he should have pressed harder, sooner. A father's hand could guide or correct; perhaps he'd failed his son by giving too much of the first and too little of the second. A boot to the backside in younger years might have spared them all this grief. Now Calum learned late, with the whole clan watching, and every misstep threatened not only his pride but their future.
It weighed heavily on him to see his son falter while the woman he had once scorned now kindled the clan's faith. The coming days would test them all, yet he needed his only son tostand firm—and soon—before he was forced into a choice Calum would not like. Already, he feared the stirrings of revolt.
He considered calling his fellow elders to discuss crowning Sorcha a regent—a move that might steady the clan and preserve the peace, yet risk breaking a son already weighed down by pride and sorrow. With no other sons to succeed him, his choices were few, but his duty was clear.
As the day waned, Domnhall made a decision for the good of the clan, no matter the cost to his blood. With quiet resolve, he took up his cloak and cane, stepping from his chambers to summon the elders. It was time for leadership borne of courage and clarity, not silence and hesitation.
Chapter 19
Elspeth
Darkness pressed heavy against the damp stone walls of the cell. She crouched low on the cold floor, knees drawn close, fingers tracing the rough edges of the worn stones as if marking time. Days—or was it weeks?—had lost all meaning here, swallowed by shadow and silence that clung like a chill.
