Page 2 of The Heather Wife
She tore free of the tapestry and bolted down the corridor barefoot, breath ragged, smoke stinging her eyes. A shadow passed ahead—and then she saw her.
Lady Moira lay on the ground, half-propped on one elbow, a tall man looming above. His hands were red. A blade glinted in his grip. He turned toward Sorcha with a snarl.
She didn't think. Didn't breathe.
She drew her knife and lunged—wild and trembling, all fury and fear. The man laughed—until she drove the blade into his side.
He stumbled. Gasped. Fell.
And then— silence dropped like a stone
Sorcha stood over him, shaking, her small hands stained, knuckles white on the hilt. Her mother's eyes were wide—not with fear, but something like wonder. She whispered Sorcha's name before her head dropped back.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Shouts. Tavish. More voices. Her father.
They found her there, still clutching the blade, standing over the man she'd felled.
They called her brave. But she had not been. She had been afraid.
Still—none ever left her behind again.
Chapter One
MacRae Keep, Strathloch
Calum MacRae- Age Five and Twenty
The bells rang clear and cold across the glen, their echo slipping through the mountain pass like mist—calling folk to witness what he’d give near anything to ignore.
Calum MacRae shifted the weight of his formal plaid across his shoulder, the ancient colours of Strathloch pressing down like chains. Around him, the folk of his clan gathered in tight rows, their breath misting in the Highland air, faces bright with curiosity and cheer.
At the far end of the clearing, beneath the arch of twisted hawthorn, stood his bride.
Still as carved stone.
Sorcha MacAlasdair.
She wore the silver veil of her house with quiet dignity, hands folded before her, flanked by her two formidable brothers—Tavish, the Bloodhound of Glenbrae, who could wield a broadsword like a bread knife, and Fergus, true of aim and deadly with a longbow, a man said to cut an adversary down with but a single, true-flown arrow.
Her father, Laird Eoin, stood behind them, silent and grim as a winter cairn.
Sorcha didn’t flinch beneath the weight of a hundred watching eyes.Steady as the mountain, they called her in Glenbrae. Not because she was unmoving—but because she bore everything—grief, duty, expectation—with the same unshakable quiet.
And he hated it.
Hated that she looked every inch the perfect bride—graceful, composed, untouched by nerves—while he stood here feeling like a cur leashed to the wrong post.
Because no matter how fine she looked, she’d never be Elspeth.
The sting of that truth landed again, sharp as a slap.
Elspeth, the blacksmith’s daughter—the lass he’d loved since boyhood—stood somewhere in the crowd. Watching. Bearing witness. He didn’t look for her. He didn’t need to. Her gaze was a weight on his skin—felt, not seen.
Surrounded by friends—Elspeth was well-liked in Strathloch—they braced her with whispered kindness and pity. Her heartache had become common talk since the banns were read.
If fate were kind—or if he were any man but the heir of Strathloch—he would’ve wed her. But sons of lairds didn’t marry for love. They married to seal borders, forge peace, and stitch alliances with blood.
The priest cleared his throat.
