Page 4 of The Heather Wife
He tossed his plaid over the chair with careless hands, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the ease of the gesture. The fabric landed in a heap, forgotten.
“Don’t mistake my presence here for anything more than duty,” he said, the words sharp enough to wound—meant to. “Whatever vows were spoken, this marriage is nothing to me. You are nothing to me.”
Her voice, when it came, was calm as still water. “You’ve made yourself clear.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t. But he still felt her gaze—steady, silent. Waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure.
Anger? An apology? Remorse for his behaviour?
She gave him nothing.
The silence stretched, brittle and taut. He crossed the room and poured himself a drink to mask the weight behind his words—the weight behind all of this.
“You’ve your title now,” he muttered, bitterness thick on his tongue. “Your borders are safe. Your clan’s secured. Congratulations.”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. She simply stared into the fire as though he weren’t there at all.
That burned more than it should’ve.
“I suppose you expect me to thank you,” he went on, his voice lower now, darker. “Or fall in line.”
“I expect nothing,” she said, her tone even as ever. “You made your thoughts of me and our marriage known.”
His jaw tensed. “You mean when I said I didn’t want this?”
“Nay. ’Twas when you called me cold as stone. Pampered. More title than woman.”
He froze. He hadn’t meant for her to hear that. Hadn’t even realized she had.
Her voice didn’t waver. “You needn’t worry. I will not compete for your affection. I will serve your folk as is expected. I will not shame your house. But I will not beg for a place in it either.”
She rose, quiet as snowfall, and crossed to the bed. She lay on the far side and turned her back to him.
“Sleep where you like,” she said softly. “But kindly don’t insult me in my own bed.”
A long pause.
“We need only share this room tonight—for appearances’ sake,” she said at last. “Come morning, I’ll move to my own chamber. We’ll be husband and wife in name only, as you’ve reminded me so often.”
For once, Calum had no reply.
He stood there a long moment, the heat behind his collar no longer born of anger—but something darker.
Then, without a word, he stepped into the guest chamber next door and shut the door behind him.
He’d rise early, slip back into the bridal room before anyone was the wiser.
He had no intention of warming his so-called wife's bed—not that she’d seemed to want his company in it. Let her lie there alone—the proud Lady of Glenbrae, untouched and unwanted.
The clan would follow his lead. They always had.
It wouldn’t take long before they saw her as he did—cold, haughty, a highborn outsider thrust upon them.
And he’d help grow the seed of discontent between her and his clan.
Let Elspeth ken where his loyalty lay. This marriage was a contract, not a love match. A pact made in steel, not affection.
Sorcha might bear his name, but she’d never hold his heart. And by the time he was through, she wouldn’t hold the clan’s favour either.
