Page 40 of The Heather Wife
Beyond the yard, her burdens multiplied. Stores had to be counted, barley measured, and woolens checked against the cold. She had pressed Agnes into helping with the tallying, and passed some duties to those she trusted—but still Sorcha found herself drawn into every corner of the keep. A word in the bakehouse, a hand in the counting room, an eye on the herds penned closer each night. She told herself it was duty, yet it felt more like a need: to steady every piece of Strathloch with her own hands, as if her presence alone might shield it from thehungers of winter and war.
What had begun with a half-dozen women now grew with every passing day: shepherds’ wives with wind-burnt cheeks, serving girls who came straight from the bakehouse with flour still dusting their aprons, even two widows who carried their grief like steel in their spines.
Sorcha guided them with patient hands, her voice steady even when her heart was not. She corrected stances, lifted chins, praised the strike that landed true. Each woman’s progress struck her with quiet pride, a balm against her own weariness, and a reminder that strength was not only for men, nor for warriors bred to it. It belonged to anyone who dared claim it.
And yet, beneath it all, confusion dogged her steps. Calum’s words—that he wished to ken her, to take back the harm he had dealt—clung to her like burrs. For years she had dreamed of a husband who might stand as partner, friend, and aye, as love. She had dreamed of bairns in her arms, of laughter around her hearth, of the warmth her own mother had given so freely. Those dreams had soured upon her first meeting with her betrothed, yet now he spoke of mending what he himself had broken. Did she dare believe him? Or was this another hope better strangled before it had a chance to live?
When the lessons ended, Sorcha often found herself restless. She still stole away to her hidden spot in the woods, bow slung over her shoulder, sword strapped at her hip. There, in the clearing of trees, she struck her pell until sweat dampened her brow, until her arms trembled and her breath came harsh. The moon watched her as it always had, cold and steady, and she drew strength from its silence. Here, alone with steel and shadow, she could untangle her thoughts—at least enough to face the morrow.
The training yard itself grew busier, livelier, as more of Calum’s warriors began to join. Some came to teach, others to test themselves against the women, and still others simply to lend their presence. It was no longer training in secret or by halves—it was open, shared, and growing. Targets lined the walls, arrows bristling like quills as women and warriors alike took their turns. Blades struck shields in measured practice, men showing women the turn of a wrist, women showing men how quickness could best brute strength. The clangor of training no longer sounded like division, but like harmony.
Sorcha welcomed it. This was what she had asked of Calum, and he had done it: invited his warriors into the fold, showing the clan that women were no less, that they stood as one. She saw it in the way the older men nodded, in the way the younger lads watched wide-eyed, in the way her women held their heads higher each day.
She even found herself laughing again—rare, unguarded laughter—when a sparring match or an archery contest went awry. The women clapped and teased her boldly now, courage rising in them like dawn. For the first time in long months, she felt not merely their leader, but their companion.
Still, there were moments when her skin prickled with awareness. She would glance toward the edge of the yard and find Calum there, arms folded, his eyes steady upon her. He never interfered, but his gaze lingered, heavy with thought. Perhaps now he knew what it was to stand apart, to see one’s spouse share laughter and ease withheld from oneself.
After two weeks, the yard had become a place of belonging. Katherine no longer trembled when she loosed her arrow. Morag, who once laughed at the very idea of holding a blade, now planted her feet like stone when she struck. The miller’s daughters moved in unison, fierce as hawks. And the warriors, who at first had joined only out of duty, now stayedof their own will—sparring, teaching, even laughing beside the women.
Sorcha’s chest swelled with pride she could scarcely hide. For the first time since taking up the regency, she felt she was giving the clan more than commands. She was giving them courage—and Calum, by standing beside her, was proving that he meant his word.
And still, he lingered at the edge. Watching. Listening. Sometimes correcting, but most often silent, his presence a weight she could not ignore. He greeted her on her arrival now, asked after her day in a voice almost careful, as though afraid she might break. She was not sure when it happened, but she began enjoying their talks. They were light things, not touching anything too deep, but more than before. And in the great hall, they had begun to sit together during meals, should their paths cross, joined often by his warriors or the women she now counted as friends.
One evening she was sitting with Katherine, who asked after her relationship with their laird. The question came softly but plain: could she ever find her way to forgiving him? Katherine said the whole clan could see him trying to make amends. Sorcha had answered that “amends were not so easily made—what’s said is said, and canna be gainsaid.” Even as the words left her lips, she wondered if she spoke truth, or only the shield she still carried.
At night, when she lay in her chamber, her thoughts circled the same path. She wanted to trust. She wanted to believe. Yet every wound he had dealt her whispered caution. And every small gesture he made—a cloak draped over her shoulders when the wind bit sharp, a trencher of food pressed into her hands when she forgot to eat—pressed against the armor she had built.
Was it so wrong, she wondered, to want him to see her? Not the Regent. Not the warrior. But the woman who longed, still, for something more than duty.
Chapter 36
Sorcha
Sorcha’s steps crunched softly over frost-slick earth, her bow at her shoulder, the hush of the trees calling to her, a balm after the endless days of command. She had near reached her clearing when she stilled.
Calum sat on the old log by her pell, the moon painting him in silver. A small wooden trencher rested at his side, a linen cloth drawn over it.
“I thought ye’d come,” he said, voice quiet, stripped of his usual command. “Ye’ve been wearing yourself thin, lass. A warrior rests between battles, or he breaks. A lady too.” He pulled the cloth aside, showing bannocks still warm, drizzled with honey. “Sit. Share them with me.”
Caution pricked her, but curiosity tugged harder. She lowered herself to the far end of the log. The bannock was warm against her fingers, the sweetness rich on her tongue, though her gaze never strayed from him.
For a while they ate in silence. Sorcha tilted her face toward the moon, letting its pale light rest on her features. The night hummed soft with the forest—the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind, the low hoot of an owl, the crackle of the smallfire between them. For the first time in many days, she felt a breath of stillness, as though the dark itself had drawn a cloak round them.
At last, Calum spoke, his voice low, as though wary of breaking the stillness. “When I was a lad, I thought myself half an orphan. My mother died the day I was born, and my father—aye, he grieved her, but duty left him little time for aught else. Duty was all he could give me, and I took it as best I could. But it was John who taught me to tie a proper knot, who showed me how to mend a horse’s girth or sharpen a blade. And Marion… she was soft-spoken, but she made certain I ate, and listened when I raged against my lessons. She was near a mother to me when mine was gone.”
His hand tightened around the horn cup he held, eyes shadowed. "Liam—he was more than companion. He was brother in all but blood. We trained together, bled together. I thought there was nothing between us that could be broken.” He swallowed, voice roughening. “That’s why his betrayal cuts deepest. Because I ken what I lost.”
Sorcha sat still, letting his words sink into the hush between them. As much as she wished to shut him out, still she listened.
“And Elspeth,” he went on at last, his gaze fixed on the dark line of the trees. “I thought I loved her once. I told myself I did. But it wasna love. It was gratitude. Familiarity. She was always there—watching, waiting. I mistook her constancy for the bond I hungered for.”
He exhaled hard, as though forcing the next words. “I never laid with her. Not once.”
Sorcha’s head turned so sharply her neck twinged. His eyes locked on hers, steady, pleading.
“I told myself it was to guard her virtue, but truth was,my father had warned me plain—that I should stay away. That tying myself to another lass, especially one of my own clan, when I was betrothed to you, would only end in ruin. And he was right. But I was older than you, and I let myself believe it was my right to seek comfort where I wished. I was wrong. Wrong to her. Wrong to you. Wrong to the vows I had yet to make.”
“When Elspeth was executed, I searched my heart for grief, and found none. I was a coward—clinging to what I thought was love, when all along it was naught but rebellion. Rebellion against duty, against the path laid before me. Sorcha… my whole life has been bound in duty. To my father. To this clan. And when we were betrothed, you became that duty too. A burden I told myself had been laid upon me, not a gift placed in my keeping. I resented you for it—resented you though you’d done nothing but exist. I thought you no different than the lairdship itself: heavy, endless, asking everything of me and giving nothing in return. And so I blinded myself, when I should have seen you as more. That blindness… that was my greatest failing.”
