Page 45 of The Heather Wife
His gaze lifted to hers.
“It’s not just cloth, Sorcha. It’s strength, and grace, and the sense to ken that a laird’s pride means naught without the wisdom beside him. My mother had that. Ye have it too. And I see now, it was always meant for ye.”
He stepped forward, offering the folded tartan with both hands.
“I would have ye take it,” he said simply. “Not as apology, though I owe ye that and more—but as what’s due. As my lady. As the heart that keeps this place from fallin’ into ruin. I see ye now, Sorcha. Truly.”
The words hung in the air, quiet as prayer.
Sorcha stared at the plaid in his hands, the colours bright against the roughness of his palms. For a long moment she said nothing. Then, slowly, she reached out.
When her fingers brushed the wool, something insideher trembled—not weakness, but the release of a long-held breath.
Calum unfolded the tartan, settling it over her shoulders. The heavy wool fell against her cloak, catching the sun in faint green and silver threads. He paused, his hand lingering for a heartbeat before he reached for the silver brooch at his own chest. With deliberate care, he unpinned it and fastened it over the plaid at her breast.
“It is yours,” he murmured, his voice low. “My mother’s plaid, secured by my brooch. It stays with ye, always.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The wind rustled through the dry grass and scattered leaves, and the faint lowing of cattle carried across the hill.
Sorcha lifted her hand to the brooch, her fingers brushing the metal. “Thank ye, Calum. I’ll care for it well. Ye’ve shared something of yourself with me—and if ever ye wish to speak of your mother, I’d like to hear.”
He managed a faint smile. “She’d have liked ye well, my mother. My father said often she was a stubborn one—ye share that with her.”
A small spark of humour lit Sorcha’s gaze. “Then I pity your father.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound more exhale than mirth. “Aye. And I’m sorry, Sorcha. For every time I made ye feel unseen. It’ll no’ happen again.”
She looked at him steadily. “Then let’s see that it doesna.”
He inclined his head, solemn. “Aye, my lady. It willna.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the quiet between them no longer strained but whole.
At last Calum cleared his throat. “Will ye still meet me in the meadow this eve? I’ll bring my bow if ye bring yours—we’ll see if your new target withstands us both.”
Her answer came softly, but sure. “Aye—but I mean to bring my bow and sword both this eve. Still, perhaps ye should meet me outside the great hall after the evening meal and walk with me there… unless ye’d have me travel alone.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, his heart beating a little faster at her request for his company. Her willingness to walk beside him—rather than meet him in secret as before—made him smile. “Then I’ll count the hours till sundown.”
She turned back toward the pasture, the plaid shifting over her shoulders with each step, and Calum watched her go—the tartan of his mother’s line carried now by the woman who’d earned it in every way that mattered.
Chapter 40
Sorcha
The evening air carried the scent of damp earth and pine sap, the light long gone, each day’s sun sinking sooner as winter crept close. Frost silvered the grass at the path’s edge, the chill catching in her breath as she walked. Sorcha moved beside Calum along the narrow trail that wound toward the clearing. She could not have said why she’d asked him to walk with her tonight instead of meeting him there, as they always did. Habit, perhaps—or for the strange comfort she’d begun to find in his presence, though she’d no wish to name it aloud.
They walked in easy quiet, the kind that filled itself with the rhythm of their steps. Her thoughts, though, were far from still.
Every so often, her hand drifted to the brooch at her breast, her thumb brushing the cool metal. The gesture steadied her, and yet reminded her of all that had changed between them—too much, too fast, leaving her unmoored.
Each glance toward him brought back the words he’d spoken that morning, the weight of the tartan he had settled on her shoulders, the steady touch of his hands as he’d fastened it with his own brooch.
“My mother’s plaid, secured by my brooch. It stays with ye, always,”he’d said. The memory of it warmed her even now, though the air bit sharp with cold. She had not expected him to give it—still less that he would unpin his own clasp to secure it for her. That simple act had unsettled her more than all his speeches and apologies combined.
Upon reaching their clearing deep within the trees, the forest lay still save for the rustle of wind through the branches and the steady tread of their boots. Calum’s shoulder brushed hers once, light as breath. It should have felt ordinary. Instead, it sent a shiver through her chest—soft, disquieting, unfamiliar.
“Ye’re quiet tonight,” he said at last, his voice low.
