Page 57 of The Heather Wife
At the door, Domnhall paused. “Ye ken,” he said softly, “your mother once told me that the measure of a man isn’t how loud he shouts, but how steady he stands beside the woman who makes him better. Ye’ve her stubbornness, Calum. Best use it wisely this time.”
When he was gone, the chamber fell into quiet again.
The light through the shutters had deepened toward evening. Calum shifted, grimacing, and looked once more at Sorcha. Her head rested against his arm, her hand still twined with his.
He let his thumb brush the back of her fingers, tracing the faint calluses that spoke of bow and blade.
“She said I was stubborn,” he murmured under his breath. “But she’s worse by far.”
Her lips moved faintly in sleep, a sigh leaving her. He smiled—tired, aching, but real.
The brooch lay warm in his palm. He set it beside their joined hands on the bed, the metal glinting softly in the firelight.
Then, with the last of his strength, he reached to brush a strand of hair from her cheek.
“I’m home, Sorcha,” he whispered. “And I’m stayin’.”
The fire snapped softly, sending a glow across the room. Outside, the wind moved through the heather, carrying only the faint echo ofTha mo ghaol air àirigh—its notes long faded, though the memory remained.
Calum closed his eyes, Sorcha’s hand still caught in his.
And for the first time since the arrow struck, he slept without pain.
Chapter 44
Calum
The fire had burned low again, the coals red as blood against the dim of the chamber.
Calum stirred, half caught between waking and sleep. His body ached with every breath, but the fever’s fire had at last gone cold.
He turned his head.
Sorcha sat where she always had — beside him. Her hair was a tangle about her shoulders, her skin pale beneath the dim light. The plaid he’d given her was wrapped close, the corner fallen against her lap where her hand rested still.
He’d lost track of time in the haze of pain and fever, but it didn’t take much to see she hadn’t.
She hadn’t left.
The sight steadied him more than any tonic could. Still, a dull worry pressed at him — she looked spent, hollow-eyed, too thin. The woman who had held a bow steady in the middle of a raid now looked as if a whisper might topple her.
He tried to shift his arm, but the movement drew a sharp pull at his chest. He hissed through his teeth, and the sound must’ve woken her.
Sorcha blinked, straightened, her hand risinginstinctively to his arm. “Ye shouldna move,” she murmured, voice rough with exhaustion.
“Aye, I see that now,” he said, forcing a faint smile.
Her eyes searched his face, the edges of her mouth trembling as if caught between relief and restraint. She looked like she might speak, then didn’t. Instead she reached for the cup at the bedside and held it to him.
“Drink. The healer said ye need the broth.”
He obeyed, though every swallow burned. “Ye’ve barely slept.”
“I’ve slept enough.”
He raised a brow. “Ye look half-dead yourself.”
Her lips tightened, but she didn’t argue. “The fever broke. That’s all that matters.”
