Page 5 of The Heather Wife
He smiled.
Perhaps he’d grant Elspeth—the wife of his heart—the pleasure of reminding Sorcha of her place. A wedding gift, of sorts. Hekentshe’d relish the chance to wound the woman who’d stolen her rightful place beside him.
Chapter Two
MacAlasdair Keep, Glenbrae- Two Years Ago
Sorcha MacAlasdair, Age Six and Ten
Sorcha had never worn blue silk before.
The colour suited her—at least according to her brother’s new bride, who stood behind her now, fastening the final row of pearl buttons down the back of her gown.
“There,” Mairead murmured, smoothing a gentle hand over Sorcha’s shoulders. “Strathloch willnae ken what’s struck them.”
Sorcha smiled faintly at the looking-glass, though she barely recognised the girl staring back. Her freckles had faded since summer, her cheekbones grown more defined. She looked… proper. Quiet. Hopeful, perhaps.
It was foolish to hope. She kent that well enough.
And yet, as the carriage waited in the courtyard, horses stamping in the misty Highland morning, Sorcha allowed herself one reckless, dangerous thought:
Perhaps Strathloch would be where she truly belonged.
Since her mother’s passing, she had done all that was asked of her—kept her father’s household, tended the sick when no one else would, soothed tempers, remembered feast days, seen that things simply ran. It had earned her respect.
But not affection.
Not a place. Just duty—and a borrowed title she wore until it passed to another.
The moment her brother wed, his new wife had stepped into the role of lady of the keep as if it had always been hers. And now Sorcha—Sorcha had been dressed like an offering and sent away.
To Strathloch.
To her future.
To acquaint herself with the man they said she would wed.
When her carriage arrived, she was shown to the laird’s solar. The door stood open. Firelight flickered across the stone floor, casting long shadows on old timber and dark iron sconces. A man stood at the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, one hand braced on the mantle. He turned as she entered.
Calum MacRae. Her betrothed.
He looked as cold as the stones the hearth was built from.
Dark-haired, clean-shaven, his face was sharp and strong—not unhandsome, but grim. Tired, perhaps. His plaid hung from one shoulder, belted over a plain linen shirt. A sword rested at his hip, the scabbard worn. This was no court-dressed nobleman. This was a Highland laird’s son who bled when he fought.
His gaze passed over her—cool, assessing. She dropped into a curtsy.
“My lord.”
“You’re Sorcha MacAlasdair.”
“Aye.”
He studied her a moment longer. Then, with no welcome and no trace of warmth, he said flatly, “There is someone you should ken of.”
She blinked. “Someone?”
“She is the wife of my heart,” he said, voice even and distant. “When we marry, you will respect her. And you should not expect any affection from me.”
