Page 7 of The Heather Wife
At the second, he’d made his expectations clear.
“Do your duty. You will not shame my clan. And you will stay out of my way.”
So she had expected little.
And received even less.
The wedding passed in a blessed blur. The circlet they placed on her head felt less like a crown and more like a chain—cold, unyielding, and far too heavy. Her father had squeezed her hand once before giving her away. Her brothers stood tall beside her, their silence heavy with unspoken promises of protection.
She’d felt nothing. Not joy, not sorrow. Only the bone-deep weariness of a lass who’d spent years holding her family and clan together, only to be handed off to a man who had loathed her on sight.
The feast afterward dragged on—a haze of music, ale, and sideways glances.
Calum—her husband now, she supposed—barely acknowledged her. He laughed and drank, his gaze drawn again and again to one woman in particular. No doubt the woman. The one he’d called the wife of his heart.
Sorcha had been seated apart from them, as though she were merely a guest at her own wedding.
Her gaze drifted across the hall, thick with smoke and the low hum of voices. Near the high table, her father, Laird Eoin MacAlasdair, sat beside Laird Domhnall MacRae, Calum’s stern-faced sire. The two men leaned close, their faces alight with quiet satisfaction as they raised their cups in a measured toast. Their eyes met often, exchanging unspoken words—bonds sealed in blood and honour.
A job well done, the gleam in their eyes seemed to say. Borders secured. Armies united.
Further down, her brothers gathered in a cluster with their clansmen—seasoned warriors and trusted household men brought from Glenbrae. They sat with straight backs and watchful eyes, a compact force enough to show strength butsmall enough to keep the heart of the keep guarded. Warriors from Strathloch had joined them, seated now among the men of Glenbrae.
The voices grew hearty, tales and tactics shared between drinks, the camaraderie easy but edged with caution. Sorcha heard what underlay their laughter: not friendship, but relief. They were glad to have allies, should either keep be attacked again.
Sorcha’s heart tightened. Her brothers were near, yet distant—as though they had already left to travel back to Glenbrae, to what was once her home.
They had brought her here, but from tonight forward, she would weather the storm alone.
Her name floated through the room, whispered behind fingers, tucked into laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
“She looks cold,” someone muttered.
“Too proud by half.”
“She’ll not last the winter, mark me. Highland soil rejects anything too fine.”
She sat through it all, spine straight, face unreadable.
Let them talk.
Later, her eldest brother Tavish came to check on her. His shadow filled the doorway of the solar, his broad frame a familiar comfort.
“How do ye fare, wee flame?”
She looked up, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I ken my duty.”
His jaw clenched, the muscle there twitching with something between fury and helplessness. But he only nodded.
“Aye. That ye do.”
He left her then, and Sorcha remained in silence a while longer, the noise of the feast drifting up through the stone walls like a distant storm.
Her gaze slid to the window, in the direction of Glenbrae—and she could feel herself being drawn back into the memories.
To when she’d been a wee lass of ten, and had watched her mother fall to a raider’s blade.
Sorcha had arrived too late.
