Page 10 of The Heather Wife
He stood, offered no hand of farewell.
But the silence between them needled him, and he found himself adding harshly, as if to reassert control—
“Do your duty. You will not shame my clan. And you will stay out of my way.”
Then he turned and walked out, never imagining just how heavy her silence would become—
or how long it would follow him, like a ghost, all the way back to Strathloch.
Chapter Five
Sorcha
The morning after her wedding, Sorcha had been greeted with cautious warmth by a few of the elder women in the kitchens—those who remembered her mother, or at least her mother's good name. She'd offered her help with the stores, careful with her hands, quick with her sleeves rolled, trying to find the rhythm of a keep that had only just become hers.
But it hadn't lasted.
By the next morning, the smiles had cooled. Whispers flared like wind-fed embers. And by week's end, they no longer hid their sneers.
She'd been tripped—twice—once while carrying a basket of eggs that shattered across the stone floor. The next time, a kettle of stew she'd stirred for hours had gone to waste after she'd been shoved from behind and scalded her wrist. When she tried to explain, to set the truth aright, the replies were sharp and immediate:
"Too fine to own a mistake, are ye?"
"She thinks her hands too clean for proper work."
Haughty. Cold. Distant.
She heard the words, muttered and shouted both. Onewoman had even cursed her outright, swearing Sorcha acted like "her shite didnae stink." The venom in her tone had startled Sorcha more than the words themselves.
She stopped trying to explain after that.
Calum said nothing. He watched it all with that infuriating, knowing grin—sitting back like a man watching the first stage of a plan unfold just as he'd meant it to.
Worse still was Elspeth. With her sly smiles and cloying tone, she had taken credit for Sorcha's work—received praise for the food Sorcha had helped prepare, basking in approval for stores she hadn't lifted a finger to account for. She moved through the keep like it was she, not Sorcha, who had married the Laird's only son, and the people welcomed her as if she had.
Sorcha said nothing.
She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
She was her mother's daughter.
Lady Glenbrae had ruled her household with steadiness and quiet dignity. A strength that did not boast.
It was her mother who had taught her to count stores and account for each sack of barley, each coil of rope, each vat of salt—because a Lady who ruled must ken the weight of what fed her folk. But Sorcha knew it hadn't been enough just to count. When her mother had once asked, half in jest, "when ye're the one in charge, will ye lift every barrel, too?" She'd known her daughter would master every task, no matter the weight, and carry any burden she chose.
And Sorcha chose to bear those burdens still—hauling sacks, scrubbing floors, stirring great pots over the fire—because she’d been given no choice but to lead, and leadership in Strathloch was a quiet, thankless toil, done in silence even when it left her back aching and her pride worn thin as old linen.
One of the first lessons her mother had taught her came one morning while they counted stores. She had laid a gentle hand over Sorcha's and said,
"Ye lead by learning first. Listen. Ken every corner of what ye now belong to."
Sorcha had remembered.She had done the work, every last bit of it, even when no one thanked her.
But it hadn't mattered.
The evening after she arrived, she had wandered past the edge of the keep's land and found a clearing tucked behind a ring of trees. There, under moonlight and shadow, she began to train again. Her sword had traveled with her, as well as her longbow and quiver.
Each night since, she returned to that same space,training until her muscles burned and her body trembled with weariness. She pushed herself to the edge of exhaustion, until her arms were heavy, her feet raw, and her breath came in sharp, stinging gasps.Shecraved the fatigue. It dulled the sharpness of her thoughts. Of her heartache.
