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 rising instinctively 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.”
Calum studied her — the faint line between her brows, the way her hands trembled slightly as she set the cup aside. She still kept a wall between them — thinner now, perhaps, but there. He couldn’t blame her. He’d earned that distance long before the arrow ever found him.
Before he could speak, the door creaked.
Agnes bustled in, a tray in her hands and disapproval written clear on her face. “Saints preserve us, it smells like death and fever in here,” she muttered. “My laird, ye’ve woken? Good. Now mayhap we can talk sense into this stubborn lass.”
Sorcha turned, startled. “Agnes—”
“Don’t ‘Agnes’ me.” The old woman set the tray down with a thump and planted her fists on her hips.
“You’ve not had a proper meal in four days, Lady MacRae, nor a wash since the night of the raid.
You’ll come with me downstairs to eat, and then ye’ll go get yourself clean before you scare the poor laird back into unconsciousness. ”
Calum tried not to smile. “She’s not wrong.”
Sorcha shot him a glare that might have felled a lesser man. “I’ll not leave ye.”
He met her gaze steadily. “I’ll no’ die while ye’re gone, Sorcha. I’ve survived worse.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Ye dinna ken that.”
“Aye, I do,” he said softly. “Go. Let Agnes see ye fed and cleaned. I’ll still be here when ye come back.”
Agnes nodded approvingly. “Listen to your husband, lass. He’s right for once.”
Sorcha looked between them, battle flickering in her eyes. Then, slowly, she gave in. “Fine. But only for a short while.”
Calum inclined his head, relief slipping quietly through him. “Take your time. That’s an order.”
Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. She stood, the plaid slipping from her shoulders as she gathered herself. Before she turned, she hesitated — just a moment — and laid a hand gently over the bandaged wound at his chest.
“Rest, Calum.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Go on, love. I’ll be fine.”
Her breath caught faintly at the word, but she said nothing, only nodded and followed Agnes out.
The door closed, and silence returned — thicker now, heavy with all that had been left unsaid.
Calum exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his ribs, the weight of the days he’d lost. He was alive. Sorcha was alive. That was enough — for now.
He rested for a while, listening to the muted bustle of the keep beyond the walls — hammers striking, distant shouts, the sound of Strathloch healing itself. When the healer passed through to check his bandage, he stopped her.
“Have Duncan sent up when he’s able,” he said.
The woman nodded. “Aye, my laird.”
It wasn’t long before Duncan’s boots sounded on the stair. He entered quietly, bowing his head. His face broke into a grin when he saw Calum upright.
“By God, it’s good to see ye awake,” he said, his voice rough with relief. “Ye gave us all a fright.”
Calum’s mouth curved faintly. “Ye think I’d let a wee arrow fell me? It’ll take more than that.”
Duncan laughed, pulling up a stool. “Ye sound more yourself already. Sorcha’ll be glad o’ that. She’s near torn the keep apart watchin’ over ye.”
“I ken,” Calum said quietly. “She’s… stronger than any man I’ve met.”
“Aye, that she is.” Duncan leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It’s a wonder, truly. I’ve seen her leadin’ the women since the raid — keep’s never run smoother. Ye’re lucky, my laird.”
“I know it.”
Duncan hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “Speakin’ o’ luck… there’s a woman I’ve been seein’ more of myself.”
Calum arched a brow. “Aye?”
“Katherine,” he admitted. “The one Sorcha trained with the bow. She’s fierce as a hawk and twice as beautiful. I’d never thought to want a woman who could best me at every argument, but saints help me, I do.”
Calum chuckled — a low sound that pulled at his stitches but felt worth it. “Ye’ve a taste for trouble, then.”
Duncan grinned. “Mayhap. Or sense enough to admire a woman who speaks her mind.”
Calum’s expression softened. “That’s a rare wisdom, Duncan. Hold to it.”
Duncan blinked, half-laughing. “What’s this? Advice from my laird?”
Calum smiled faintly, then winced as pain lanced through his chest. “Aye. And now I’ll give ye another task before I start soundin’ like an old man tellin’ tales.”
“Name it.”
“I need a letter sent to Glenbrae — to Laird Eoin MacAlasdair himself.”
Duncan’s brows rose. “Sorcha’s father?”
Calum nodded. “Aye. There are still raiders unaccounted for — those that fled the field. They’ll no’ vanish into the hills without leavin’ sign. I want Glenbrae to keep watch and send word if any pass their borders.”
Duncan shifted, uncertain. “Ye’d have me write it?”
“My hand’s not fit for quill work yet,” Calum said dryly. “I’d trust ye to take it down clean.”
The man reached for the parchment on the healer’s table. “Then tell me what to say.”
Calum leaned back, closing his eyes briefly before beginning. His words came slow but steady:
“To Laird Eoin MacAlasdair of Glenbrae — greetings from Calum MacRae of Strathloch.
Raiders from the northern border attacked our lands four nights past. Some were slain, others fled. We’ve reason to believe a few crossed southward, perhaps through your glens.
Be wary — they bear no colors but carry steel enough to do harm.
Should they pass near Glenbrae, I beg you send word, that we might hunt them together and see the borders kept.
Strathloch stands ready to aid Glenbrae, as we know Glenbrae would aid us.”
Duncan looked up. “And how would ye have me sign it?”
Calum hesitated a moment, then said quietly, “Add this — tell him that though he’s sent no word since our marriage, his daughter lives, and fought bravely. She was the first to sound the alarm that saved the keep.”
Duncan’s eyes warmed. “He’ll take pride in that.”
“Aye,” Calum said. “He should. She deserves to be seen for what she is.”
When Duncan finished, he sanded the ink and folded the parchment, sealing it with wax. “I’ll see it sent before nightfall.”
“Thank ye,” Calum said. “And Duncan—”
“Aye?”
Calum’s voice dropped. “What ye said before — about Katherine. She’s a fine woman. If she makes ye happy, don’t waste time second-guessin’ it.”
Duncan smiled wryly. “Ye sound like a man speakin’ from experience.”
Calum’s gaze drifted toward the door, where the faintest echo of Sorcha’s laughter carried back from the hall — a rare, tired sound, but real. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Maybe I am.”
Duncan clasped his forearm lightly — careful of the wound — and rose. “Rest easy, my laird. Strathloch’s in good hands.”
Calum managed a nod. “See that it stays that way.”
When he was gone, the room felt still again — but no longer empty.
He leaned back against the pillows, his hand resting absently over the bandage at his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath. The pain was there, but it no longer ruled him.
The latch turned softly, and Sorcha stepped back inside, hair damp and clean, the scent of soap and heather following her. She looked wary, unsure, but her eyes softened when they met his.
Calum smiled faintly. “Ye smell less like battle now.”
“Ye smell worse,” she said, arching a brow.
He laughed, wincing. “Fair enough.”
Her gaze flicked to the table, where the sealed letter lay. “Ye’ve been workin’.”
“Aye. Sent word to Glenbrae.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “A few escaped into the hills. I’d not see them find safe ground in Glenbrae. Your father and his men should ken of the risk—and if they come across any sign, they’ll send word. I’ve promised we’ll ride to aid them if battle comes.”
He paused, his gaze steady on her. “I also made it known that you were the one who saved our clan—that Strathloch would be lost without ye.”
Something unspoken flickered in her eyes — a shadow of pride, pain, and disbelief all at once.
“I did what needed doin’,” she murmured.
He nodded. “Aye. As did I.”
A faint quiet stretched between them, the kind that neither hurt nor healed — simply was.
Then, softly:
“I’ve need of the brooch ye gave me, Calum,” she said after a moment, breaking the silence that hung between them.
He huffed out a laugh and lifted it from where it sat on the covers. He watched as she pinned it, securing his mother’s plaid once more across her shoulder. When she leaned back, her eyes lingered on the fire instead of him, the light catching in the clean sheen of her hair.
The silence between them was quiet, but not cold.
And for Calum, that was enough — for now.