Chapter 45
Calum
The keep had found its rhythm again.
Smoke rose thin from the smithy, men’s voices carrying across the yard.
Winter pressed close now; the first snow had fallen in the night, soft and fleeting, melting slow beneath the morning sun.
The air held the scent of cold earth and peat smoke, a promise of harder days ahead.
The clang of hammers and the murmur of drills filled the days—not with fear, but with purpose.
Calum stood in the doorway of the great hall, one arm bound in a sling that crossed his chest. The healer said it would keep him from pulling at the stitches when he moved. It did—and served as a steady reminder of how close the arrow had come.
He drew a slow breath. It still hurt, but less than it had yesterday—and less again than the day before.
Two weeks had passed since the attack. That morning, the healer had told him the stitches could soon be taken out, before smearing more of the sharp-smelling tincture she used to keep the wound clean and the flesh knitting true. Foul stuff, but it did its work.
Below, Sorcha crossed the yard with Duncan and Katherine at her side.
The three moved as one—steady, purposeful.
She’d taken back her place among them as though she’d never left it.
Her hair was bound tight in a braid over one shoulder, her stride sure, her voice carrying clear as she set the next rotation for the wall watch.
The sight steadied him more than any tonic could. Still, a quiet ache settled in his chest that had little to do with the wound.
Duncan spotted him first and came forward, grinning. “Ye’re upright. The healer will have my hide for lettin’ ye stand so long.”
“I’ll risk it,” Calum said, voice rough but steady. “What word from the patrols?”
“All quiet. We’ve scouts sweeping the ridge in pairs. Katherine’s set the women to the north parapet till midnight.”
“Good. Keep them armed—even when all seems calm. The women’ve keener eyes than half the men I’ve trained. Raiders like the quiet hours best.”
Duncan hesitated. “The rider returned from Glenbrae. Thought ye’d want the news first.”
Calum’s shoulders straightened. “Aye? Speak.”
“He arrived back last night. Glenbrae’s patrols found no sign of raiders—no tracks, no camps, no bodies. Their scouts searched the southern glens and the old pass. Nothing.”
Calum exhaled slowly. “So they’ve vanished into the hills.”
“Aye. Or starved tryin’.” Duncan paused. “Eoin sends his thanks for the warnin’—and his steel, should Strathloch call for it. And… there’s word of Niall and Mairi as well. They arrived safe. Their healer helped deliver a strong, healthy bairn. They bid ye share their thanks.”
Calum’s expression softened. “Good news, at last.” His voice dropped, quieter. “I’m glad they’ve found safety—and a place to start again.”
“Aye,” Duncan said. “They’re still no’ permitted inside Glenbrae’s walls, but they’ve made themselves useful to the crofters in the lower glen—helpin’ where the healers fall short, tradin’ what they can. Seems they’ve found their place after all.”
That last line eased something tight in Calum’s chest. “Then there’s still trust between us,” he said quietly. “Good. Keep a watch nonetheless. I’ve seen men vanish before only to come back worse than ghosts.”
“Aye, my laird.” Duncan scratched at his beard, then grinned. “Ye’ve a wife who could frighten devils from the gate. I doubt we’ll see trouble soon.”
Calum’s mouth twitched. “Mind your tongue before she hears ye.”
Duncan chuckled and started to turn, then stopped, snapping his fingers. “Ah—nearly forgot.”
Calum arched a brow. “Aye?”
“Eoin MacAlasdair sent more than a letter of thanks,” Duncan said. “He’s asked leave to visit Strathloch over the Yule tide. Says it’s time the clans shared peace in person.”
Calum stilled, brows drawing together. “Did he now.”
“Aye. I told the rider ye’d want time to think on it—and to speak with Lady Sorcha first.”
Calum nodded slowly, the thought settling heavy but not unwelcome. “Aye. Best it come from her.”
Duncan inclined his head. “As ye say, my laird.” He gave a faint grin. “I’ll tell the men to keep the road clear in case ye grant it.”
Calum gave a brief nod, his thoughts already far ahead—to what Sorcha might say, and how she might take such news.
Duncan turned toward where Katherine stood among their kin, overseeing the day’s drills. He moved to join her, his voice rising as he began shouting new orders across the yard. The sound carried—steel ringing, men drilling, women stringing bows. Life returning.
Sorcha caught sight of Calum and strode to meet him halfway, brow arched. “Ye should be abed.”
“I’ve had my fill of lying still,” he said. “The healer swore the sling would keep me honest.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to the bound arm, then to his face. “It suits ye less than command.”
“I’ll take that as praise.” His smile was small but real. “The rider’s returned. Glenbrae’s seen no sign of the raiders.”
Her steps faltered. “My father sent word?”
“Aye.” Calum studied her expression, the flicker that passed through it—relief, disbelief, something softer underneath. “He thanked us for the warning. Said if Strathloch bleeds, Glenbrae bleeds too.”
Sorcha looked past him toward the frost-bright hills. “He’s a man of his word. He’ll keep the border safe.”
Calum nodded. “Aye. And now he knows ye’re safe, too.”
The next words caught behind his teeth. He thought of Duncan’s message—of Eoin MacAlasdair’s offer to come north.
He wanted to tell her then, to see her face, to learn if the thought brought her peace or dread.
But something held him. She’d been through enough.
Another day or two would make no difference.
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes fixed on some far point in the hills. Then she drew a slow breath. “When ye said ye’d write him, I’ll not lie—I feared what he’d think. Feared how it might look.” Her gaze lifted to his. “But I’m glad ye did, Calum. Thank ye.”
He said nothing at first, only met her eyes and nodded once. “It was past time he heard good of ye again.”
Her hand rose, hesitating a moment before finding his.
Their fingers laced together, the warmth of her skin grounding him more than any words.
She held on a heartbeat longer than she meant to, then let her hand slip free.
Before he could speak, she leaned in and brushed a kiss to his cheek—light, fleeting, but enough to leave him still as stone.
“For that,” she murmured. “And for savin’ me.”
Calum’s throat worked, the words caught there. “Ye’ve saved me in turn,” he managed, rough but honest.
Her lips curved faintly—neither smile nor denial, something softer in between. “Then we’re even,” she said.
A shout rang across the yard, and Sorcha turned toward the sound. Duncan and Katherine stood near the training circle, their heads bent close as they spoke. Duncan was grinning like a fool; Katherine’s cheeks were pink as winter apples. Sorcha’s lips lifted in a quiet smile.
“She told me Duncan went to her brother,” Sorcha said softly, her gaze still on them. “To ask proper leave to court her. Brave of him—and braver still of her, to let him.”
Calum followed her gaze. “She’s strong,” he said.
“Aye,” Sorcha murmured. “Strong, and unashamed of it. I’m proud of her—and of the others. The women and lads who’ve chosen to learn, to fight. To no’ be helpless, even when the world expects them to be.” She looked back at him then, eyes bright with quiet fire. “It matters, Calum. All of it.”
He reached for her hand again, just brushing his fingers to hers. “Aye,” he said. “It does.”
“They had a fine teacher,” he added quietly.
Her eyes flicked toward him. “Flattery ill becomes a laird with stitches.”
“Truth never hurts,” he said lightly. “Not half so much as arrows.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Mind ye don’t test either.”
“I’ll try.”
They stood a while in the cold, the keep alive around them—hammer strikes, laughter, the distant bark of a dog. For once, silence between them felt easy.
Finally Sorcha drew a breath. “I’ll walk the parapet before nightfall.”
“I’ll have Duncan double the southern watch.”
She gave a short nod and moved off, calling orders as she went. Calum watched her climb the wall steps, the plaid at her shoulders stirring in the wind, the last of the sun catching its threads like gold.
He lingered in the doorway long after she vanished from sight, his mind circling back to the message Duncan had delivered. Sorcha’s father, here—at Strathloch. The thought was a weight and a wonder both. He’d tell her soon. But not yet.
The wound would mend. So would Strathloch.
And maybe, just maybe, so would they.