Chapter 47
Sorcha
Winter had deepened its hold over Strathloch. The hills lay white beneath a sky the color of pewter, and every breath hung visible in the air like smoke.
It had been nearly a month since Calum sent word to Glenbrae, granting her father leave to visit for Yuletide.
Word had finally returned confirming the visit, and her father was due to arrive within a fortnight for the Yuletide.
The thought of seeing him again stirred something fragile inside her—a mix of longing, fear, and quiet hope.
Life within the keep had settled into a rhythm she cherished.
She and Calum worked side by side now—sharing the morning councils, reviewing the guard rotations, breaking bread together each night.
Some evenings they sat before the hearth until the candles burned low, speaking of everything and nothing—the clans, the harvest, the stubborn mule that refused to be shoed, and once, softly, of her mother’s laughter.
Sorcha had never known peace like this. Her heart was full. And yet, some small part of her still ached.
The ache sharpened when Duncan and Katherine stood before the clan that morning, hands joined, faces alight with pride and joy.
Duncan had asked for her hand, and Katherine had granted him her troth.
Their vows were simple and earnest, but when they kissed to seal the promise, the hall erupted in cheers.
Sorcha had clapped with the rest, truly glad for them both—but as she watched her friend blush and lean into Duncan’s touch, a different kind of longing bloomed low in her chest. Not envy—never that. But yearning.
She wanted more than duty and quiet companionship. She wanted the rest of what life could offer—the closeness, the warmth, the promise of shared breath and heartbeat.
Her gaze had drifted then, to where Calum stood speaking animatedly with Duncan and Domnhall near the fire.
The firelight threw gold across his face, catching in his hair and outlining the sharp line of his jaw.
He was laughing—freely, boyishly—and the sound made her heart twist in a way that frightened and comforted her all at once.
She made her choice then. She would speak with him that evening.
The feast ended late, the great hall still echoing with the remnants of laughter and music. Calum offered his arm as they walked the corridor toward her chamber, the quiet between them companionable. The torches along the wall burned low, and their shadows stretched long over the stone.
When they reached her door, she hesitated.
“Calum,” she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
He stopped, turning toward her. “Aye?”
She looked up at him, heart pounding. “I’m happy for Duncan and Katherine. Truly. They’re both so full of joy, and it’s a beautiful thing to see.”
He smiled faintly. “Aye, it is. Duncan near burst when she said yes.”
Sorcha laughed, a short breath that trembled halfway between amusement and nerves. “He deserves it. They both do.” Her fingers tightened on the edge of her plaid, and she drew a deeper breath. “I’ve been thinkin’, Calum. About us.”
He grew still, the warmth in his eyes softening. “Go on.”
“I’m happy,” she said simply. “Happier than I ever thought I could be. We talk, we work side by side, we… we’ve begun again, I think.” Her gaze lifted to meet his. “But there’s still somethin’ missin’—a part of me that’s restless.”
He frowned slightly. “What kind of restlessness?”
“The kind that comes from wantin’,” she whispered.
“All my life, I dreamed of the things a wife might have—a home, a husband who is also her friend, a clan to care for, and bairns. Many, many bairns.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on.
“I thought after our marriage, those dreams would come with time. But I’ve spent too long afraid—of losin’, of hopin’ too much. ”
She drew a shuddering breath. “Now I’m not afraid anymore. I want to live the life we were meant to have. I want to be husband and wife in truth.”
Calum’s throat worked, his voice low when it came. “I love you Sorcha…”
She reached out, cupping his jaw to silence him, her gaze fierce.
But she lifted her chin, steady now. “And I love you Calum MacRae. I ken ye’ve been patient, and I’ve been grateful for it. But I want our marriage to be real, starting tonight.”
Her words hung between them, the air thick with their weight.
Calum’s hand rose, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, his touch as soft as breath.
“Are you sure?” he asked again, voice hushed but rough at the edges.
Sorcha nodded. “Aye, Calum. I’m sure.”
For a heartbeat neither moved, the space between them humming like the drawn string of a bow.
Calum’s hand found the latch, but he hesitated, eyes searching hers once more for permission. Sorcha reached out, laying her hand over his, and together they pressed the door open.
The fire still burned low within, the air faintly scented with warm oak and a crisp, resinous pine.
He closed the door behind them, and the quiet that followed was the kind that belonged to sacred things.
The scent reminded Sorcha of Agnes, her friend in the kitchen, who had given her a small bundle of dried pine needles to place near the coals for clean air.
He turned to her slowly. “If I hurt ye—if ye change your mind—”
“I won’t,” she whispered.
For a long heartbeat they only looked at each other, neither daring to move first. Then he reached for her, one hand lifting to her jaw, his thumb grazing her bottom lip where it trembled.
When he kissed her, it wasn’t tentative—slow, yes, but deep, the kind of kiss that spoke of hunger kept too long at bay.
She sighed against him, her hands pressing to his chest, feeling the strength there, the thrum of his heart under coarse linen.
When he deepened the kiss, her breath hitched.
The rasp of his beard, the weight of his body inching closer—it was almost too much.
He drew back just an inch, eyes heated, voice rough.
“Tell me if I go too far.”
Her answer came steady but soft. “Ye won’t.”
He kissed her again, slower, his mouth gentling hers until her whole body trembled. One hand settled firm at her waist, urging her closer; the other traced the side of her neck, down to where her pulse fluttered. Fear, restraint, guilt—all of it slipped away beneath his touch.
They undressed together, garments tumbling silently to the floor. His palms skimmed from her shoulders to her breast, circling, teasing, until her breath came in shallow bursts. When his lips moved to her throat, she gasped his name—half sound, half prayer.
“God help me,” he breathed against her skin. “I’ve wanted this—wanted ye—for so long.”
Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently until he met her gaze. “Then take what’s already yours.”
He lifted her, her legs instinctively twining around his waist, her arms around his neck. The world narrowed to the sound of their hearts and the muffled creak of the bed beneath his weight. Laying her down, he kissed her knees, one after the other, then parted her thighs and knelt between them.
His fingers traced her folds, and the sudden spark made her jerk. He steadied her with a hand across her belly, eyes never leaving hers. When he lowered his head, his breath ghosting over her, she heard his voice—low, reverent. “Let me taste ye, mo chridhe.”
Then his tongue found her, a soft flick at first, then deeper, patient strokes that drew whispered pleas from her lips.
The sensations built—a coil of tension wound deep in her belly until she clenched the sheets.
Her thighs trembled around his shoulders as he drew her higher, coaxing her over the edge until the tension snapped, and pleasure unfurled through her in fierce, rolling waves. She cried his name, raw and unguarded.
He rose, kissed the inside of her thigh, then braced himself above her.
His mouth found hers again, their kiss tasting of heat and want.
She felt him guide himself to her entrance, the blunt weight of him pressing forward until he eased inside, slow but sure.
The stretch made her gasp, the ache blooming into heat. He paused, trembling.
“Are ye with me?” he asked, voice shaking.
Her reply was a breath. “Aye. Always.”
He began to move—slow, rhythmic, each thrust driving deeper. The sound of their bodies filled the room, the low groan from his chest sending shivers up her spine. He buried his face against her neck, murmuring between breaths.
“Sorcha—God, mo chridhe—ye feel so good. Move with me, love.”
She did, hips rising to meet him, their bodies moving together in a desperate, hungry rhythm—an ancient, unspoken music binding them tight.
Sweat slicked their skin, warmth pressed deep against warmth, every sinew straining and seeking.
The rise and fall of their breath mingled with the slick, rhythmical sound of flesh meeting flesh.
The pleasure built again, sharper, fiercer, rolling like wildfire through her veins until it shattered them both—her cry raw and urgent, tearing free from the soul within.
He tensed, every muscle alive and trembling, and her name spilled from his lips like a prayer, desperate and sacred.
When the trembling eased, he stayed inside her, their chests pressed together, breath unsteady. He kissed her softly, his words a whisper against her mouth.
“I love ye,” he murmured.
Her breath caught, the words sinking deep before she found her voice. “I love you too, Calum,” she whispered back, the sound soft as a sigh between them.
The fire burned low, the wind brushing gently against the shutters. Sorcha lay with her head on his chest, his hand tangled in her hair. He pressed a kiss to her brow, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler beneath.
“Sleep, mo chridhe,” he said quietly. “Ye’re safe with me.”
Her eyes fluttered open just enough to catch his next words, murmured like a secret meant only for her.
“What was that?” she asked drowsily.
“That I’ll spend the rest of my days earnin’ what ye gave me tonight,” he said.
Her smile was faint but sure. “Then we’ll both be busy, husband.”
He laughed softly, the sound rumbling beneath her ear. “Aye, wife. That we will.”
After a time, the laughter faded into quiet.
Calum shifted, drawing her closer until her back rested against his chest, his arm fitting snug around her waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing pressed warm against the curve of her neck, his thumb tracing small, absent circles over her hip.
The world outside had gone still, the kind of silence that came only in the deep hours before dawn.
Sorcha’s fingers brushed his forearm where it crossed her middle, anchoring him there. “Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice soft, half-sleeping. “Don’t leave.”
He bent his head, his lips finding the edge of her hair. “Never again,” he murmured. “Ye have my word.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, a single tear slipping free—not of sorrow, but of peace.
“Never again,” she breathed in reply, the words barely more than a sigh against the dark.
His breath warmed her shoulder as he whispered it once more, lower, like a vow spoken only for her:
“Never again.”
And with his promise—and her echo—she slept, unguarded at last, the ache of all their yesterdays quieted by the steady beat of his heart.