Chapter One
MacRae Keep, Strathloch
Calum MacRae- Age Five and Twenty
The bells rang clear and cold across the glen, their echo slipping through the mountain pass like mist—calling folk to witness what he’d give near anything to ignore.
Calum MacRae shifted the weight of his formal plaid across his shoulder, the ancient colours of Strathloch pressing down like chains. Around him, the folk of his clan gathered in tight rows, their breath misting in the Highland air, faces bright with curiosity and cheer.
At the far end of the clearing, beneath the arch of twisted hawthorn, stood his bride.
Still as carved stone.
Sorcha MacAlasdair.
She wore the silver veil of her house with quiet dignity, hands folded before her, flanked by her two formidable brothers—Tavish, the Bloodhound of Glenbrae, who could wield a broadsword like a bread knife, and Fergus, true of aim and deadly with a longbow, a man said to cut an adversary down with but a single, true-flown arrow.
Her father, Laird Eoin, stood behind them, silent and grim as a winter cairn.
Sorcha didn’t flinch beneath the weight of a hundred watching eyes. Steady as the mountain, they called her in Glenbrae. Not because she was unmoving—but because she bore everything—grief, duty, expectation—with the same unshakable quiet.
And he hated it.
Hated that she looked every inch the perfect bride—graceful, composed, untouched by nerves—while he stood here feeling like a cur leashed to the wrong post.
Because no matter how fine she looked, she’d never be Elspeth.
The sting of that truth landed again, sharp as a slap.
Elspeth, the blacksmith’s daughter—the lass he’d loved since boyhood—stood somewhere in the crowd. Watching. Bearing witness. He didn’t look for her. He didn’t need to. Her gaze was a weight on his skin—felt, not seen.
Surrounded by friends—Elspeth was well-liked in Strathloch—they braced her with whispered kindness and pity. Her heartache had become common talk since the banns were read.
If fate were kind—or if he were any man but the heir of Strathloch—he would’ve wed her. But sons of lairds didn’t marry for love. They married to seal borders, forge peace, and stitch alliances with blood.
The priest cleared his throat.
“Do ye come freely to this union, Calum MacRae, son of Laird Domhnall of Strathloch?”
A breath of silence.
No, he wanted to say. No, I come because I must.
But his father’s stare was a blade pressed to the back of his neck.
“Aye,” he said, low and grim.
The rest blurred past in ritual and expectation.
***
After the handfasting, after the dancing, after too many toasts and far too much drink, Calum sat alone before the hearth in the great hall—his hall now, they’d begun to call it.
The title of Laird had been passed to him tonight. His father, once a fierce warrior, had made it official before the gathered clan, pride in his voice even as the fingers of his remaining hand tightened around the hilt of a sword he could no longer wield as he once had.
It should have felt like an honor. A legacy fulfilled.
But it didn’t.
Not tonight.
The fire cracked, shadows leaping like ghosts across the stone walls.
“You’ve a rare gift for disrespect.”
Calum didn’t need to turn. His father’s voice still carried weight.
“And a rarer fool’s heart,” Laird Domhnall added, stepping forward.
“Don’t start.”
“I started long ago, lad. Warned ye then, I’ll warn ye now—you shame yourself by carryin’ on with another. Worse still, ye shame her.”
Calum bit the inside of his cheek.
"Sorcha," his father went on, "has borne more loss and carried more burden than most men twice your age. Lost her mother young, aye—but it’s what came after that forged her into the stoic lass you wed. Took on the Lady’s mantle before she was even grown. Held a household together while still learnin’ how to be a woman herself.
And today, she stood beside ye with her chin high, knowin’ full well your heart lies elsewhere. "
He let that settle before adding, quieter, "You turn your nose up at duty like it’s beneath you—but she’s lived it longer than you’ve known what the word meant.
It’s duty that made her marry into a clan far from her own.
Duty that has her tryin’, even now, to be what our people need.
And she’ll keep doin’ it, whether anyone thanks her or not. "
“She doesn’t care,” Calum muttered. “She’s like ice. Cold. Unbothered.”
“Aye,” Domhnall said, settling into the chair beside him. “Because she’s learned not to show the wound until the blade’s pulled free.”
The old laird shook his head.
“You’ve a rare gem in your hand, Calum. Tend it, and it may yet shine. Neglect it, and it’ll dull and wither. Either way, the choice—and the consequence—is yours.”
***
By the time Calum climbed the stairs, most of the hall had emptied.
Sorcha had slipped away earlier, unnoticed and unmissed, while he drank with his friends—and with Elspeth. He’d made his choice plain, seating his new bride apart during the feast.
The bridal chamber was warm and faintly scented of peat smoke and dried lavender. A fire glowed in the hearth. The bed loomed wide and unfamiliar.
She was already there, seated at the edge of the mattress in her linen shift. Her auburn hair tumbled down her back in soft waves. Freckles dusted her pale skin, and her piercing grey eyes met his only briefly.
He tossed his plaid over the chair with careless hands, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the ease of the gesture. The fabric landed in a heap, forgotten.
“Don’t mistake my presence here for anything more than duty,” he said, the words sharp enough to wound—meant to. “Whatever vows were spoken, this marriage is nothing to me. You are nothing to me.”
Her voice, when it came, was calm as still water. “You’ve made yourself clear.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t. But he still felt her gaze—steady, silent. Waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure.
Anger? An apology? Remorse for his behaviour?
She gave him nothing.
The silence stretched, brittle and taut. He crossed the room and poured himself a drink to mask the weight behind his words—the weight behind all of this.
“You’ve your title now,” he muttered, bitterness thick on his tongue. “Your borders are safe. Your clan’s secured. Congratulations.”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. She simply stared into the fire as though he weren’t there at all.
That burned more than it should’ve.
“I suppose you expect me to thank you,” he went on, his voice lower now, darker. “Or fall in line.”
“I expect nothing,” she said, her tone even as ever. “You made your thoughts of me and our marriage known.”
His jaw tensed. “You mean when I said I didn’t want this?”
“Nay. ’Twas when you called me cold as stone. Pampered. More title than woman.”
He froze. He hadn’t meant for her to hear that. Hadn’t even realized she had.
Her voice didn’t waver. “You needn’t worry. I will not compete for your affection. I will serve your folk as is expected. I will not shame your house. But I will not beg for a place in it either.”
She rose, quiet as snowfall, and crossed to the bed. She lay on the far side and turned her back to him.
“Sleep where you like,” she said softly. “But kindly don’t insult me in my own bed.”
A long pause.
“We need only share this room tonight—for appearances’ sake,” she said at last. “Come morning, I’ll move to my own chamber. We’ll be husband and wife in name only, as you’ve reminded me so often.”
For once, Calum had no reply.
He stood there a long moment, the heat behind his collar no longer born of anger—but something darker.
Then, without a word, he stepped into the guest chamber next door and shut the door behind him.
He’d rise early, slip back into the bridal room before anyone was the wiser.
He had no intention of warming his so-called wife's bed—not that she’d seemed to want his company in it. Let her lie there alone—the proud Lady of Glenbrae, untouched and unwanted.
The clan would follow his lead. They always had.
It wouldn’t take long before they saw her as he did—cold, haughty, a highborn outsider thrust upon them.
And he’d help grow the seed of discontent between her and his clan.
Let Elspeth ken where his loyalty lay. This marriage was a contract, not a love match. A pact made in steel, not affection.
Sorcha might bear his name, but she’d never hold his heart. And by the time he was through, she wouldn’t hold the clan’s favour either.
He smiled.
Perhaps he’d grant Elspeth—the wife of his heart—the pleasure of reminding Sorcha of her place. A wedding gift, of sorts. He kent she’d relish the chance to wound the woman who’d stolen her rightful place beside him.