Chapter Two
MacAlasdair Keep, Glenbrae- Two Years Ago
Sorcha MacAlasdair, Age Six and Ten
Sorcha had never worn blue silk before.
The colour suited her—at least according to her brother’s new bride, who stood behind her now, fastening the final row of pearl buttons down the back of her gown.
“There,” Mairead murmured, smoothing a gentle hand over Sorcha’s shoulders. “Strathloch willnae ken what’s struck them.”
Sorcha smiled faintly at the looking-glass, though she barely recognised the girl staring back. Her freckles had faded since summer, her cheekbones grown more defined. She looked… proper. Quiet. Hopeful, perhaps.
It was foolish to hope. She kent that well enough.
And yet, as the carriage waited in the courtyard, horses stamping in the misty Highland morning, Sorcha allowed herself one reckless, dangerous thought:
Perhaps Strathloch would be where she truly belonged.
Since her mother’s passing, she had done all that was asked of her—kept her father’s household, tended the sick when no one else would, soothed tempers, remembered feast days, seen that things simply ran. It had earned her respect.
But not affection.
Not a place. Just duty—and a borrowed title she wore until it passed to another.
The moment her brother wed, his new wife had stepped into the role of lady of the keep as if it had always been hers. And now Sorcha—Sorcha had been dressed like an offering and sent away.
To Strathloch.
To her future.
To acquaint herself with the man they said she would wed.
When her carriage arrived, she was shown to the laird’s solar. The door stood open. Firelight flickered across the stone floor, casting long shadows on old timber and dark iron sconces. A man stood at the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, one hand braced on the mantle. He turned as she entered.
Calum MacRae. Her betrothed.
He looked as cold as the stones the hearth was built from.
Dark-haired, clean-shaven, his face was sharp and strong—not unhandsome, but grim.
Tired, perhaps. His plaid hung from one shoulder, belted over a plain linen shirt.
A sword rested at his hip, the scabbard worn.
This was no court-dressed nobleman. This was a Highland laird’s son who bled when he fought.
His gaze passed over her—cool, assessing. She dropped into a curtsy.
“My lord.”
“You’re Sorcha MacAlasdair.”
“Aye.”
He studied her a moment longer. Then, with no welcome and no trace of warmth, he said flatly, “There is someone you should ken of.”
She blinked. “Someone?”
“She is the wife of my heart,” he said, voice even and distant. “When we marry, you will respect her. And you should not expect any affection from me.”
The words struck like a blow—unexpected, unearned, and final.
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
She’d come with no illusions. She knew this marriage wasn’t hers to choose. But part of her—a silly, naive part—had hoped there might be a beginning. A shared purpose. A kindness. Even a glimmer of more. It had been so long since she’d felt cared for.
Instead, she’d been dismissed before she’d even spoken.
“I understand completely,” she said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She saw the flicker of surprise on Calum’s face. It didnae move her.
Sorcha dipped into another curtsy. This one lower. Measured. Then she turned and left the solar without a word.
She did not speak again until it was time to leave.
She waited in the stone hall, seated on a carved bench, hands folded, spine straight. She heard footsteps before she saw him—a step heavier than most, the sound uneven.
“Lady Sorcha,” came a voice she hadnae heard in years.
She looked up to find Laird MacRae, older than she remembered, his hair gone white at the temples. The sleeve of his left arm was pinned neatly at the shoulder. Her father had told her of the loss. Seeing it now brought the memory sharply into focus.
“My lord,” she said, rising and curtsying once more.
He smiled faintly and offered a respectful bow of his head. “Your father speaks well of you. We’re glad to welcome you to Strathloch.”
The words might have meant something—had she not already been greeted by cold stone and silence. Still, she offered a polite nod. And when it was time, she walked to the courtyard to begin her journey home.
As the carriage door opened and the step was lowered, Sorcha gathered her skirts and paused, glancing back at the keep. The sliver of hope she’d carried with her to Strathloch had been well and truly extinguished.
She donned the only armour she had.
Her expression smoothed to calm, her shoulders squared. The stony mask settled in place.
She stepped into the carriage without another look back at the place that would be her home in two short years.
And as she was taken back to Glenbrae, the foolish, fragile muscle in her chest—the one that had dared to hope—began to harden.
Because Calum MacRae had already made his choice.
And she vowed then and there… she would never soften her heart to him again.