Chapter Three
MacRae Keep, Strathloch
Sorcha MacAlasdair – Age Eight and Ten
Sorcha stood before the mirror, smoothing invisible creases in her gown.
She supposed she looked fine enough. Bonny, even.
Back home, the lads in her clan—her brothers’ friends included—had often said so.
Tresses of deep auburn, eyes the clear grey of a Highland loch at dawn.
Her mother had once been called bonny too—her hair a deep red, her gaze just as pale and piercing.
Folk oft said Sorcha was the very image of her at eighteen.
But her husband didna seem to notice.
She’d met him twice before the wedding. Both times, he’d looked at her like a spoiled hound he’d been ordered to feed.
At their first meeting, he’d barely offered a greeting before mentioning another woman.
“She is the wife of my heart,” he’d said, as if quoting some bloody tragic play.
Then, “You and I—this is only a matter of obligation.”
At the second, he’d made his expectations clear.
“Do your duty. You will not shame my clan. And you will stay out of my way.”
So she had expected little.
And received even less.
The wedding passed in a blessed blur. The circlet they placed on her head felt less like a crown and more like a chain—cold, unyielding, and far too heavy.
Her father had squeezed her hand once before giving her away.
Her brothers stood tall beside her, their silence heavy with unspoken promises of protection.
She’d felt nothing. Not joy, not sorrow. Only the bone-deep weariness of a lass who’d spent years holding her family and clan together, only to be handed off to a man who had loathed her on sight.
The feast afterward dragged on—a haze of music, ale, and sideways glances.
Calum—her husband now, she supposed—barely acknowledged her. He laughed and drank, his gaze drawn again and again to one woman in particular. No doubt the woman. The one he’d called the wife of his heart.
Sorcha had been seated apart from them, as though she were merely a guest at her own wedding.
Her gaze drifted across the hall, thick with smoke and the low hum of voices.
Near the high table, her father, Laird Eoin MacAlasdair, sat beside Laird Domhnall MacRae, Calum’s stern-faced sire.
The two men leaned close, their faces alight with quiet satisfaction as they raised their cups in a measured toast. Their eyes met often, exchanging unspoken words—bonds sealed in blood and honour.
A job well done, the gleam in their eyes seemed to say. Borders secured. Armies united.
Further down, her brothers gathered in a cluster with their clansmen—seasoned warriors and trusted household men brought from Glenbrae.
They sat with straight backs and watchful eyes, a compact force enough to show strength but small enough to keep the heart of the keep guarded.
Warriors from Strathloch had joined them, seated now among the men of Glenbrae.
The voices grew hearty, tales and tactics shared between drinks, the camaraderie easy but edged with caution. Sorcha heard what underlay their laughter: not friendship, but relief. They were glad to have allies, should either keep be attacked again.
Sorcha’s heart tightened. Her brothers were near, yet distant—as though they had already left to travel back to Glenbrae, to what was once her home.
They had brought her here, but from tonight forward, she would weather the storm alone.
Her name floated through the room, whispered behind fingers, tucked into laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
“She looks cold,” someone muttered.
“Too proud by half.”
“She’ll not last the winter, mark me. Highland soil rejects anything too fine.”
She sat through it all, spine straight, face unreadable.
Let them talk.
Later, her eldest brother Tavish came to check on her. His shadow filled the doorway of the solar, his broad frame a familiar comfort.
“How do ye fare, wee flame?”
She looked up, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I ken my duty.”
His jaw clenched, the muscle there twitching with something between fury and helplessness. But he only nodded.
“Aye. That ye do.”
He left her then, and Sorcha remained in silence a while longer, the noise of the feast drifting up through the stone walls like a distant storm.
Her gaze slid to the window, in the direction of Glenbrae—and she could feel herself being drawn back into the memories.
To when she’d been a wee lass of ten, and had watched her mother fall to a raider’s blade.
Sorcha had arrived too late.
She could still feel the weight of the dagger in her palm. Still hear the sound of steel meeting flesh when she drove it into the man’s side—her mother’s blood still warm beneath her knees, the raider’s blood hot on her hands.
She hadn’t cried then, either.
After that day, her father and brothers had sworn she would never be helpless again.
Ewan had trained her with the longbow, patient and relentless.
Fergus taught her the blade—gruff and proud when she knocked him back the first time.
Even their father had joined in at times, his grief buried beneath hard purpose.
A MacAlasdair might be many things—dutiful, clever, even political—but never defenseless.
She’d become something quiet and unshakable. Not hard, but honed.
They had shaped her for survival.
And now they had handed her to a man who wanted none of her strength. Only her silence.
Sorcha stood, smoothed her gown, and left the room.
She stood not long after, feigning fatigue. Tired of being gossiped about and ignored in equal measure, she’d made her excuses and retired early, slipping away from the revelry like a shadow at dusk.
That night, the fire burned low in the hearth of the bridal chamber, casting long shadows across stone. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air—a maid’s attempt at warmth and comfort.
Sorcha stood at the hearth, the flickering light catching the reddish-brown strands of her hair, lighting them like fire through honey. She didn’t move when Calum entered.
He tossed his plaid over the chair with careless hands and said, “Don’t mistake my presence here for anything more than duty. Whatever vows were spoken, this marriage is nothing to me. You are nothing to me.”
“You’ve made yourself clear,” Sorcha replied, her voice calm as still water.
He didn’t meet her eyes, but she felt him watching her—waiting for something. Anger, tears, pleading. Some sign of weakness.
She gave him none.
He poured himself a drink, then added, “You’ve your title now. Your borders are safe. Your clan’s secured. Congratulations.”
She said nothing. Didn’t even look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the fire.
“I suppose you expect me to thank you,” he said, his tone darkening. “Or fall in line.”
“I expect nothing,” she said simply. “You made your thoughts of me and our marriage known.”
“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 stiffened. He hadn’t realized she’d heard that.
“You needn’t worry,” she continued. “I will not compete for your affection. I will serve your people as is expected. I will not shame your house. But I will not beg for a place in it either.”
She crossed the room, lay on the far side of the bed, 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 silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving.
“We need only share this room tonight—for appearances’ sake. 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.”
He didn’t reply.
She heard the shift of his boots. The scrape of the door latch. The faint click as it closed behind him.
She lay still, the fire’s warmth brushing her back like a whisper.
And for a moment—just a moment—her throat tightened.
But no tears came.
They never did.
Not anymore.