Chapter Six
Calum
He watched her from the far end of the great hall—chin lifted, back straight, every motion measured and still somehow defiant. She didn’t once look at him.
Not when they muttered curses beneath their breath. Not when she slipped near the larder—where someone had spilled water across the stones. Not even when Elspeth shoved her, sending the pot of stew from her hands to the floor with a dull thud, and the room turned on her like hounds scenting blood.
She said naught. Just cleaned the mess, her gown stained, her pride swallowed whole.
And still, she didna break.
Calum leaned against the stone wall, arms folded across his chest, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Let her try and win them over with her Highland airs and bonnie face. Let her suffer the same coldness she’d shown his people—now her people too.
He’d warned her this union would mean nothing.
She’d still come.
Still stood beside him in the kirk, pledged herself before God and kin. He knew she hadn’t a choice—but she’d walked into his keep all the same, and Calum had decided to lay the fault of the entire mess of their betrothal and marriage at Sorcha’s feet, whether it was fair or not.
And now she bore it all in silence.
But something coiled low in his gut as he watched her. She wasn’t soft, as he’d expected. No tears. No pleas. No wounded glances sent his way.
He’d seen that look before—on the faces of warriors.
She was stubborn—quiet as snowfall, but sharp as wind off the northern peaks. Unyielding. Unforgiving. Dangerous.
He hated that about her.
Later, he found Elspeth near the solar, curled like a kitten upon the bench, hands tucked beneath her chin, lips parted in a dainty pout.
He had known Elspeth since they were bairns. And he knew well the kind of woman she was.
Clever. Calculating. Coy. She always got her way.
He’d once admired it—respected it, even. She wasn’t strong, or highborn. But she’d learned to use what she had—her smallness, her fae-like beauty, her softness—as a blade. A dagger sheathed in silk. A weapon all its own.
“Calum,” she cooed, her voice high and sugar-sweet, like honey poured too thick. “Ye promised ye’d walk with me after the nooning meal.”
“I said I’d try,” he muttered, stepping past her.
She followed, all fluttering lashes and soft steps. “She’s cruel to me,” she whispered. “I’ve done naught but try to be kind. And still she treats me like the enemy.”
He cast her a glance. “Is that so?”
“I only wish to help her feel welcome.” Her eyes glimmered—tears, mayhap. Or something else. “But she’s so cold. So proud. I think… I think she hates me.”
Calum’s mouth curved. “Can’t imagine why.”
Elspeth blinked. “Ye don’t think she’s… jealous? Of us?”
He laughed—a low, mirthless sound. “She doesna care enough to be jealous.”
But the words left a strange weight behind them.
He tried not to think of the hopeful look she’d worn the day they first met—before the vows, before he’d told her Elspeth held his heart.
He tried not to think of her hands that morning—raw and reddened from lifting stores. Of the way she’d never once asked for help. Or the steel in her gaze as she walked through a keep full of knives, chin high, spine straight.
“She’ll leave, eventually,” Elspeth breathed, moving closer. “I’ll make sure of it. Then we can be together, as we were meant.”
He looked away.
Would she?
***
That eve, his father summoned him to the great hall. The old man sat near the hearth, one leg stretched stiff before him, tankard in hand.
“Ye’ve made a fool o’ yerself, lad.”
Calum tensed. “How so?”
“Letting yer wife be mocked under yer own roof. Letting her shoulder burdens not hers to bear, while folk watch and sneer. Ye think that makes ye look strong?”
Calum’s jaw clenched. “Ye knew when the wedding was arranged that I loved Elspeth. I told Sorcha plain—she’d be wife in name only.”
“Aye, and it was foolishness then, and worse now.” His father’s gaze turned sharp. “She’s yer wife. Lady o’ this keep. And when ye let folk treat her like less, they begin to think you’re less.”
Calum said nothing.
“She’s strong, that one. Stronger than half the men here. She’s done her duty—to her clan and now to ours—though we’ve shown her naught but contempt. And still she works. Still she endures. Mark me, lad—she’ll make ye strong, if ye let her.”
He took a slow sip from his tankard. “But lift up Elspeth at yer wife’s expense, and you’ll weaken the very spine of this household.”
At training the next morn, a rider galloped into the yard, the MacAlasdair crest bright on his cloak. The lad dismounted, breathless, and pressed a sealed missive into Calum’s hand.
War had come to the Highland lands.
A border feud had turned bloody, and Glenbrae’s allies were called to rise.
Strathloch would answer.
The call went out before midday. Horns sounded through the glen. Swords were drawn and whetstones passed. Armor oiled and straps pulled tight.
The great courtyard filled with men and kinfolk alike. Some jested. Some prayed. Some kissed their babes and clutched their lovers with quiet desperation.
Elspeth was there, of course—pressed against his side, straightening his cloak, placing a kiss on his cheek with trembling lips. Her hands lingered a little too long, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
As he prepared to ride, Elspeth fussed over his cloak and kissed his cheek, voice sweet and worried.
But Calum’s gaze drifted past her.
No Sorcha.
She didn’t come to see him off.
Didn’t offer a charm or a word or even a glance.
Didn’t fulfill even the thinnest thread of duty.
It was expected. Tradition. A farewell from one’s wife—spoken or not—was a blessing before war.
But she was nowhere.
And as Calum rode out at the head of Strathloch’s line, the weight in his chest pressed heavier than the blade at his back.
He told himself it was anger. Wounded pride.
Not disappointment.
But he wasna sure he believed it.