Chapter Nine
Elder Domhnall MacRae
They had lost five clansfolk during the attack—their bodies wrapped and ready for burial by the time the sun began to rise over Strathloch.
Elder MacRae stood at the crest of the hill beyond the kirk, watching smoke drift from half-doused fires and shattered thatch.
The scent of damp earth, blood, and old grief lingered in the morning air.
The young were digging out what was left of the granary.
The old tended the wounded. And Sorcha—somewhere in between—moved where she was needed, one moment stitching a wound, the next soothing a weeping child.
Even now, with her arm bandaged and blood crusting her sleeve, she worked tirelessly.
An arrowhead hadn't passed clean through, and removing it had been brutal.
Still, she had gritted her teeth and kept going. She was truly the Lady of their clan.
And the rest—those who once whispered about the MacAlasdair girl in corners and behind closed doors—were silent now, their eyes cast downward.
Domnhall inhaled sharply, his shoulders aching with age and regret. He had been Laird for many years, had seen many battles and buried his share of kin. But this—this betrayal—felt heavier. He acted as Laird in Calum's stead now, while Calum was still away, assisting Glenbrae in their feud.
Too far away. Too long gone. And in his absence, his people had bled.
"We've three of the raiders alive," Fergus, one of his oldest friends and most loyal soldiers, reported grimly.
"And the guard who abandoned his post at our border's eastern entrance.
Confessed it clean. Said he was paid, and promised the MacAlasdair harlot would be killed.
Seems half the clan had the wrong idea about our new Lady MacRae. "
"And Elspeth's brother?"
Fergus nodded. "Ran when the fighting started. Thought we wouldn't notice. Found him hiding not far from here hours ago."
His lip curled. "He had a blade on his hip, polished and unused."
Elder MacRae grunted. Cowardice often hid behind a silken tongue and velvet cloak.
By midday, their dead were buried and the truth dragged out: bribery, betrayal, and cowardice.
As they understood it, Elspeth and her brother had bartered their people's safety for coin and the illusion of power.
The guard had sold his loyalty for a handful of silver.
The raiders had been told there would be no resistance, that the clan was docile and so long as Sorcha was killed they were free to raid their stores.
And they hadn't even spoken to Elspeth yet. She still sat in the cell below the keep.
Unrepentant. Silent. Waiting for someone else to clean her mess—as always.
They hadn't counted on Sorcha.
In the days that followed, the mood shifted. First came the whispers—not of shame, but of awe.
"She stood her ground with a sword in her hand and three men dead at her feet."
"Took an arrow through the arm and didn't even falter."
"She killed the one who cut down poor Alastair. Shot him straight through the eye."
Then came the confessions.
"Lady Sorcha came to my cottage when the bairn had the fever. Brought herbs. Stayed the night."
"Mended our thatch after the last storm. Said it wasn't proper for a child to sleep under leaks."
"Brought food when we had none. Never said where it came from."
One by one, the clansfolk remembered what they had refused to see: the Glenbrae lass had bled for them before they'd ever offered her bread. She had been mocked, shunned, and left to fend for herself—and yet she had done what was right.
Even when they hadn't.
They remembered how Calum had treated her. The coldness in his eyes. The dismissive tone he took when he spoke to her. The way he looked through her like she was a stone in his path instead of the woman meant to walk beside him. How he had never once corrected Elspeth's cruelty.
How his silence had given others permission to do the same.
And for the first time, Elder MacRae saw shame spread across their faces like mist over the moors.
On the fifth night, he called a meeting in the longhouse. Only the senior warriors, the tenants, and a few of the wise women came. He did not ask for permission.
He stood tall despite the pain in his knees. "Lady Sorcha MacAlasdair is of this clan by bond and by deed. If my son cannot see it, that is his failing—not hers. From this day forth, any man or woman who slanders her does so at the cost of my respect. And they'll find little welcome hereafter."
His voice cracked, but he did not lower it. "This clan owes her a debt. And I'll see it paid."
There were no cheers. Just nods. Bowed heads. An old woman in the corner wept softly, dabbing at her face with a worn kerchief.
Later that night, Elder MacRae found Sorcha in the stables, tending to a horse that had taken a cut to the flank.
"You should rest," he said gently.
She didn't look up. "Not tired."
He didn't press her. He stepped beside her and looked over the wound. "He'll carry the scar, but he'll walk."
"So will I."
He nodded. Then, after a long pause, he said, "Your father spoke often of your skill, Sorcha. Not just with numbers or managing a household, but with the bow and the sword. I confess, I thought it was merely a father's boast." He paused. "I see now I was wrong."
Her lips parted, just slightly—like she might speak. But she said nothing.
Sorcha didn't answer. But her hands slowed. Her shoulders eased—just a little.
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it was a start.