Chapter 13
Calum
The road home stretched long and narrow before them, a ribbon of packed earth winding through the Highland hills.
Two months gone, and every mile weighed heavier than the last. Calum rode at the head of his men, the weight of his sword and the ache in his bones a reminder that even victory demanded its price.
When the MacAlasdair rider had thundered into Strathloch's yard with Glenbrae's crest snapping on his cloak, Calum hadn't hesitated.
War on Glenbrae's borders meant allies were bound to rise—that had been the whole purpose of his father's treaty, the very reason he'd wed Sorcha MacAlasdair.
The pact between their clans wasn't just words on parchment; it was meant to hold firm in blood and steel when the call came.
And come it had.
The border feud had turned bloody fast, spilling like wildfire across Glenbrae's lands.
Weeks of long nights, bitter skirmishes, and steel clashing under gray skies had driven the invaders back.
By some mercy, none of his or Glenbrae's men had fallen, though blood had run in the fields where strangers dared cross their borders.
Now the land behind them lay quiet once more, Glenbrae's hold secure. Peace, hard-won and fragile, settled over the hills as Strathloch's banners came into sight.
Calum's chest tightened. He told himself it was relief, the ache of longing for home.
He looked forward to seeing Elspeth, his father, his own folk.
Though two months felt long, in truth it wasn't so much time—short enough a time that he expected to ride into his courtyard and find all as it had ever been: his father steady in his place, his people thriving, the keep unchanged.
At the first of Strathloch's gates, the guards spotted them, swinging the timber wide. They gave a quick nod and wave before letting the party through. Calum noticed the lack of cheer but shoved the thought aside, eager to set eyes on his kin again.
When they reached the heart of the village, folk emerged from doorways, gathering slowly.
They had known the returning party would be home before sunset, but not exactly when, so some came running late to greet them.
Faces lit with joy as wives and mothers and others spotted their kin—but Calum noted, with a twinge, that a few of his warriors had no loved ones waiting where once there had been.
He searched the crowd for Elspeth. For his father. For Sorcha. But only his clansfolk's familiar faces met his gaze—not the ones he longed to see—and none stepped forward to greet him.
Dismounting, Calum handed his reins to a stable lad who ran forward without a word.
It was then he noticed it—scorch marks blackening the stone of one of the nearby homes.
His eyes swept the courtyard. Another building with a notably new thatch roof.
More subtle signs of recent repairs caught his attention, and a silent weight settled in his chest. Something ill had passed through here.
At last, his father strode toward him, slower than Calum remembered, but his spine was still straight, his presence still commanding. The old laird clapped his son's shoulder with his good hand.
"By the saints, lad, 'tis a blessing to see ye hale and whole," his father said, voice rough but steady.
"And you as well, Da," Calum replied, his unease sharpening as his gaze lingered on the quiet scars of violence past. "God's truth, what's happened here? It looks as though Strathloch's seen misfortune in my absence."
The laird's expression was weary, lined deeper than Calum had ever seen. "Much has been lost, son," he said grimly. Then, quietly, he added, "We unknowingly had traitors in our midst—but by God's mercy, much has been spared."
Calum's jaw tightened. "Traitors?" His voice cracked like a whip, hot anger rising to meet his father's calm, though his father had tried to speak softly, Calum's voice rose, attracting attention.
"Who in hell would sell out their own blood?
Was it Sorcha? Tell me the lass hasn't tricked ye all while I was away! "
Elder MacRae stepped toward him, his mouth opening to speak, but a woman's voice rang clear from the gathered folk.
"Ye know naught of what ye speak, Calum MacRae!
" she cried, fierce despite the tremor in her tone.
Calum's eyes narrowed at the lack of title, the blatant disrespect striking sharper than any blade—but the woman did not flinch.
Instead, she drew herself up straighter, chin high, her voice unwavering as she went on.
"Lady Sorcha was heaven-sent that night.
While three of our own fed us to the wolves, she stood blade in hand, defending our clansfolk.
Without her, we'd have buried at least twice as many. "
Murmurs of agreement rolled through the crowd, heads nodding, voices whispering Sorcha's name with reverence.
His father’s voice, rising to address the people gathered in the courtyard, cut like a blade.
"The names of those who betrayed us—who paid Niall MacLeish to abandon his post and opened our gates to murderers—are Elspeth and Liam Dunn.
The words slammed into Calum like a physical blow. He staggered a step, shaking his head, unable to reconcile the names with the betrayal they carried. "Elspeth?" he rasped, bewildered. "Nay... ye've got it wrong, Da. She wouldna... she couldna..."
"She did," the laird said grimly, unflinching.
"And five of our folk lie cold in their graves for it.
Good men and women paid the price for their treachery.
" His jaw worked. "Elspeth sits in the cells below this keep alongside her brother, the guard that deserted his post, and the surviving raiders, awaiting our Laird's judgment. "
Calum turned his head, scanning the crowd.
He saw it now—the quiet shift in their eyes, no longer proud nor welcoming, but a heavy mix of pity and silent scorn.
Their loyalty had moved to his wife, firm and unshaken, while whispers of betrayal clung to the woman he silently supported by allowing her and others to mistreat his wife.
The world felt unsteady beneath his boots, everything he thought he knew tilting out of reach. The woman he'd trusted had betrayed his clan. The wife he'd doubted had stood loyal. And now, his own name was stained by the very lass who'd deceived them all.
His father let the silence linger before clapping him once more on the shoulder, quieter this time. "Come, lad. We've warriors to console, and then much to discuss."
They crossed the yard together. The laird first approached the warrior Calum had noticed earlier—the man who'd left with many cheering him off but had returned to no greeting. His father laid a hand on the man's arm as the warrior fell to his knees, grief carved deep into his face.
"We grieve with ye," the laird said solemnly. "Your wife and wee son are sorely missed. I'll take ye to where they rest, when ye're ready."
Calum swallowed hard, words thick in his throat as he offered his own condolences, moving to another man whose brother had fallen that night, then a young lad whose sister—his only remaining family—had been among the slain.
Every name was another blow, the weight of what had happened settling on his shoulders like a mantle of stone.
At last, when there were no more to speak to, Calum turned to his father.
"I need to wash the road and battle from me," he said quietly, voice raw and thick.
"And then I'll face them—the ones in the cells.
I'll hear every damned word with my own ears.
.. and then, Da, decisions will have to be made. "
The laird met his gaze and nodded once. "Aye, son. Ye'll have your reckoning soon enough."