Chapter 31
Calum
Calum found his father in the solar, the fire burning low, the scent of peat and old smoke clinging to the stones.
Domhnall sat in the great oak chair, cane braced across his knees, the lines of his face carved deep with age and thought.
Yet when Calum stepped into the room, those eyes snapped open—keen as ever, sharp as a drawn blade.
For a moment Calum stood rooted, the weight of his own shame pressing him down. He had faced raiders with steel in hand, but this was heavier by far—as though every misstep of the past months had bound itself about his chest.
At length he crossed the chamber and lowered himself into the chair opposite.
His gaze wandered the room, and a memory stirred—Sorcha at seven and ten, standing in this very place in her gown of blue.
He remembered, against his will, how bonnie she had looked, the colour bright against her grey eyes and amber hair.
“Did ye ken,” he began, voice rough as gravel, “that she wrote to Glenbrae for Niall and Mairi? She asked her kin if they might dwell in an old cottage outside Glenbrae's gates.”
Domhnall leaned back, his brows drawing close.
For a moment his face was unreadable. Then the corner of his mouth tugged in a wry half-smile.
“That lass… No. I had nae notion.” The smirk faded swiftly, replaced with sober weight.
“But I do ken what such a thing means. Calum, think on it. Near five months she has been gone from her father’s hall, and in all that time not a single word has been sent her way.
Not once have her kin written to ask after her, nor to see how she fared.
And yet it was she who reached out first—aye, and not for her own comfort, but to beg mercy for a man who sought her death.
Do ye grasp the weight of that? For her first words home to be a plea, and to folk who left her in silence—that takes a courage and a humility ye’ve yet to measure.
” He rapped his cane once on the stone flags.
“That silence from Glenbrae is its own wound, and she bore it with none the wiser.”
Domhnall’s eyes hardened. “Dinna mistake her silence for ease, lad. Every word she gives ye costs her dear. She speaks little, but when she does, it is carved from the bone.”
He shook his head, a shadow crossing his face.
“I once thought her father a wise and honourable man. Yet he wed her off for alliance, set her in your hands, and then let near half a year pass without so much as a letter. They used her well enough when it suited Glenbrae, and then cast her aside as though she were naught but a pawn. Remember that, when ye look upon her. She owes none of us aught—and still she gives more than any of us deserve.”
Calum’s chest ached. His father’s words cut deeper than he wished to hear. He had thought Sorcha cold, unyielding—but it wasna coldness. It was endurance.
“When I asked her why she would grant Niall banishment and then help him and Mairi after he conspired with Elspeth to have her killed. She said…” His throat closed, but he forced the words out. “She said to kill Niall would have been like killing me.”
Domhnall’s eyes narrowed. “And was she wrong?”
The answer burned in him, bitter as ash. Calum lowered his gaze to the floor. “No.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “I’ve done naught but err with her.
I shunned her, scorned her, called another the wife of my heart when Sorcha was the one bearing the weight I cast aside.
Now the clan looks to her, and I cannot fault them for it.
I want to ken her, to make things right, but I dinna ken where to begin. ”
Domhnall rose, his cane steadying him, and crossed to lay a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. His voice was stern, yet not without a measure of kindness.
“Ye begin by kenning her, lad. Not as the lass ye wed in duty, nor the stranger ye made of her, but as your wife. Sit with her. Listen. Let her words speak and hold your tongue. The clan sees her worth clear enough—you’d best open your own eyes, if ye mean to stand at her side and no’ trail behind. ”
Calum swallowed hard. “And if she will not forgive me?”
A grim smile ghosted his father’s mouth, with no mirth in it. “Then ye earn it. Day upon day. Mistake upon mistake. And if she never does forgive, ye’ll still have done what’s right by her—and by Strathloch.”
From the yard came the steady ring of hammer on iron, the new blacksmith at his work. The rhythm echoed through the stone, each blow falling like judgment. Calum flinched at the sound. Sorcha’s words came back to him: To kill Niall would have been like killing you.
He bowed his head, his father’s counsel settling on him like a brand seared deep. The past couldna be undone. But mayhap—just mayhap—he could yet forge something new.