Chapter 37
Calum
Dawn crept slow over Strathloch, a pale wash of gold and frost that clung to the stones like breath.
It was a hard morning, made for men and beasts to push against the cold.
Calum stood at the edge of the training yard, hands braced on the low wall, watching the world wake beneath a thin curl of mist. The dull, steady chop of an axe echoed from the direction of the fields, where firewood was being split for the many hearths.
Smoke coiled from the kitchens, rich with the scent of barley bread and woodfire warmth.
Sleep had been a stranger. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her face in the moonlight—the steadiness of her gaze, the surety beneath it. Her voice lingered still, quiet but unyielding, as though it had taken root in him and refused to let go.
There is no flood that will not subside. But sometimes ye must wait long upon the shore ere the ebb begins.
He had faced blades, betrayal, the execution of those he’d once called kin—but none of it had cleaved through him like Sorcha’s words.
Not for their sharpness, but for their calm.
It was not anger she had left him with, but sadness—her words a quiet acceptance that she no longer expected him to be the man she once might have hoped for.
He’d seen the truth in her eyes, and worse—the weariness. The look of a woman who had carried too much for too long, and learned that change would never come.
He straightened, breath clouding in the cold.
Across the yard, the women were already gathering.
Some carried bows, others wooden staves worn smooth with practice.
A few of the younger lads had begun to join them too—gangly arms and eager faces, laughing as they mimicked their mothers or sisters, proud to stand beside them rather than apart.
Sorcha moved among them, her voice even, her step sure. She paused to correct a young girl’s stance, steadying the lass’s elbow, murmuring something that made the girl’s shoulders square with pride.
It was there—the thing he had been too blind to see.
She did not lead by command. She led by conviction.
He found himself moving without thought, taking up a mallet to mend a splintered target he’d noticed the day before.
The wood rang hollow beneath each strike, the sound dull and steady in the morning air, the rhythm grounding him.
Soon a few of the men drifted over, their glances flicking between him and Sorcha—uncertain, but curious.
He said nothing, only kept working, shoulder to shoulder with them.
Let them see their laird labouring beside them, not above.
By the time Sorcha noticed, the sun had climbed high enough to burn the frost from the grass. She slowed as she approached, bow in hand, a line of surprise cutting through her composure.
“My thanks,” she said, her tone careful but not cold. “The targets have been long in need of mending.”
“Then it’s past time I turned my hand to something useful, rather than merely giving orders.”
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—touched her mouth before she turned back to the women. That small thing, that faint softening, lodged in his chest like a spark of warmth against the cold.
When the drills ended and the women dispersed, he lingered. Sorcha stayed too, unstringing her bow, her braid loose at the nape of her neck. He hesitated, then stepped closer.
“Sorcha.” Her name left his lips like a confession. She looked up, guarded but calm.
“I’ve spent too many years thinking only of my own pride and my own needs,” he said, voice low. “Let me make it right. Not with words—I’ve spoken enough of those—but with time.”
Her brow furrowed. “Time?”
“Aye.” He drew a breath, steadying himself. “That clearing of yours in the woods—now that I’ve already intruded upon ye once…”
“Liar,” she smirked. “You’ve followed me there more than once, Calum MacRae. You’re no stealthier than a herd of black cattle on the run.”
A faint smile ghosted over his mouth. “Then I stand corrected. Still—if ye’d suffer me again, I’d like to meet ye there after the evening meal. We can train, if ye’ve patience for my presence. I ken ye’re not one for idle talk.”
His gaze found hers, unguarded. “But mayhap, in time, ye’ll let me know ye better. I canna ask forgiveness—not yet—but I’d like to earn the right to try.”
For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then she drew a slow breath, studying him as if to weigh the truth of what she saw.
“You’ll not find me easy company,” she warned.
“I wouldnae trust myself with easy,” he answered.
Something flickered in her eyes—not forgiveness, not yet, but the faintest glimmer of consideration. She nodded once, just enough to set his heart hammering.
“Very well,” she said. “Tomorrow. After sundown.”
He inclined his head, not daring a smile. “Tomorrow, then.”
As she walked away, the mist broke over the yard, sunlight spilling across the frost-bitten grass. For the first time in weeks, he felt the weight on his chest shift—not gone, but lighter, as though the day had offered him the smallest mercy.