Chapter 39
Calum
The afternoon sun hung pale over Strathloch, its light thin and cool as it spilled across the hills.
Since the night in the clearing, Calum had found his thoughts drawn to her more often than he cared to admit.
That morning, when she hadn’t appeared in the yard or the hall, an unease had settled in him.
He’d gone from the kitchens to the healer’s hut, to the weaving room, and finally the stables, where one of the lads had said, “The lady’s gone to the fields, my laird— seeing to the cattle and the feed. ”
So he’d followed the worn path beyond the east gate, where the wind carried the smell of turned soil and the calls of men working the pasture.
He paused, watching Sorcha move among the farmers, her loose strands of hair whipping about her face in the wind.
Though he couldna hear her words, he saw the calm certainty in her gestures—the way she listened, pointed toward the fields, and steadied the men with a nod.
She knelt beside a trough to check something for herself, her fingers tracing the cracked edge of the wood before she rose again, giving quiet word to one of the men.
For a long while he stayed where he was, content to watch her work.
Of late, he had tried to learn her better—to read the small things that spoke when words did not.
the tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet strength in her hands, the weariness she tried to hide.
She carried herself with the same steadiness she showed in council—calm, deliberate—but he could see the weight she bore in the set of her shoulders and the tired bend of her mouth.
The farmers straightened when they saw him coming, murmuring greetings before drifting back toward their work. Sorcha turned, surprise flickering in her eyes.
“Calum,” she said quietly.
The sound of his name from her lips caught him off guard. Not long ago, she’d have kept to formality —“Laird,” always “Laird”—a title that had felt like a wall between them. Hearing his given name instead stirred something warm in his chest, small but steady.
He inclined his head. “Walk with me a moment?”
She hesitated, then nodded. Together they fell into step, following the narrow path that ran beside a low stone wall skirting the field.
They walked on until the noise of the men faded behind them and only the wind moved through the dry grass.
Beyond them the land stretched wide and brown, the fields lying bare and waiting for winter’s first touch.
Calum stopped near the edge of the pasture, his hands clasped behind him. For a moment he said nothing, only drew a steadying breath.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he began, his voice low. “On all ye said to me in the clearing—on the truths I should’ve seen long ago.”
Sorcha’s brow furrowed, but she did not speak.
“I’ve spent years commandin’ men,” he said. “Driven by pride more than sense—thinkin’ I always kenned best. But I’ve learned more this past month, watchin’ ye and hearin’ ye, than in all the years I’ve worn this title.”
He reached into his plaid and drew out a folded length of tartan—deep green and black, edged with pale threads of his family’s weave, the wool softened with age.
“This belonged to my mother,” he said quietly. “She wore it when she stood beside my father. When I became betrothed to ye, my father gave it into my keeping and told me to pass it on to the next Lady MacRae. I should’ve done so then. But I didn’t.”
He exhaled, a long breath that clouded in the chill air.
“I told myself I was waitin’—for a moment that felt right.
Truth is, I was selfish. She died bringin’ me into this world, and this plaid was one of the few things my father kept of her.
I held to it as if it could tell me who she’d been…
or what she might’ve thought of the man I became.
It took me too long to see what it truly meant. ”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“It’s not just cloth, Sorcha. It’s strength, and grace, and the sense to ken that a laird’s pride means naught without the wisdom beside him. My mother had that. Ye have it too. And I see now, it was always meant for ye.”
He stepped forward, offering the folded tartan with both hands.
“I would have ye take it,” he said simply. “Not as apology, though I owe ye that and more—but as what’s due. As my lady. As the heart that keeps this place from fallin’ into ruin. I see ye now, Sorcha. Truly.”
The words hung in the air, quiet as prayer.
Sorcha stared at the plaid in his hands, the colours bright against the roughness of his palms. For a long moment she said nothing. Then, slowly, she reached out.
When her fingers brushed the wool, something inside her trembled—not weakness, but the release of a long-held breath.
Calum unfolded the tartan, settling it over her shoulders.
The heavy wool fell against her cloak, catching the sun in faint green and silver threads.
He paused, his hand lingering for a heartbeat before he reached for the silver brooch at his own chest. With deliberate care, he unpinned it and fastened it over the plaid at her breast.
“It is yours,” he murmured, his voice low. “My mother’s plaid, secured by my brooch. It stays with ye, always.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The wind rustled through the dry grass and scattered leaves, and the faint lowing of cattle carried across the hill.
Sorcha lifted her hand to the brooch, her fingers brushing the metal. “Thank ye, Calum. I’ll care for it well. Ye’ve shared something of yourself with me—and if ever ye wish to speak of your mother, I’d like to hear.”
He managed a faint smile. “She’d have liked ye well, my mother. My father said often she was a stubborn one—ye share that with her.”
A small spark of humour lit Sorcha’s gaze. “Then I pity your father.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound more exhale than mirth. “Aye. And I’m sorry, Sorcha. For every time I made ye feel unseen. It’ll no’ happen again.”
She looked at him steadily. “Then let’s see that it doesna.”
He inclined his head, solemn. “Aye, my lady. It willna.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the quiet between them no longer strained but whole.
At last Calum cleared his throat. “Will ye still meet me in the meadow this eve? I’ll bring my bow if ye bring yours—we’ll see if your new target withstands us both.”
Her answer came softly, but sure. “Aye—but I mean to bring my bow and sword both this eve. Still, perhaps ye should meet me outside the great hall after the evening meal and walk with me there… unless ye’d have me travel alone.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, his heart beating a little faster at her request for his company. Her willingness to walk beside him—rather than meet him in secret as before—made him smile. “Then I’ll count the hours till sundown.”
She turned back toward the pasture, the plaid shifting over her shoulders with each step, and Calum watched her go—the tartan of his mother’s line carried now by the woman who’d earned it in every way that mattered.