Chapter 40
Sorcha
The evening air carried the scent of damp earth and pine sap, the light long gone, each day’s sun sinking sooner as winter crept close.
Frost silvered the grass at the path’s edge, the chill catching in her breath as she walked.
Sorcha moved beside Calum along the narrow trail that wound toward the clearing.
She could not have said why she’d asked him to walk with her tonight instead of meeting him there, as they always did.
Habit, perhaps—or for the strange comfort she’d begun to find in his presence, though she’d no wish to name it aloud.
They walked in easy quiet, the kind that filled itself with the rhythm of their steps. Her thoughts, though, were far from still.
Every so often, her hand drifted to the brooch at her breast, her thumb brushing the cool metal. The gesture steadied her, and yet reminded her of all that had changed between them—too much, too fast, leaving her unmoored.
Each glance toward him brought back the words he’d spoken that morning, the weight of the tartan he had settled on her shoulders, the steady touch of his hands as he’d fastened it with his own brooch.
“My mother’s plaid, secured by my brooch.
It stays with ye, always,” he’d said. The memory of it warmed her even now, though the air bit sharp with cold.
She had not expected him to give it—still less that he would unpin his own clasp to secure it for her.
That simple act had unsettled her more than all his speeches and apologies combined.
Upon reaching their clearing deep within the trees, the forest lay still save for the rustle of wind through the branches and the steady tread of their boots.
Calum’s shoulder brushed hers once, light as breath.
It should have felt ordinary. Instead, it sent a shiver through her chest—soft, disquieting, unfamiliar.
“Ye’re quiet tonight,” he said at last, his voice low.
“So are you.”
A hint of wryness touched his mouth. “Mayhap we’ve both run out of words worth speakin’.”
She glanced up at him, ready with a reply—but stopped.
A sound carried through the trees.
Faint at first. Then again. The sharp crack of a twig.
Then another.
Her hand went to her bow without thought. “Did ye hear that?”
Calum had already turned, his expression sharpening. “Aye.”
The stillness around them thickened, pressing close. Then came the unmistakable shuffle of boots—not one or two, but several men moving through the underbrush.
“Raiders,” Sorcha hissed. “They’re in the woods.”
“Back to the keep,” Calum ordered, voice clipped. “Now.”
He started toward the sound—but Sorcha caught his hand, fingers locking tight around his wrist before he could draw steel. “No!” she hissed. “Not alone.” Her grip held him fast, fear and defiance both burning in her eyes. “Come—quickly!”
For a heartbeat he hesitated—then she pulled, and he moved with her.
Together they broke into a run, boots pounding over frozen earth as the trees closed around them.
She didn’t release him, even as branches clawed at their cloaks and the wind whipped through the dark.
Only when the crash of pursuit grew nearer did she tear her hand free, swinging her longbow down from her shoulder, gripping it tight as they fled.
The dark shape of the keep rose ahead through the trees, its watch fires flickering faintly along the wall—a beacon she meant to reach. She had to sound the alarm, to send warning before it was too late. Their folk had to know, the warriors called forth before the raiders reached the gates unseen.
Behind them came a shout, rough and close. Sorcha twisted midstride, instinct guiding her hand. She drew an arrow, notched, and loosed it in one motion, sending it flying into the shadow between the trees. A cry split the air—then another.
Calum drew his sword, the steel flashing pale in the fading light. One raider lunged from the brush; Calum met him head-on, blade to blade. The clash rang sharp and cold through the woods.
Another burst from Sorcha’s flank—too close for her bow.
She slung the bowstring over her shoulder in one swift motion and drew steel, the blade clearing its sheath with a hiss before she drove it across the raider’s torso in a clean, brutal arc.
Blood sprayed, dark against the frost, and he staggered once before crumpling to the ground.
“Go!” Calum shouted. “Sound the horn!”
She sprinted the last stretch toward the outer wall, breath ragged, every sound behind her too close. The keep loomed ahead, torchlight flickering along its ramparts—stone and strength and the promise of aid.
Steel clashed behind her—the harsh ring of Calum’s blade striking another, followed by the shout of a dying man. The sound cut through her chest like a blade of its own, but she didn’t look back. Not yet.
The watch fires along the wall flared closer with every stride. She reached the gate, seized the signal rope, and hauled hard. The great horn bellowed across Strathloch, the low call rolling like thunder over the hills—calling every warrior to arms.
She turned, already running back when Duncan came pounding up beside her, sword half-drawn. Breathless, she shouted what she’d seen—the raiders in the woods, the ambush, Calum still fighting near the clearing.
“Take half the men—secure the wall!” she commanded, not slowing. “Drive the rest to the field—Calum’s out there!”
“Aye, my lady!” Duncan bellowed, turning to rally the oncoming warriors. “You heard her! Shields up—move!” His voice thundered across the yard as men poured from the barracks, steel in hand, forming ranks behind him.
Sorcha didn’t wait to see them fall in. She broke from the wall again, heading back into the fray, the clash of iron and the roar of voices swelling behind her.
Then—a glint in the distance caught her eye.
Across the moonlit field, a figure stood in plain sight, bow drawn taut.
Liam Dunn.
Their eyes met for the briefest instant—hatred and panic flashing in both. Calum's bairn-friend, now a traitor to the clan, raised his bow against her.
She went to move—but before she could, a solid weight slammed into her side, driving her hard to the ground. The breath left her in a rush. For a heartbeat she lay stunned, waiting for the pain—the hot sear of the arrow she was certain had found its mark—
—but none came.
When she lifted her head, Calum was kneeling where moments ago she had been standing. The arrow jutted from his chest.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent—only the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears. Then it shattered.
“Liam!” she screamed, voice breaking with rage and disbelief. Across the field, she watched him—bow still raised, eyes wide with shock. His hands fumbled as he reached for another arrow, panic spilling across his face.
Without thought, Sorcha snatched one of her own, drew, and loosed in a single breath. The arrow flew straight and true, moonlight flashing along the shaft as it struck home.
Liam staggered, the shaft driving deep into his throat. His bow slipped from his grasp as he crumpled soundlessly into the cold, trampled grass.
Sorcha turned back to Calum. He had sunk to one knee, his sword still clutched tight, blood spreading dark across his shoulder and chest.
“Calum!”
She dropped beside him before she could think, pressing a hand to the wound where the arrow jutted from his shoulder. Blood welled hot and fast against her fingers, slick and real and terrifying.
He grimaced, teeth bared. “It’s naught—just a graze.”
“Liar,” she hissed, her voice shaking. “Hold still.”
Her hands pressed against the wound, slick and trembling, as if she could will the blood to stop with sheer fury alone.
Around them, Strathloch’s men surged forward, shouts and steel clashing against the raiders’ retreat. Somewhere, someone was calling for the healer.
Calum’s gaze found hers, the edges of his breath turning white in the cooling air. “Ye’re safe,” he said, voice rough.
“Because of ye,” she whispered. “Fool man.”
His eyes softened, even through the pain. “Aye. But I’d do it again.”
Something in her broke at that—a soundless crack beneath her ribs.
Suddenly a scream tore through the chaos. Sorcha’s head snapped up at the sound.
“My boy!” Marion Dunn stumbled from the shadows, her skirts torn, her face contorted with horror. She fell to her knees beside her son, wailing—but then her gaze lifted, finding Sorcha through her tears. Hatred flared, sharp and bright. “Ye’ll pay for this!”
She surged to her feet, charging across the field with a knife in hand, grief twisting into rage.
Sorcha rose, moving toward her—but Duncan was faster. He caught Marion’s wrist mid-swing, twisting until the blade fell with a thud to the ground. She fought like a wild thing, kicking, clawing, shrieking, her grief spilling over into madness.
“See to her,” Sorcha said coldly, never lifting her hand from Calum’s wound. “I’ll no’ make the mistake of granting mercy again.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened, his voice rough with breath. “A shame,” he said. “I’d have liked to see her hang afore the whole clan for her treachery.”
He set his stance, fingers firming on the hilt. “But some wickedness asks for swifter justice.”
Then he drove his blade clean through Marion’s chest. She gasped once—a ragged sound—then sagged against the steel and went still, her blood dark against the frost.
Sorcha turned back to Calum. He was sagging forward now, his strength fading. She pressed her hands around the arrow shaft, eyes darting over the wound.
“Hold fast,” she breathed. “I’ve got ye.”
He tried to speak, but she cut him off. “Save your breath, Calum.”
Her fingers fumbled at her belt before finding the hilt of her dirk.
She drew it with a sharp breath and cut through his tunic.
The fabric parted cleanly, and the sight beneath made her stomach twist—the wound was deep, ugly, and bleeding far too fast. She gripped the arrow’s shaft at its base and snapped it near the wound, her palms slick with his blood.
Calum hissed but did not cry out. She tossed the fletched end aside, heedless of where it fell, and pressed her cloak hard against the wound, her hands trembling as the night around them fell to an awful stillness.
Her throat burned as she leaned her weight into the pressure, praying to staunch the flow—to hold what life he had left inside him. Around her, the din of battle dimmed to the rustle of wind and the far-off clatter of retreat.
She had tended wounds before—too many. At Glenbrae, when raiders struck or a hunt went wrong, she had set her jaw and done what needed doing, her hands steady, her mind clear.
But this was different. This was her husband.
The sight of his blood on her hands, the ragged sound of his breath—it tore through her like nothing she had ever known.
Her composure splintered; all she could think was that she could not lose him. Not now. Not like this.
“Duncan!” she shouted. “Get men—help me move him!”
He was beside her in moments, calling two of the warriors to help lift Calum. Together they raised him carefully, one man at each side.
“The healer’s readying the hall,” Duncan said. “We’ll carry him there.”
Sorcha nodded, unfastening her cloak and pressing it firmly against Calum’s wound before stepping close beside them as they lifted him. She stayed near as they made for the keep, her hands dark with his blood, her breath catching with every uneven step.
Halfway across the field, something made her look back.
Moonlight spilled cold across the fallen—Marion and Liam lying side by side, their faces turned to the sky, eyes unblinking in death.
For a heartbeat, Sorcha could not look away.
The stars burned sharp above them, cruel in their brightness, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to what had been lost.
Her throat tightened. Let him live, she prayed—not for mercy, but for justice left undone. Please—let him live.
He had fought so hard, tried so fiercely to make things right between them. He still owed her his penance—his promise—to mend what he had broken.
Surely fate could not be so merciless as to take him now—not when he had only just begun to make amends. Not when she had only just begun to love him.