Chapter 46
Sorcha
The days after the raid had blurred into one another—work and rest, frost and fire. Yet life at Strathloch had begun to move again, like a wheel catching its turn.
The bleating of sheep carried across the yard, echoing off the stone walls.
The herds had been brought down from the high glens, crowding the pens that ringed the lower field.
Fires burned in shallow pits near the keep, smoke rising thin and sharp with the scent of peat and wool.
Winter was upon them, but the folk of Strathloch moved with calm purpose—voices low, footing sure.
There was much to be done, and everyone knew their task.
Sorcha spent her days between the yard and the healers’ hall, helping where she could.
Two nights past, she had aided the midwife in a difficult birth.
The mother had lived, but the bairn—small, still, and far too early—had not.
She’d washed the tiny body herself, whispering prayers through tears that wouldn’t stop.
The grief had hollowed her, raw and wordless, a reminder of all she’d lost before.
Three bairns gone in her time at Strathloch, and five—one including both mother and babe—buried back in Glenbrae.
Such losses never left. They simply lived quiet in the bones.
That night, she’d gone out to the walls after the healer had declared nothing more could be done, needing air. The moon hung pale above the hills, the stars clear and cold as cut glass. She’d sat there for hours, cloak drawn close, staring out across the dark glen until her eyes ached.
She hadn’t heard Calum’s step until his shadow fell beside hers. He said nothing at first, only sat near and looked out at the same horizon. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful.
“Ye canna save everyone, Sorcha.”
She’d shaken her head, eyes still fixed on the stars. “I ken that. But it doesna stop the hurt.”
He’d nodded, slow and solemn. “Aye. It never does.”
They’d stayed like that a long time, the silence between them not empty but shared. And though no words could have eased her heart, his presence had steadied it, like a hand braced against a storm.
Now, two evenings later, they sat in the great hall side by side. She wasn’t sure when that had begun—when she’d started taking her seat beside him instead of across from him—but it no longer felt strange.
The hall was warm with light, full of the hum of talk and laughter. Calum’s shoulder brushed hers, the steady heat of him a comfort she hadn’t realized she’d come to expect. His gaze moved over the room, quiet pride softening the usual stern set of his features.
Duncan and Katherine sat farther down the table, close enough that every so often Sorcha caught the sound of Duncan’s laugh and Katherine’s answering blush. Domnhall watched them both with mild amusement.
It almost felt like peace. Almost.
As Calum set down his cup, he glanced toward her, his expression thoughtful.
“I forgot to tell ye,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“When your father sent word that Glenbrae’s borders showed no sign of raiders, he added another line to his letter.
He’s asked leave to visit—here, at Strathloch—for the Yule tide. ”
Sorcha froze, her hand stilling halfway to her plate. “He… asked to come here?”
Calum nodded, his gaze steady on hers. “Aye. I told Duncan I’d speak with ye first before sendin’ any reply. It’s your choice, Sorcha, not mine.”
For a moment, she could only stare at him, the sounds of the hall fading to a dull hum. Gratitude bloomed quiet and fierce beneath her ribs—gratitude that he hadn’t presumed, that he’d left the matter in her hands. “Thank ye,” she said softly, her voice unsteady. “For askin’ me first.”
He inclined his head slightly. “We’ll speak more of it when ye’re ready.”
The rest of the meal passed in a haze. Sorcha tried to listen to Duncan and Katherine’s teasing, to the laughter echoing from the tables, but her thoughts wandered again and again to Calum’s quiet words—and to the small parcel hidden away in her chamber, the gift she’d been waiting days to give him.
When the meal ended and the others drifted away, Sorcha lingered. The thought that had plagued her for days pressed harder now, the weight of it too much to carry any longer.
She turned to him. “Calum, might I speak with ye?”
He studied her, his expression unreadable but kind. “Aye. Come.”
They walked together through the quiet corridor to the small solar behind the hall—a narrow chamber lined with old books and faded maps, warmed by the flicker of a single fire. The door closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the keep.
Sorcha stood for a moment, unsure how to begin.
Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her plaid before she drew a small parcel from its folds.
It was wrapped in a square of soft, faded tartan—the muted blue and green of her mother’s people, the MacFies.
The sweetness of heather, the flower her mother had favored, clung faintly to it, mingled with the deep, earthy scent of bog wood—the ancient material of the item secured within.
“It’s not much,” she said softly. “But it’s somethin’ I’ve meant to give ye.”
Calum took it carefully and unwrapped it.
Inside lay a narrow dirk, dark and unadorned, the hilt carved from blackened bog oak that had slept for centuries beneath the peat of the Western Isles.
A faint pattern—the stylized sweep of wheat or long grass, the old MacFie mark of endurance—was etched near the base, half worn smooth with time.
“It’s no’ a war blade,” she murmured. “It’s a keeper’s knife—meant to outlast a storm. My mother’s father gifted it to her when she left home to marry my father. Said it would remind her of where she came from. I found it among her belongings after she passed.”
Calum turned it in his hand, the firelight glinting off the iron. “It’s fine work,” he said quietly. “And well-loved.”
Sorcha nodded, eyes fixed on the blade. “When I found it, I was angry. Thought it foolish—her speakin’ so much of grace and duty, and never once tellin’ me she’d carried this.
I asked my father, and he said it was meant as a peace gift between their clans.
But there was never harmony between them—only civility.
I think she kept it for herself, not for the men who made the treaty. A piece of her that was still her own.”
Her thumb brushed the edge of the hilt, and her voice softened.
“After she died, I carried it everywhere. The blade I used on the raider who killed her was buried in his gut—I left it there. When I found this one, I kept it on me, always. I told myself it was for remembrance, but truth was, I was afraid to be unarmed again. I hid it in my plaid until my brothers began trainin’ me proper, and when my father gave me my own dirk, I stored this one away again—with her other things. Safe.”
Her throat tightened. “I kept it because it reminded me of her strength. And I give it to ye now, Calum. To keep ye safe. So ye’ll always return.”
He looked up sharply then, eyes dark and steady. The fire cast them gold around the edges. “I’ll keep it,” he said, his voice low. “And I’ll keep the promise with it—to always come home. To ye.”
Her breath hitched, something hot and dizzy flooding her chest. They stood there for a long heartbeat, the toes of her boots pressed lightly against his, the air thick between them. So close they shared a single breath—her pulse loud in her ears, his eyes fixed on hers.
Then Calum leaned in, his voice low enough that it barely stirred the air.
“I’ll keep it close,” he whispered, the words brushing her lips as they formed.
And then he kissed her.
The touch stole every thought from her mind.
His beard rasped softly against her skin, tickling her cheeks, but his lips—God above—were softer than she’d imagined.
He tasted faintly of whisky and smoke, warmth and breath.
The fire crackled, and for a moment it felt as though the world itself stilled to listen.
He cupped her waist, drawing her closer until her body met his.
She rose onto her toes, her hands finding his shoulders, then the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the dark strands of his hair.
He bent lower, bracing her by laying his arm across her waist, and she pressed closer still, caught between his strength and the tremor in her own heart.
Then she felt his tongue trace the seam of her mouth—light, questioning. She gasped at the shock of it, the strange, wonderful heat that followed. When his tongue slid against hers, the sound that escaped her throat was soft and helpless.
Mairead’s words came back to her then, half-whispered on a long-ago night: “Kissing’s a dangerous thing, Sorcha—it’ll make ye forget your own name if ye’re not careful.” She understood now.
His hand tightened at her back, not with urgency, but with something deeper—need, reverence, fear of losing what he’d only just regained. And she was drowning in him, in the heat and the closeness, until breath itself seemed a thing she no longer needed.
When at last the kiss broke, they stayed close, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the dim light.
For a time, neither spoke. Then Calum’s hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ye taste of forgiveness—and mine,” he whispered.
Her lips trembled—not quite a smile, not yet. “Then it’s well ye’ve found it,” she murmured. “Because I forgive ye, Calum.” Her gaze softened, steady. “Truly.”
His eyes closed for a moment, and a faint smile touched his mouth. “Truly, Sorcha? I do not deserve such grace.”
“It’s my forgiveness to give,” she said quietly, “and I’ll give it when I feel it right.”
A small smile curved his lips. “Ye’ll ruin me if ye keep talkin’ like that.”
She huffed a soft laugh, the sound rough but warm. “Aye. Maybe I will.”
He laughed then—a real laugh, low and trembling but alive. She joined him, and the sound eased the ache in both their chests.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and silent, blanketing the yard below and smoothing away every mark of battle.
Inside the solar, they stayed where they were, wrapped in firelight and the slow, steady rhythm of each other’s breath—two souls no longer lost, but finally finding their way home.