Chapter 49
Sorcha
The courtyard hummed with life.
Sorcha walked the familiar path toward the training grounds while children darted across her way, their laughter and the sharp clack of wooden swords echoing off the stone. She smiled, remembering Calum handing out the lot as Yuletide gifts just the day before.
Women carried baskets of barley bread and honey cakes from the kitchens, the scent of clove and cinnamon trailing after them, while a shepherd guided his small flock through the gate—their soft bleating blending with the rhythm of hammers from the smithy.
Near the edge of the yard stood Laird Eoin MacAlasdair, his gaze fixed on Duncan as he instructed a young lad and lass trading blows with wooden staves. His stance held less the air of a critic than that of a man studying what he’d long forgotten.
Sorcha paused, surprised to find him outside instead of within.
He must have heard her approach, for he turned, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “Ah, Sorcha. I was told if I waited here, I’d find ye soon enough.”
“Father,” she greeted, stepping closer. “You inquired after me?”
“Aye. While breakin’ my fast in the hall this mornin’, I asked the woman who served me—Agnes, I think she said her name was—where I might find ye.” He nodded toward the yard. “Will ye walk with me?”
Sorcha inclined her head. “Of course.”
They fell into step together, the rhythm of the keep surrounding them—voices calling greetings, the ring of work and laughter woven through the winter air. Her people smiled easily now—steady, proud, unafraid. She felt it everywhere: not just peace, but belonging.
“Your folk seem well,” Eoin said as they passed the green. “Content.”
“Aye,” Sorcha replied softly. “They are. We all are.”
They passed beneath the archway where Katherine stood speaking with Agnes near the stair. Sorcha paused long enough to introduce them. “Father, this is Katherine—she’s to wed Duncan come spring.”
Eoin inclined his head with quiet respect. “A blessing on ye both, then.”
Katherine smiled, eyes kind. “And on you, Laird MacAlasdair.” She glanced between father and daughter—sensing the moment’s weight—then turned back toward the hall.
Silence lingered after she’d gone, broken only by the creak of snow beneath their feet.
“I spoke with Calum last night,” Eoin said at last.
Sorcha inclined her head. “Aye. He told me.”
Eoin’s jaw worked, his voice lower when he continued.
“There are things I should’ve said long ago.
After your mother died—” He stopped, the words catching.
“When I found you… covered in blood, your wee hands shaking, the man you’d struck lyin’ dead beside her—I saw only my failure.
I’d left ye unguarded. Left her unguarded. I swore it would never happen again.”
Sorcha’s breath misted white in the cold. “You trained me hard enough to keep that promise,” she said quietly.
“Aye,” he admitted. “But I forgot ye were still a child. You took up her mantle before I even asked it of ye—helpin’ the healers, mindin’ the ledgers, speakin’ with the crofters when they came to the hall.
Even at ten years old, ye carried the clan as she had.
And I…” His voice thinned. “I should’ve told ye I was proud.
I thought it enough that folk saw your strength, but I should’ve told ye myself. ”
She looked at him then, her heart tight. “You did what you thought was right, Father.”
“I did what was easiest,” he said. “When Tavish wed, and Mairead took on your duties, she told me how much ye’d done—how much had fallen to you.
She said the whole of Glenbrae felt the loss of ye when you left.
And she was right.” He shook his head. “Then the border raids began, and I told myself I’d write once things settled.
But they never did. And each time I put it off, it grew harder to start.
I can’t take back the silence, Sorcha—but I can tell ye now, plain: I am proud of ye.
Of the woman ye are. Of the life ye’ve built here. ”
The wind shifted, catching her hair and tugging it loose from its braid. She brushed it back, blinking fast. “You’ve said enough, Father.”
Eoin studied her face, then nodded once. “Aye. Perhaps I have.”
They walked a while longer without words, until the sound of laughter drifted from the training yard—Katherine’s, and Morag’s, and several of the younger lasses practicing with short bows.
Sorcha smiled faintly. “Strathloch has a way of settin’ folk to purpose.”
Eoin’s mouth curved, just slightly. “That it does. And it seems I’ve a daughter who’s found hers.”
***
Later that night, the keep had gone still.
The hearth in their chamber burned low, shadows flickering over stone and skin. Sorcha lay nestled against Calum’s side, her head pillowed over his heart. For a long while neither spoke; the quiet was enough.
When she finally did, her voice was a whisper against the dark.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For fightin’ for me—for us. For every small thing that’s brought us here.”
Calum turned toward her, his breath warm against her hair. “Ye’ve naught to thank me for, mo chridhe. I should be the one on my knees. You’ve given me everythin’ worth keepin’—your forgiveness, your heart, our home.”
Her eyes shimmered in the firelight. “Then we’re even,” she said softly. “Because you’ve given me peace.”
He smiled, slow and full, the kind that reached his eyes.
He caught her hand and lifted it to his chest, pressing her palm flat against the steady rhythm beneath his skin.
Her fingertips brushed the faint ridge of the scar where the arrow meant for her had gone in—the wound that had nearly cost him his life, and her, everything.
“Do ye feel that?” he asked softly. “Every space of my heart, Sorcha MacAlasdair—ye fill it. Ye are the wife of my heart, and the pride of Strathloch. I’ll spend my days provin’ it to ye.”
Her breath trembled as she leaned forward, kissing him once—soft, sure, unhurried.
“I already know,” she whispered.
He drew her close again, her back to his chest, his hand resting over hers where it still covered his heart. The fire crackled low, the world hushed beyond the walls.
And there, wrapped in warmth and promise, Sorcha closed her eyes—safe, loved, and certain that all she’d fought for had been worth it.