Chapter Four
The corridor was dim and silent as Destiny followed the maid and a manservant, the soft taps of their footsteps the only sound in the air.
The woman, older and silent, save for a murmured, “This way, milady,” opened the heavy door to a bedchamber and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.
A manservant entered after her and set her one bag from the coach near the door, then left.
The room was modestly furnished. The stone walls were hung with faded tapestries, and a fire had already been lit in the hearth, casting flickers of gold across the flagstones.
A small bed stood near the window, its coverlet neatly turned down, as though someone had tried to make the chamber welcoming. Yet, Destiny felt no comfort in it.
The maid moved with practised ease, helping her out of her heavy travelling cloak. “There’s food fer ye,” she said quietly, motioning to a tray on the small table—a bowl of steamy soup, a crust of bread, and a goblet of wine.
Destiny glanced at it, but her stomach twisted at the thought of eating. “Thank you,” she replied softly.
The maid nodded, stepping back towards the door. “Ye have only to ring the bell if ye need anythin’, milady.” With a shallow curtsy, the woman slipped out, the latch clicking softly behind her.
Destiny stood still, staring at the tray. Hunger gnawed faintly in her belly, but it was dulled by the knot of unease growing in her chest.
She turned her gaze to the brazier, where orange coals glowed and cast a gentle warmth across the chamber.
Near the hearth stood a small table bearing a basin of water and a simple bowl.
Folded beside it lay strips of clean linen, clearly left for her use, to wash away the blood, to bind her wound.
The care behind these quiet preparations was unmistakable, each detail chosen to offer comfort, to make her feel welcome.
But welcome was the one thing she did not feel.
She felt out of place in this unfamiliar castle, like an invader in someone else’s life.
Her thoughts turned immediately to Sorcha.
Where was she? Perhaps Sorcha found herself in a similar situation in a bedchamber nearby. There was only one way to find out.
Destiny crossed the room and tried the door. It did not budge. She rattled the handle again. Locked.
Her breath quickened, fear pooling low in her stomach. The maid had locked her in. Like a prisoner. If she rang the bell, as the maid had suggested, would anyone come?
Destiny thought about testing that theory, but instead crossed to the window, throwing open the wooden shutters.
Cool night air rushed in, brushing her face, a balm against the heat of her rising panic.
She breathed it in deeply, pressing her palms to the sill, eyes scanning the dark courtyard below.
The grey stones of the wall were worn and rough beneath her hands.
She could climb down. She could run. Escape.
But go where? Her father had made certain of this path, this marriage.
He would never allow her to come home, not after she had defied him by selling off their furniture, despite the fact it had eased his financial burden.
There were no other kin or friends she could turn to in Scotland, no safe haven waiting for her. She was alone.
Destiny swallowed hard, blinking against the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She could not run. Not tonight or any night. Not from this.
In the morning, she would stand before a minister and wed a man she did not know. And perhaps then, after the vows were spoken, she would have more freedom, more power to shape the course of her life. She had made good of terrible situations before. She could, and would, do it again.
Closing the shutters slowly, Destiny stepped back into the room’s dim warmth, her chin lifting with quiet resolve. Let the dawn come. She would meet it with her head held high.
*
He should go abovestairs and wish Destiny good night.
She must be nervous, if not terrified, to be alone in this castle with nothing familiar.
But instead of heading for her temporary bedchamber, Cameron strode down the corridor that led to his brother’s chambers.
The heavy door was ajar, and from within came a low groan, followed by the sharp clatter of metal in a basin.
Inside, Gavan sat in a high-backed chair, pale and sweating, his shirt discarded, blood staining the cloth that had been wrapped hastily around his shoulder. The steward, Hobbins, was bent over him, hands slick with blood as he worked carefully with a small knife and forceps.
“Hold still, lad,” Hobbins muttered, his brow furrowed. “The ball’s lodged deep.”
Gavan cursed under his breath, his jaw clenched tight. Cameron stepped inside just as Hobbins gave a final twist and pulled the misshapen lead ball free. Gavan let out a strangled cry, his hand gripping the chair arm so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
Hobbins dropped the bloody ball into a basin and reached for clean linen.
“It will take time,” he said, glancing up at Cameron as he bound the wound.
“The bone is not shattered, thank God, but the muscle is torn. He won’t wield a sword for weeks, perhaps months.
With healing and strengthening . . . he will have use of the arm again.
But as for fighting . . .” Hobbins shrugged, tying the bandage tightly.
Cameron crossed his arms, his face unreadable. “You will recover,” he said simply.
Gavan, breathing hard through clenched teeth, shot his brother a bitter look. “She did this,” he snarled. “That hellcat, Sorcha, shot me like I was a bandit on the road.”
“You were charging after her with a sword drawn,” Cameron replied coolly.
Hobbins finished dressing the wound and stepped back, gathering his tools. “He needs rest, my laird. And no excitement.”
Cameron nodded and dismissed the steward. As the door closed behind them, Gavan pushed himself up slightly, wincing at the pain.
“I want her gone,” he growled. “When the wedding is over. Send her away.”
Cameron’s gaze sharpened. “She is Destiny’s companion. Sending her away now would cause more trouble than it is worth.”
“If she had aimed a little higher or to the left, I would be dead. I will have my revenge on her, one way or another.”
Cameron stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Nay, Gavan. You will not act without my leave. I will protect what is mine,” Cameron said, his voice firm. “Destiny is mine now, and that includes those under her protection.”
For a moment, the brothers stared at one another, tension crackling between them like a drawn bowstring. Gavan’s chest heaved, rage in his eyes, but he said nothing more.
Cameron turned to leave. “Rest,” he said over his shoulder. “Heal. There will be time enough to deal with everything else later.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, leaving Gavan alone in the dim chamber, his rage no doubt burning just beneath the surface.
Cameron knew his brother well. Gavan would not forget this injury, nor let it rest. But for now, pain would keep him compliant. Time and weakness would be Cameron’s allies, at least for a while.
Still, peace in the castle came at a price.
Sooner or later, Sorcha would have to be sent away.
There would be no harmony under this roof with her presence stoking Gavan’s wounded pride.
Cameron exhaled slowly. That decision would tear open another wound, this one in Destiny.
Sorcha was her only anchor in a life she had been forced into, a storm not of her own making.
Taking her friend away would leave her truly alone.
And it would fall to him to find a way to soften that blow.
Cameron paused outside Destiny’s door, hand hovering near the latch. He should go inside to offer a few words, welcome her properly, perhaps wish her a peaceful night. It was the duty of a husband, or at least the beginning of one. But instead, he stood there in silence.
Let her rest, he told himself. Let her think about what tomorrow would bring, let her stew a bit in the reality of what awaited her. He told himself it was not punishment for the trouble she had caused, for fleeing into the woods, for climbing a tree to escape him.
But he would be lying.
There was a part of him, dark, stubborn, and prideful, that was not so different from Gavan. A part of him wanted a measure of revenge for her defiance, for dragging him into marriage.
Tomorrow, he would take a wife, whether he wanted one or not.
*
Morning arrived far too quickly. Destiny sat in the chair beside the bed, sleepless, her thoughts tangled in the memories of the day before and the weight of what lay ahead.
She had not closed her eyes once, only watched as night slowly gave way to the pale light seeping through the narrow window she had left open.
It spilled softly across the cold, grey stones, painting the room in a quiet, mournful glow.
She took a breath, trying to steady herself, but before she could rise or gather her thoughts, the door flew open and the stillness shattered, replaced by a flurry of motion and voices.
Maids spilled into the chamber, bustling like a sudden wind. “Time tae rise, milady,” one said cheerfully, while another brought in a basin of steaming water and fresh linens. The smell of lavender soap filled the room as they prepared her for the day.
Destiny’s heart pounded with the weight of what awaited her. She had no chance to dwell on it, for Sorcha rushed in soon after, eyes wide, her red hair unkempt from a restless night.
“I was locked in the bedchamber next to yours,” Sorcha said without preamble, gripping Destiny’s hands. “They told me it was for my own safety. I was furious, but there was nothing I could do.”
Destiny’s breath caught. “I was locked in as well.”
“I know,” Sorcha said softly, eyes narrowing. “But we are together now. And ’tis time to get you ready.”