Chapter Four #2
Destiny nodded, finding comfort in her friend’s presence. She reached for the simple dress she had brought, a pale-pink gown, unadorned but elegant, the colour soft against her fair skin. The maids helped her into it with careful hands, fastening the delicate buttons and smoothing the fabric.
Her golden hair was brushed until it shone, then twisted and pinned into an intricate style, with a few loose curls left to frame her face.
When she turned to the mirror, even she was struck by the reflection that stared back.
Her blue eyes looked luminous, almost otherworldly in their brightness.
She looked ethereal, like a girl in a dream, or perhaps one stepping into a life she had not chosen.
Arm-in-arm, she and Sorcha descended the stone staircase, the sounds of voices rising ahead.
The great hall had been transformed for the occasion.
Banners hung from the rafters, and flowers, wild heather and white roses, adorned the tables.
At the far end, standing beneath a carved arch of stone and garland, waited Cameron.
At the sight of her, she could swear his breath caught before he shifted his attention to his boots.
Gone was the sombre black he had worn before.
Today, he stood tall in the bold red and black of the Munro tartan, the wool draped across him with an easy authority.
A crisp white shirt lay beneath, the brightness of the linen setting off the rich hues of the tartan, and over it he wore a tailored black jacket that emphasised the breadth of his shoulders.
His dark hair was neatly tied back, and there was an air of command about him.
Her soon-to-be husband was powerful, certain, and undeniably handsome.
For a fleeting moment, Destiny could almost forget the stories, forget that this man before her was known as the Butcher, his ruthlessness in battle earning him fear and respect in equal measure.
Then his gaze came up, and their eyes met as she moved towards him, and for an instant, something unreadable passed between them, curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of understanding.
For all the whispers of his ruthlessness, he did not look cruel.
He looked solid. Commanding. And far too compelling for a man she was meant to despise.
His hair was damp, his jaw shadowed, his stance both warrior and laird.
When she reached his side, he held out his hand.
When she placed her fingers in his, a tingle rippled up her arm, a treacherous awareness that had nothing to do with duty.
She pushed the sensation away, furious with herself. Attraction was the last thing she needed.
The minister’s voice droned, binding them in vows neither of them had chosen. Cameron’s I do was firm, unyielding. Destiny’s voice caught in her throat.
When she finally forced the words, they rasped like broken glass in her throat. “I do.”
At the pledge, Cameron tightened his hand around hers, not painfully, but more as a show of support.
His palm was hot, callused, and his grip steady, too steady.
The contact sent a rush of warmth up her arm, burning through her resistance.
She told herself it was fear. It had to be fear.
Yet when she dared to lift her eyes, he looked at her, not with softness, but with an intensity that made her stomach twist.
Chains, she reminded herself. This marriage was chains, cold, heavy, unyielding.
When the minister said a final blessing, a cheer rose from Cameron’s men and his two brothers. One of them, the one Sorcha had shot, stood off to the side, his arm in a sling and a scowl on his face that darkened his features. His gaze lingered on Sorcha with cold disdain.
Afterward, Cameron’s grip lessened, then vanished, leaving her hand suddenly chilled.
She clasped her own hands together to stave off the sudden loneliness she felt.
He guided her to the dais, where he pulled out a chair for her.
Destiny sat, then Cameron seated himself beside her.
The table before her was laden with platters of meat, bread, and honeyed fruit.
The wine flowed freely, and the hall buzzed with conversation and toasts, though Destiny only picked at her food.
She glanced down at Sorcha, who sat two seats down, her face impassive.
Most likely because of the scowling man across the table from her.
Destiny forced herself to lift a cup when a toast was called, her lips stiff in a smile. Cameron drank with the ease of a man born to be watched, his every gesture measured. He leaned close enough that she felt the heat of his body, the brush of his sleeve.
“They will look to see if you falter,” Cameron murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
Her whole body betrayed her with a shiver.
She clenched her hands in her lap, furious with herself for reacting. “I will not falter,” she whispered back, though her voice trembled with more than defiance.
The nearness was unbearable. He smelled of leather and mint, with a hint of something sharper, like pine. She should have pulled away. Instead, her traitorous heart quickened, as though it wanted to lean closer still.
She hated it. Hated him. Hated herself most of all for noticing the way her body betrayed her.
When the meal ended, Cameron stood and offered his arm. For a beat, she considered refusing. Yet with every Munro eye on her, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. The hard muscle beneath his sleeve startled her, made her pulse skip. She told herself it was revulsion. It was not.
Before he could lead her away, a guard approached, bowing stiffly.
“My laird,” he said, voice low. “The Mackenzie prisoner . . . he refuses to eat or drink. He hasn’t touched a bite since his arrival. He says he would rather starve than eat from a Munro’s table.”
Cameron’s jaw tightened as he turned to her. “Stay here.” He released her arm. “I must see this stubborn prisoner. I will not have the third son of the Mackenzie laird die in our dungeon and start a larger conflict than we already face.”
“May I come with you?” Destiny asked boldly. “I might be able to help. I was always particularly good at managing my father’s creditors when they came calling.” At the confession, she could feel heat rise to her cheeks.
He nodded briefly before heading to the door. He paused for a moment and handed her a tartan shawl in the Munro colours.
At her hesitation, he replied, “To keep you warm. I will not have my bride catching a cold on our wedding day.”
She thought about refusing, but as the chill morning air touched her skin, she tossed the tartan wrap around her shoulders and followed him outside.
Cameron showed her the training yard, the smithy, the stables.
She tried to feign indifference, but her awareness of him grew sharper with every step.
His stride was long, confident, his voice even and held a hint of pride when he explained even the smallest details of the estate.
She should not have noticed the strength in his hands when he gestured, or the faint smile tugging at his mouth when young clansmen saluted him.
But she did. And she chastised herself for it.
When he led her down into the dungeon, the cold stone stairwell seemed a mercy. At least here, her shivering could be blamed on the dampness.
Torchlight illuminated the small chamber, revealing two separate cells with iron bars between them. The Mackenzie prisoner was in the cell on the right. He sat on the cold stone floor, makeshift field dressings crudely bound to his chest and along his arm, soaked through with darkening blood.
When he raised his face to them as they entered the circle of light surrounding him, the strain of pain was unmistakable beneath his contempt. “Why have you come?”
“Perhaps we should let him starve after all.” Cameron’s reply was hard, clipped. He turned back to the stairs.
Destiny flinched at the cruelty. “Wait,” she blurted, surprising herself as much as him. “Let me try.”
He turned and studied her. “You think you can convince him to eat?”
She nodded, then moved to stand beside the cell, peering through the bars at the man inside. “I know what it is like to be separated from your kin. But if you wish to see them again, it is imperative that you maintain your health.”