Chapter Six
The next morning Destiny woke groggy, tangled in linen that smelled of lavender and man, though Cameron had never lain beside her. She sat up slowly, pressing her hand to her brow. Her dreams had been restless, filled with shadows and his voice. Until you ask. The words clung to her like cobwebs.
She dressed quickly in a plain light-blue dress before anyone could enter and help her.
She brushed her hair back and gathered it at her nape, allowing a few thin tendrils to fall against her face.
It was her usual style, simple and unadorned.
As she and Sorcha had discussed, she was determined to find a few small ways to prove herself to Cameron and his people.
When she descended into the courtyard, the keep was already alive. Men trained with pikes in the yard, the clang of steel ringing through the morning air. Others led horses to water or carried sacks of oats. And at the centre of it all, giving orders with clipped efficiency, stood Cameron.
He was dressed in the red and black tartan of the Munro clan and a linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms corded with muscle as he gestured to a group of men. His voice carried, calm and commanding, and the clansmen moved quickly to obey. He looked every inch the laird of the castle.
Destiny’s breath caught against her will. The daylight revealed strength, discipline, something steadier, something far harder to resist. Her stomach responded traitorously at the sight.
She forced her eyes away, focusing instead on the training yard, the rhythm of boots and the grunts of men. But when Cameron glanced up and caught her standing there, the flicker of heat in his eyes pinned her where she stood.
She told herself it was anger, suspicion. That he still thought her too soft towards their enemies. But deep inside, she knew it was more complicated than that. She shifted her gaze to the men who mock-battled beside her. They watched her, their curiosity evident in their faces.
Destiny stiffened her spine. Aye, they were watching. The Munros wanted to see what kind of bride their laird had taken. Whether she would be meek, proud, or weak. She could not falter.
Her gaze shifted back to Cameron as he strode across the courtyard towards her, his dark hair lifting in the morning breeze.
Destiny’s pulse betrayed her. Each step he took tightened something inside her, an invisible cord pulling her closer.
When he stopped before her, the men behind him fell silent, waiting for his next command.
His eyes, however, never left hers. “You are awake early,” he said, voice low, pitched for her alone.
Destiny swallowed hard, cursing the rush of heat in her chest. She forced her tone cool. “I have slept enough and am eager to be useful.”
He studied her face for a long moment, as though he could see every thought she struggled to bury. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, he turned back to his men and barked his next order.
Cameron’s men obeyed at once, dispersing across the yard, though several still cast quick, measuring looks at her as they passed. Destiny kept her chin high, her fingers tightening around the folds of her skirts. She would not cower. Not here, not before them.
Cameron waited until the clang of steel resumed, the rhythm of training filling the courtyard again, before turning back to her. He regarded her in silence for a long beat, his hazel eyes unreadable. She fought the urge to fidget beneath that gaze.
“You wish to be useful,” he said finally, his voice steady, but not unkind. “There is a way.”
Hope and fear warred inside her. “Tell me how,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She drew in a calming breath, willing her voice softer. “Tell me what I can do to help, Cameron.”
He studied her again, eyes narrowing as though measuring her words for truth. His gaze flicked, for the briefest moment, to the men who trained only a few paces away. “Not here,” he murmured. “This is no place for such talk.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “Later this morning, I will meet with the council to get their approval of my plan for the prisoner.” His eyes caught hers again, holding her still. “If you are so eager to be of use, you may attend.”
The words struck her like a blow, unexpected, thrilling, and terrifying. A council. With his kin, his advisers, his men. A place where she would be scrutinised, where every word could betray her ignorance, her loyalties, her worth. Her heart stuttered.
“I would be welcome there?” she asked carefully, afraid to hope.
“You are my wife,” Cameron said simply, though his voice carried weight enough to still her doubts. “If you mean to stand at my side, then you will see what that requires.”
For the first time since the vows were spoken, Destiny felt a glimmer of possibility stir in her chest. A chance not only to observe, but to prove to him, to the men, and to herself, that she could be more than the bride bartered across clan lines.
Her lips parted, and she gave a short nod. “Then I will be ready.”
A shadow of a smile flickered across his face, so quick she almost thought she imagined it. Then, just as swiftly, it was gone. He turned back to the yard, raising his voice to command the men once more. The clang of steel rose sharp and sure, echoing off the castle walls.
But Destiny stood taller now, her pulse steadying. She had been given her chance. And she would not waste it.
*
The council chamber smelled faintly of old oak. A long table stretched before the hearth, its surface scarred by years of elbows, spilled ale, and dagger points. Around it gathered Cameron’s men.
At the doorway, he leaned close and identified a few of the men in the chamber.
“My mother’s brother, Alastair,” Cameron said, shifting his gaze to a broad and grizzled man who leaned heavily on the table.
“Young Fergus,” he said, pointing to his right.
Cameron continued, identifying several of the warriors who had fought beside him for years.
Then he nodded to both his brothers, Gavan and Kenzie. Both men nodded back.
The conversation in the room was brisk with arguments, but the moment she crossed the threshold, silence rippled through the chamber.
Men turned, their gazes lingering on her, curious, doubtful, some even faintly mocking.
Destiny paused, her breath caught somewhere between dread and resolve.
She reminded herself of Sorcha’s words, Show them that your heart is steady, your resolution unwavering.
The room quieted as she and Cameron strode inside. “Come,” he said. “You belong here.”
The simple certainty of it steadied her more than any reassurance could have. She followed him to a chair at the head of the table, acutely aware of every gaze tracking her movement. Destiny straightened her spine and folded her hands in her lap.
“My wife will hear what passes in this chamber,” Cameron said once she was seated.
A murmur rippled around the table. “This is not how your father ruled,” Jamison, one of the warriors Cameron had fought with over the years said.
“I am not my father.” His gaze challenged anyone to argue. When they did not, he continued, “One of the Mackenzies remains in our custody. The laird’s third son. He survived his attempt on my bride’s life.”
The room ignited.
“Hang him,” Alastair growled. “Send his head back.”
“We must strike back at the Mackenzies, prisoner or not. They took Father’s life,” Kenzie said, his voice heavy with grief. “That deserves revenge.”
“Nay. We should ransom him,” Gavan argued. “Make his father pay some toll for murdering our father.”
“A hostage invites rescue,” Fergus snapped. “And a corpse invites vengeance. Either way, we’ll have war.”
The arguments surged, familiar and fierce. Destiny listened, her heart pounding, not with fear, but with clarity. Every answer led to the same end. Blood. Retaliation. Another generation taught to hate.
Cameron said nothing.
He let them speak themselves hoarse.
When the noise finally dulled to grumbling, he leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “You have all named the paths we know.”
Several men stiffened.
“My father walked them,” Cameron continued quietly. “Steel answered with steel. And where did it leave us?”
Silence fell, heavy and unavoidable.
“The king calls for peace,” Cameron said. “Not as courtesy. As warning. England watches us tear at one another. If we do not begin to govern our feuds, they will govern us. And when that day comes, the Highlands will not recognise themselves.”
Destiny felt a chill trace her spine. This was not fear of the Mackenzies. This was fear of what waited beyond them.
“I will not lead Munro into another war born of pride,” Cameron said. “There is another way.”
A low murmur of unease rolled around the table.
“The Mackenzie will be returned to his father,” Cameron continued, his voice steady.
“Alive?” Alastair snapped. “He’ll bleed out before he clears our gates.”
“He will not be moved until he can survive the journey,” Cameron replied without hesitation. “And when he is returned, it will be under a banner of truce.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the table. “My father would have answered this with fire. I will answer it with terms.”
Several men shifted uneasily.
“In exchange,” Cameron went on, “we will demand safe passage across Mackenzie land for any Munro travelling between our holdings and those newly joined to us through my marriage.” His eyes flicked briefly to Destiny, then back to the men. “No tolls. No interference. No drawn steel.”
Gavan scowled. “And if the Mackenzies refuse?”
“Then they declare themselves enemies of peace,” Cameron said calmly. “Not just of Munro, but of the king’s order.”
“And while we wait,” Kenzie said darkly, “the Mackenzies will not sit idle. They will come for him and also our blood.”
A murmur of unease spread through the chamber. Days were dangerous things in the Highlands. Days invited rumours. Days invited raids.
Cameron inclined his head once. “I know.”