Chapter Seven
The gardens lay beyond the inner courtyard, tucked between the keep and the outer wall.
Though small compared to her father’s lands, they held a kind of austere beauty, with rows of herbs, a cluster of apple trees, and neat beds of leeks and onions.
The morning air was sharp with the scent of damp earth and rosemary.
Destiny wandered the gravel path slowly, her fingers brushing the tips of lavender stalks as though their fragrance might calm her racing thoughts. The murmur of men training in the yard echoed faintly through the stone walls, but here it was quiet enough to think.
And thinking was precisely what unsettled her.
They called her husband the Butcher. She had heard the name of Cameron’s father and his eldest son whispered in her father’s hall, spoken with equal parts dread and grudging respect. Men who slaughtered Mackenzies without mercy. Men who broke clans with the force of their swords and their wills.
And yet, Cameron had not shown her that side of himself.
Not once. He had been firm and commanding, but never cruel.
He had granted her space, allowed her voice to be heard in the council chamber, even looked at her as though she were more than a pawn.
Was it all a mask? Was he waiting until her defences lowered, until she trusted him enough, before revealing the part of himself that had earned him such a name?
He spoke of peace with a steadiness that surprised her, and her marriage had been woven into that design.
Destiny wondered which side of him would prevail .
. . the butcher she had feared, or the peacemaker she was only beginning to glimpse.
Her hand tightened around a sprig of thyme, crushing it between her fingers, releasing its sharp scent. She did not notice the gardener until he rose from where he had been bent over a bed of onions.
Destiny startled, then offered a small smile. “Mr Muir, I did not see you there. Forgive me, I am intruding on your work.”
“Nay, milady. The garden is for all,” he said, straightening with a grunt. He was older, stooped, with a leather cap pulled low and dirt caked beneath his nails. “Keeps the kitchen full, the men fed. Would ye like that tour of the gardens now?”
“Nay. I do not wish to disturb your hard work.” But perhaps there was something he could do for her. Biting her lower lip, she hesitated, then asked the question that pressed too heavily to keep inside. “Tell me . . . my husband, the laird. Why do they call him the Butcher?”
Mr Muir’s brows rose, and for a moment he seemed to weigh whether he ought to answer at all.
Then he glanced around, as though to be sure no one else listened.
“The young laird carries a great burden given tae him by his father. The elder laird was a brutal man. ’Twas during the battle at Evanton,” the gardener said slowly.
“The Mackenzies raided our lands, slew women and bairns. The elder laird struck back hard. Showed no mercy. Not tae the raiders, not tae those who harboured them. Blood ran deep that day.” The gardener rubbed at his hands, as though trying to work the memory away with the dirt.
“The younger laird fought at his side. Many say they both earned the name there, and it clung tae them both after.”
Destiny’s mouth went dry. “And you? Do you believe it of the younger laird, of Cameron? That he is brutal?”
Mr Muir’s gaze met hers, steady and thoughtful.
“I believe he does what must be done fer his people. He’s a man with a warrior’s heart.
But I’ve seen harder. Seen crueller.” The gardener bent back to his work, tugging weeds from the soil.
“Sometimes, mercy keeps yer enemies bold. Sometimes, fear keeps them at bay. Each laird must choose how he’ll wield his sword. ”
Mr Muir’s words lingered as Destiny walked on.
They gave her no comfort, only raising more questions.
Could Cameron truly be both? A laird who had listened to her in council and the man who easily cut down his enemies in battle?
Could she trust the man she had come to know, or was he drawing her into a cage until he revealed his true self?
Destiny stopped at the far end of the garden, staring through a slight gap in the wall where the hills stretched beyond the keep. Her chest ached with the weight of not knowing.
But one thing was certain—she could not remain in the dark. She had spoken once in council and been heard. If she wished to prove herself further, and to learn who her husband truly was, she would have to act.
Her thoughts turned to the Mackenzie prisoner. Perhaps in his words she might uncover truth, or at least a fragment of it.
Straightening, Destiny gathered her skirts.
The fabric whispered against her legs as she turned back towards the keep, each step echoing softly against the stone path.
One success was not enough. She would not be a bride content to watch from the shadows.
If Cameron truly was the Butcher, she would discover it for herself.
For a moment, she paused, her footsteps catching on the worn path.
Why did it matter so much to know the truth about the man she had married?
She released a long breath into the cold air before moving forward again.
Her footsteps rang steady now, marking her progress across the courtyard towards the dungeon.
Because she wanted desperately to believe Cameron could be more than the name they gave him. That he could be a partner and a husband, not a gaoler. And that she was not merely another possession to be controlled.
*
The stairwell to the dungeon narrowed as Destiny descended, her footsteps echoing against the stone.
The air grew colder with each step, the light thinning until the torch she carried became her only guide.
The swish of her skirts brushed the walls, catching on rough stone, the sound startlingly loud in the silence.
The clang of distant boots echoed behind her, but no one stopped her.
A few guards exchanged uncertain glances, but her unyielding stride kept them from questioning her.
She had come down these steps earlier as Cameron’s wife, conscious of eyes and expectations.
Now she came alone, her thoughts heavier with every step.
Moisture clung to the air, carrying with it the heavy smell of damp earth and rusting iron. Somewhere ahead, water dripped steadily, each drop landing with a hollow plink that marked her passage deeper into shadow. The warmth of the courtyard seemed a world away.
She flexed her fingers absently, feeling the muscles of her arm flex as well. She no longer required a bandage for her injury. The skin was tender still, the scrape pink and healing, a reminder of danger survived. The Mackenzie prisoner had not been so fortunate.
He stirred as she approached, shifting against the wall with a faint hiss of pain.
His chest was tightly bound in linen, darkened where blood had seeped through despite careful wrapping.
One arm was splinted and bound to his side, useless.
His breathing was shallow, measured, as though each breath required effort.
“Well,” he rasped, lifting his head. His gaze sharpened when he recognised her. “Come to see if I am dead yet?”
Destiny stopped a few paces from the bars. “Nay. I come to make certain you are not.”
“Still alive,” he said, mouth curving despite the pain. His eyes flicked to her arm. “Looks like you fared better than I did.”
She followed his gaze and rested her hand lightly over the faint pink mark where the arrow had grazed her. “I was lucky,” she said simply. “It no longer needs binding.”
He nodded, then grimaced. “Some wounds close. Others linger. Now that you’ve seen me, you can leave unless you really came here alone for a different reason.” His gaze sharpened. “Perhaps to learn who your husband really is?”
She met his eyes then, steadying herself. “I do not need you to tell me if my husband is a monster or a saint.”
He laughed softly, the sound breaking into a cough he could not quite suppress. “Good. I’d have lied either way.”
That earned the barest lift of her mouth. “I thought you might.” She stepped closer, careful to keep distance. “So instead, I ask you to speak as a Mackenzie to a Gunn. Tell me what Cameron Munro has done. Not what you hate him for.”
The humour faded from his expression.
He studied her for a long moment, weighing her words. “You’re a dangerous woman,” he said at last. “Asking questions like that.”
“I was raised by a dangerous man,” Destiny replied quietly. “I learned early that truth rarely comes when asked for plainly.”
The prisoner shifted again, his hand pressing unconsciously against the bandage at his chest. “Very well,” he said. “You were kind to me once. I hope you don’t live to regret that.” He drew a slow breath, then narrowed his gaze on her. “Deeds, then.”
Her pulse quickened.
“There were a few deeds that confused me,” he admitted. “At Evanton, your husband fought as his father did. He killed men. Mackenzie men. But when it was done, when the field could have been taken in full, he pulled his men back against his father’s orders.”
Destiny’s breath caught. “Pulled them back?”
“Aye,” the prisoner said grudgingly. “When blood was still hot. When others would have pressed on. There were wounded left behind, ours and theirs. He would not let them be finished.” His jaw tightened. “That earned him no friends among my kin. Or among some of his own.”
“That is not the story I was told,” Destiny murmured.
“Stories sharpen with distance,” he said. “Especially when men need villains.”
She glanced at his bandages again, at the careful wrapping despite his being an enemy. “And this?” she asked softly.