Chapter Seven #3
Cameron dismissed the scouts with a curt nod, his mind already racing. The Mackenzies were stirring, just as the prisoner had hinted. Whether it was bluster or truth, he could not yet say, but he would not leave Foulis unprepared.
After alerting his men to the danger, Cameron strode back into the keep, boots striking hard against the stone floors.
When he entered the great hall, his gaze landed on Destiny at once.
She sat with Sorcha near the hearth, her mending in her lap, though the needle quivered slightly between her fingers.
“You have news?” Her voice wavered as her face grew pale.
Cameron stopped before her, letting his shadow fall across her work. He turned his eyes to Sorcha. “Might I speak to my wife alone?”
Sorcha, wise enough not to argue, set her own mending aside. With one last glance at Destiny, she rose and left them.
He took her place, lifting the abandoned shirt she had been repairing from the chair and setting it aside. The hearth light threw Destiny’s face into glow and shadow, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. “We may have trouble,” he said.
Her gaze snapped to his.
“The Mackenzies are moving,” he continued, keeping his voice even. “I do not yet know if they come to speak or to fight.”
He saw the flicker of fear cross her face, and then something else. Resolve. She did not question him. War was his burden. She knew that.
“I want you to remain within the castle,” he said. “If they come, I will have you safe behind stone.”
She did not give him the answer he wanted. Her silence stretched, thoughtful, neither yielding nor refusing.
It unsettled him more than outright defiance would have, and that made him speak the words he had tried so hard not to say. “You asked the prisoner about me. You went to my enemy,” he said.
She drew breath to speak, and before he could stop himself, he reached for her. His fingers brushed her sleeve and settled at her forearm, light but unmistakable. A steadying touch. A warning. Perhaps both.
He felt her reaction at once. A slight intake of breath. A subtle stilling beneath his hand, as though the contact had rooted her in place. Her pulse jumped against his thumb, quick and telling.
“I needed—” she began.
“You went to my enemy for the truth?” he asked, not hiding the hurt in his words.
“I wanted clarity, because the man they call the Butcher is not the man I have seen. And I need to know which one is truly my husband.”
He tried to keep the pain contained, but it slipped through, sharp and unbidden, leaving him momentarily unshielded. “You think me a monster, then.” His voice came low, stripped bare.
She did not look away from him.
If anything, her gaze softened, as though she saw the hurt beneath his words. “I think you are a man of secrets,” she countered. “And secrets can be as deadly as any blade.”
Her words struck true. “Listen well, Destiny,” he said, low and edged.
“They call me the Butcher because I did what was necessary to protect my people. Not because I took joy in slaughter. Not because I relish cruelty. I wear the name because others put it upon me, and I would rather be feared than see my clan destroyed.”
He eased his grip to a gentle touch, though his eyes stayed locked on hers, fierce and unguarded. “You may doubt me. You may even fear me. But do not mistake me for the man those whispers make me.”
She did not flinch. She met his gaze boldly. “And how am I to know the difference?” she asked.
The question cut deep. His voice dropped, rough with the truth he rarely bared. “Stay. Watch. Learn about me for yourself. Do not let others define me. If you still call me Butcher then, I will not deny it.”
He felt her waver beneath his gaze, torn between the warnings she had heard and what she saw before her. He let his hand slip from her arm, though it lingered a moment too long before falling away.
“But if you ask my enemies who I am,” he added quietly, “do not be surprised when they give you the worst of me.”
Her lips parted, her breath catching, and he saw it—the slightest lean towards him, as though pulled by an invisible cord neither of them could sever.
Cameron felt the same pull, sharp and dangerous. For one wild instant, he almost gave in. Almost.
Instead, he shook his head, forcing himself to get up and head for the door, hesitating before stepping through.
“Trust is not built in a single night, or even two,” he said, his voice hard again.
“Remember that.” He meant to leave, but added, “No matter what happens tonight, stay in the safety of the castle. Do you understand me?”
She stared at him for a heartbeat, then offered a nod.
He left her there, her hand still pressed to the place he had touched, her eyes full of the same mingled fear and longing he carried with him.
As he strode away, he told himself his thoughts belonged with the Mackenzies, with their intent, the threat they might pose, and the cost of this night should they choose blood over words.
Not with the way Destiny’s breath had caught beneath his hand.
And not with the bitter awareness that, for a moment, he had been a fool to lower his guard.