Chapter Eight
Cameron strode down the corridor, each step hammering against the stone like a curse. Defiant woman. Bold woman. A woman who had dared to press her hand against the one wound in him that never healed, the name they spat at him, the one he bore like armour, and like chains. Butcher.
And yet, her eyes had not accused him. They had searched. Demanded. As though she wanted to know the man behind the name, and not just the monster painted by rumour. That should have eased him. Instead, her desire to know him fully gnawed deeper. No one had ever questioned him the way Destiny did.
By the time Cameron reached the great hall, he had once again fastened his mask of command back in place.
His men waited, watchful, already restless with word of the Mackenzies.
He gave orders without hesitation to double the patrols, rotate the scouts on the ridge, and to keep the watch-fires burning through the night.
They obeyed quickly, but he saw the questions in their eyes. Was their laird rattled?
Nay. He would not let them see it. He could not afford doubt. Not tonight, with so much on the line.
When the council gathered that evening, Cameron kept his tone clipped and hard. They argued about strategy, about whether the Mackenzies truly meant to strike.
He listened, weighed their counsel, then cut through the noise with a decision. “We prepare as if they march tonight. If they come to negotiate, all the better. If not, we will meet them with our swords.”
The men nodded, some grim, some eager. But Cameron’s gaze drifted, drawn against his will, to where Destiny had sat only that morning. He had never cared what people thought of him in the past. Why did he care so much that his wife not think he was a monster?
His thoughts shattered a moment later when a runner burst in, breathless. “M’laird. ’Tis the Mackenzies! They’ve lit signal fires in the north, and a contingent of a hundred men, some on horseback, others on foot, move towards us. They have a ram.”
It did not sound as if they were coming to negotiate anything. “They mean to break through the gates,” Cameron said as he rose.
He could feel a ripple of tension pass through his men.
His own heart should have been stone, steady, prepared, unyielding.
Instead, a dull ache pressed behind his ribs, the remnants of hurt and sorrow he had not yet shaken free.
Against his will, his thoughts strayed once more to Destiny, to the warmth of her beneath his hand, and to the dangerous softness he could not afford on a night like this.
He had not expected trust to come easily between them, but the realisation that it might never come naturally, that it might always be measured, earned in fragments rather than given freely, left a quiet ache in his chest.
There would be no easy courtship, no unguarded beginning built on mutual faith. Whatever grew between them would be forged under watchful eyes, tempered by reputation and necessity, not innocence. Respect might come. Even affection, in time. But a simple bond, born of ease and unquestioning trust?
He doubted such a thing had ever been possible for either of them.
Cameron shook his thoughts away, turning back to the situation at hand. “Men to the parapets and the courtyard,” Cameron ordered, his voice hard and commanding again.
The Butcher’s name would serve him well in the battle to come. But it was Destiny’s faith in him, both fragile and uncertain, that he found himself clinging to as he hurried into the courtyard, his hand on his sword and the tail of his plaid thrown over one shoulder.
The night split open with the blare of horns.
Shouts rang from the walls, and the thunder of boots echoed within the castle as men rushed to the courtyard and the battlements.
Torches flared, lighting the grim set of his men’s faces as the Mackenzies surged towards the castle, a tide of steel and fury.
Cameron’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with sharpened purpose. This was the ground he understood. Where doubt fell away and hesitation had no place. Here, he was not husband or negotiator or would-be peacemaker. He was the shield before his people.
“The Mackenzies are at the gates with a ram,” a voice called from above.
“Archers!” Cameron’s voice cut through the chaos. “Loose!”
A volley of arrows hissed skyward, falling in steep arcs, striking the Mackenzies as they charged. Screams answered the command. Still the Mackenzies came, slamming their ladders against the curtain wall.
“Spearmen on the crenellations, make your pikes ready,” Cameron barked, moving among the men in the courtyard, steadying them with a word, a glance.
He felt their eyes on him. They wanted him to be the Butcher tonight, the iron hand that would not give way.
As always, he would do whatever had to be done to keep his clan, his people, safe.
He reached for his sword, but before he could act, his gaze caught on a movement that seemed out of place.
A splash of light blue above the courtyard.
Destiny. He looked up to find her at the railing, torchlight painting her face pale against the dark.
She should not have been there. He had ordered her to stay in the safety of the keep.
Her presence was a knife in his gut. Fear formed, sharper than any enemy blade. For all his discipline, his stride lost its rhythm. If the Mackenzies breached, if she—
“Cameron!” Alastair’s shout yanked him back.
The portcullis gave way and the gates cracked, splinters flying. His men braced, shields locked.
“Hold the line!” Cameron roared, planting himself at the fore. The ram struck again, then the gates burst inward, and the Mackenzies poured through, wild and bellowing.
Steel clashed. The courtyard erupted into chaos. Cameron met the first wave head-on, his sword cleaving down with brutal precision. A man fell. Another lunged. Cameron caught him with a thrust to the ribs. Around him, the Munros tightened their ranks, driving the enemy back step by step.
Yet even as he fought, he knew where Destiny stood. Every glance of torchlight, every flicker of flame, he felt her gaze on him. Watching. Judging. Seeking the truth in the man they called Butcher.
He fought harder. Not for the name. Not even for the fear it stirred in his enemies. But because, for the first time in years, he wanted to be seen clearly.
And when the Mackenzies broke at last, retreating into the night with their dead and dying left behind, Cameron stood in the wreckage, chest heaving. His men raised a cheer, voices rough with triumph.
But his eyes sought only hers.
Above, Destiny gripped the rail, her face flushed, her eyes wide, but not only with fear, but also something else. Something that made his chest ache.
Cameron lifted his sword, saluting his men. But it was not to them that his heart gave thanks.
It was to her.
*
The courtyard still rang with the roar of victory, but Destiny could scarcely hear it over the pounding in her chest. She gripped the stone railing until her knuckles whitened, watching Cameron below.
His sword was dark with blood, his shoulders broad and unyielding as he strode through his men, giving orders with a voice that carried strength, even in its exhaustion.
She had seen him fight. Truly fight. Not in stories, not in whispers. With her own eyes. He had been fierce, unstoppable, the laird his people needed. Not as a murderer. Not in the way she had feared.
Her legs felt unsteady as she descended from the gallery. The great hall’s firelight threw long shadows across the stone as she found Cameron there. He turned at once when she entered, his dark gaze finding her as if he had known she would come.
She stopped before him, her breath quick and shallow, but she made herself meet his eyes. His face was smeared with dirt, blood, and sweat, but she did not find it offensive. Instead, he looked human. Real. And somewhat vulnerable.
“You fought like . . .” The word butcher caught in her throat. She forced it aside. “Like a laird defending his people. You were . . .” Her voice caught, then steadied, soft but unyielding. “Terrible and magnificent all at once.”
Something flickered across his face. Pride, but also something deeper that made her heart clench. He stepped closer, and the air between them seemed to shrink until she could feel the warmth of him, smell the smoke and musk clinging to his skin.
He lifted the tail of his tartan and wiped his face before letting the woollen fabric slip from his fingers. “You stayed,” he said, his voice rough. “You watched the battle, though you should have hidden.”
She lifted her chin, even as her pulse raced. “How else am I to know the truth about you?”
For a moment, silence roared louder than the battle had.
His eyes searched hers, fierce and unguarded, and she felt herself unravel beneath them.
When his hand rose to brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek, she did not move.
Could not. Her breath caught in her chest, trembling with an anticipation she refused to name.
And then he kissed her.
It was not soft, nor cautious. His mouth claimed hers with fire, with hunger barely leashed, and to her shame, or perhaps her salvation, she answered him.
Heat coursed through her, fiercer than fear, fiercer than doubt.
She had meant to resist him, to keep her guard high.
Instead, she found herself clinging to the strength in him, caught in the storm he unleashed.
When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath uneven. His words came low, almost a vow. “Trust. It will not come easy between us, Destiny. But neither will it break easily, once earned.”
Her heart thundered, her lips tingling from the heat of him. She wanted to believe him. God help her, she wanted it more than she dared admit. Still, she would not surrender so easily.
Her voice came out as a whisper, laced with defiance and hope. “Then let us see if you are worthy of it.”