Chapter Nine
By the time they had buried the dead and repaired the gates, it was afternoon.
Cameron had gathered his men in the council chamber.
They shouted at each other across the table, voices sharp with pride and fear.
Instead of sitting next to Cameron, Destiny lingered at the edge of the room, her pulse hammering with each angry word.
“Guard the gates!” Gavan shouted.
“Nay, the northern wall is too exposed,” Kenzie countered.
“They’ll come in a different manner than they did before. Mark my words,” Uncle Alastair growled.
Destiny agreed with Alastair. She remembered the prisoner’s gleam of certainty, the cruel curl of his mouth as he boasted that the Mackenzies would come for him. Almost as if the castle’s walls, the gates, the keep itself would not stop them from that task.
Cameron sat at the head of the table, silent, his broad arms folded, eyes narrowed in patient calculation.
Finally, he pounded his hand on the wood, demanding silence. “The scouts report that the Mackenzies have retreated to the valley north of us. They appear to be regrouping for another attack. We must be ready when they come.”
“The gates are secure,” Gavan confirmed.
“We are ready,” Kenzie said with a nod. “Sentries are posted on the walls. The armour is cleaned and ready.”
Relief softened Cameron’s rigid shoulders. “We must try to anticipate their next move. That will give us the advantage we need.”
The voices in the chamber erupted again as each man voiced his opinion on what they must do to prepare.
Destiny clenched her hands at her sides, trying desperately to hold her tongue. She had an idea about how the Mackenzies might attack, but would these men listen to her again?
When she could hold herself back no longer, Destiny said, “My laird.” Her voice, so different from the others, stood out.
The men stopped. As before, every head turned towards her.
Cameron’s eyes flicked up to meet hers—dark, steady, warning. He had not given her leave to speak. But she would not falter.
“The Mackenzies want their kinsman back,” she pressed, her voice firmer now. “They will not waste themselves against your walls. You proved that you could hold them admirably last night. Instead, they will strike where they can reach their kinsman the fastest. In the dungeon.”
A few of the men muttered. One scoffed openly. “A wife’s fancy.”
Destiny’s cheeks burned. “Not fancy. I spoke with the prisoner. He swore his kin would not leave him to rot. If the lower passages are breached, your walls and gates will not matter. They will take him and vanish, leaving us bloodied and broken.”
The silence that followed was heavy as stone.
Then Cameron rose, his voice crisp as steel. “Double the guard in the cellars and on the parapets. Move the prisoner to the high tower under watch. If the Mackenzies come for him, they will find nothing but blades.”
The warriors stirred, bowing heads, already murmuring new orders. Destiny’s chest surged with pride and terror both. He had listened to her once more.
But when the men left, Cameron remained, his gaze fixed on her. “You speak your opinions freely, wife,” he said quietly.
Her stomach clenched, waiting for his rebuke.
Instead, after a taut pause, he added, “And yet you may have spared us another breach.”
Before she could draw breath to answer, the door creaked open. Gavan stepped in, his face drawn, his shoulder bound tightly in bandages. The cloth beneath was still stained dark.
“Brother. I cannot wait any longer,” Gavan said, his jaw hard. His eyes slid past Cameron to Destiny. His gaze sharpened, bitter as a blade. “I want Sorcha gone before the Mackenzies attack us again. I will not have peace under this roof until she is on her way.”
Destiny’s stomach tightened. “Is it safe to send her away now?”
“There are many ways back to Wick from here,” Gavan said in a bitter tone. “She will be safe under the protection of our warriors. I can promise you that much. Safer than if she stays here.”
Cameron stood silent, and Destiny’s heart hammered in response. She might lose her friend at this moment, depending on which way her husband’s loyalty cut.
*
Cameron had faced down Mackenzie steel, had stood unflinching at the weight of a hundred men charging his gates. But his brother’s voice, rough with bitterness, struck deeper than any blade.
“She shot me, Cameron,” Gavan said again, his hand twitching towards the bound shoulder, fury burning beneath the pallor of pain. “I will never lift a sword the same. And still she walks free here, as if nothing happened.” His glare cut to Destiny.
His wife’s spine stiffened, though her hands clenched at her skirts. He could see she was preparing herself for whatever answer he gave.
Cameron folded his arms, studying Destiny and Gavan.
The weight of lairdship pressed hard across his shoulders.
Gavan was not only his brother but the man who had fought at his side since boyhood, who had fought for this clan as hard as Cameron himself.
If Gavan demanded redress, half the men of Foulis would echo it.
But Sorcha had shot his brother in fear and out of desperation, not treachery.
And Destiny . . . the way her eyes searched his now, steady, daring him to cast her friend aside. If he stripped her companion from her, would she see it as betrayal? He ground his teeth, the silence stretching long enough that even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, he said, his voice low but firm, “Gavan, your pain is not dismissed. But Sorcha will not be cast out like a criminal. She fired her pistol in chaos, not in malice. She will remain, under Destiny’s watch.”
Gavan’s jaw worked, fury darkening his face. “You would choose her over your own blood?”
Cameron’s gaze hardened. “I choose justice. Not vengeance.”
The words fell heavy between them. Gavan’s eyes blazed, but he said nothing more. He turned sharply, storming from the chamber with a muttered curse, the door slamming in his wake.
When the echo of Gavan’s footsteps faded, the chamber seemed to exhale. Cameron stood rooted, jaw clenched, staring at the door as if he could will his brother’s fury to dissolve through the oak.
Behind him, Destiny shifted, her skirts whispering against the floor. “You spared Sorcha,” she said softly.
Cameron turned, the firelight sharpening the lines of Destiny’s face. Her eyes glistened, but not with triumph. With something quieter. Sadder.
“You defied your brother for Sorcha,” Destiny continued, her voice steady, though it trembled at the edges. “But Gavan will not forgive easily. And the men—” She broke off, shaking her head, strands of hair loosening around her face. “The men will not forget either.”
Cameron’s brows drew together. “You would have me cast Sorcha out after all?”
For a long moment, Destiny said nothing.
Then, with a breath that seemed to cost her dearly, she met his gaze. “If the keep is to have peace, Sorcha cannot stay.”
Destiny’s words struck him harder than Gavan’s demand had. He had expected her to fight, to beg, to dig in her heels in stubborn defence of her friend. Instead, she had seen what he had seen, what any laird must weigh, the balance between blood, loyalty, and the harmony of the clan.
“You would give her up?” Cameron asked, his voice low, rough with disbelief.
Destiny’s throat worked as she swallowed.
“I love her as a sister. She has stood by me when no one else would. But I am not blind. The men murmur against her, and Gavan’s wounds, both physical and emotional, are plain to see.
Every time he passes Sorcha in the hall, the emotional wound is opened anew.
To keep her here is to keep the clan divided. ”
Her voice wavered then, the first crack in her composure. “If I am to be mistress of this keep, I cannot cling to what I want above what is needed. Sorcha must leave if it is indeed safe for her to do so.”
Cameron’s chest tightened. He had been ready to carry the weight of the decision alone, ready to suffer for it. But now Destiny stood before him with that fierce pride in her eyes, willing to cut her own heart to serve the clan.
Cameron stepped closer, searching her face. “If Sorcha were to leave now, I can see to her safety,” he said quietly. “The Mackenzies will not strike at once. That gives us time to get her beyond our borders, and for the men who escort her to possibly return.”
Relief flashed through Destiny’s eyes, bright and immediate, and then faded, replaced by a deeper hurt she could not quite hide.
Cameron caught it all. “Do you know what it costs to say those words?” he asked gently. “To lose the one person who stands beside you when you need her most?”
Her eyes glistened. “Aye. And I will pay it.”
For a moment, Cameron could not speak. In that instant, he saw her not as a pawn bartered in marriage, nor as the enemy’s daughter thrust into his hall, but as something far more dangerous. A woman who would choose the clan above herself. A woman who might yet be his match.
*
The late afternoon sunshine did nothing to cut the springtime chill in the air. Destiny stood in the courtyard with Sorcha beside her, the bustle of men preparing horses all around them.
Sorcha’s cloak was fastened at the throat, a bundle tied to her saddle. Her eyes were red, though she tried to keep her chin high. “I do not want to leave you,” she whispered fiercely, clutching Destiny’s hands. “Not when you have only just found your place here. Not when you will be alone.”
Destiny’s throat burned. She wanted to say, Stay. She wanted to rail against Gavan’s wound, the men’s murmurs, the bitter truth of a clan that would never forgive.
But she understood that the clan came first. “You must go, Sorcha,” she managed, her voice trembling, though she fought for strength.
“The men will not accept you here. Not while Gavan’s wound is exposed for all to see.
If you stay, it will tear the hall in two.
I cannot—” Her voice broke, and she drew in a ragged breath.
“I cannot be mistress of this keep if I place my heart above the clan.”
Sorcha’s tears spilled then, though she tried to blink them away. “You have changed in just these few days.”
Destiny nodded. “I am stronger now. And it is the strength you taught me, Sorcha. It must be so, at least for a while.”
When they parted, Sorcha climbed into the saddle with the help of a waiting groom.
Her hands lingered on the reins as if to anchor herself a moment longer.
Destiny stood still, every breath a wound, as the gates creaked open and Sorcha’s horse carried her into the mist, with six guardsmen at her side.
They would head west, moving around the valley before heading northeast to Wick once more.
Only when Sorcha and the guardsmen vanished from view did Destiny’s composure crack. Her hands curled tight at her sides, nails biting into her palms as the ache in her chest grew nearly unbearable.
From the steps of the keep, Cameron watched her. He had said nothing during the parting, had given no order or command. Yet his gaze was steady, weighty, as though he measured the cost she paid.
She forced back tears. She would not let him, or the men remaining in the yard, see her undone.
But when she turned to walk past him, Cameron’s hand brushed hers, just the faintest touch, quick and fleeting, hidden from all others. A gesture that said he had seen. That he understood.
It was not comfort, not fully. But it was something.
And for Destiny, in that moment, it was enough to keep her spine straight as she walked into the keep alone.
*
Cameron stood in the courtyard with his men later that afternoon, yet his thoughts were not on the mock battle playing out before him. Sorcha was long gone, riding out with her escort. They would be safely past the Mackenzies by now.
Cameron had watched the farewell in silence, his hands clasped behind his back as Destiny’s voice wavered but never broke.
She had sent her friend away with steady words, even as her heart cracked beneath them.
He had seen it in her eyes—the raw pain, the struggle to keep her spine straight while the weight of the clan pressed down.
And she had chosen the clan.
He had expected her to fight, to resist with that fire she carried so easily. To force him to choose between his brother and his wife. Instead, she had cut herself open to keep the peace, wielding sacrifice as deftly as any blade.
“I am stronger now,” she had said to Sorcha.
He had heard the words as clearly as if they were spoken to him.
Cameron dragged a hand through his hair, a long breath rough in his chest. She was not the girl he thought had been bartered to him like coin. She was something far more—a woman who might command loyalty not by bloodline or fear, but by the sheer force of her heart.
The clan would see it soon enough. Perhaps they already had.
And he . . . God help him, he had felt it too.
He remembered the defiance in her gaze as she stood before Gavan. The tremor in her hands as Sorcha rode through the gates. The way she had held her head high afterward, even when her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of loss.
Cameron clenched his jaw, torn between admiration and unease. He had sworn to himself not to let her close, not to let his wife become more than duty. Yet each choice she made, each risk she took, pulled her further into the fold of his clan and into him.