Chapter Ten
Feeling anxious and a little sad after Sorcha’s departure, Destiny found herself walking through the castle until she ended up in the kitchen.
Another Mackenzie attack would happen soon, but in this chamber it was easy to forget that as the air shimmered with heat from the great hearth, fragrant with the mingled scents of baking bread and simmering broth.
Mrs Baxter, the castle cook, moved around the preparation table with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had commanded this domain for decades.
Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with flour, and her apron was a patchwork of stains from the day’s work.
Destiny watched her knead a ball of dough, the rhythm steady, comforting, so unlike the chaos gathering at the castle’s borders.
“Sit yourself down, mistress,” Mrs Baxter said without looking up. “No need for you to be pacing holes in my kitchen floor.”
Destiny realised she had been doing exactly that. She slid onto the bench beside the long table where several sheets of parchment lay weighted with a wooden spoon. They were Mrs Baxter’s meal lists for the coming days, marked with tidy script and floury thumbprints.
“I did not mean to intrude,” Destiny said softly.
“You’re no intrusion,” the cook replied. “You’re the mistress of this house. And a kitchen’s meant to be a refuge, especially for one who needs it.”
Destiny’s throat tightened. It had not even been a full day since Sorcha left, sent home because of Gavan. Her friend’s laughter no longer echoed down the corridors. The absence was a hollow space in Destiny’s chest, raw as a new wound.
Mrs Baxter glanced up as she shaped the dough into a round loaf. “You miss your friend.”
Destiny blinked against the sting in her eyes. “Aye. Sorcha has been with me since I arrived. She understood things that are difficult to explain.” Destiny swallowed. “Now she is gone, and I feel—”
“Adrift.” Mrs Baxter’s voice softened. “As though someone pulled the only familiar plank from a storm-tossed boat.”
Destiny looked sharply at her.
The woman offered a gentle, knowing smile. “Aye, lass,” Mrs Baxter said, “I’ve seen that look on more than just your face. Foulis is a grand castle, but she can be lonely when you’re trying to find your place inside her walls.”
The tenderness in the cook’s tone nearly undid Destiny.
She bowed her head. “I fear I am failing,” she whispered. “As mistress. As Cameron’s wife. As a woman who should remain strong while the men prepare for battle.”
Mrs Baxter set down the dough and wiped her hands on a cloth before sitting beside her.
“Now listen to me.” Her voice held the firmness of a command wrapped in kindness.
“You are not alone. Not here. Not ever. You’ve friends among the staff, even if you don’t yet see it.
” She patted Destiny’s hand with warm, flour-scented fingers.
“We’ve all watched you. How you treat the serving lassies with respect, how you listen before speaking, how you carry yourself with quiet dignity.
Foulis Castle isn’t blind, Mistress Destiny. Nor heartless.”
Destiny felt something loosen inside her, just a little. “’Tis difficult to believe that sometimes.”
Mrs Baxter nodded. “Aye. Fear clouds the mind. Grief too. But trust me when I say you’ve made a mark here. The women talk about you with pride. And the lads in the courtyard? Och, there’s not a one who doesn’t stand a bit straighter when you pass.”
A startled laugh escaped Destiny, soft but real. Mrs Baxter grinned, pleased with the sound.
“Now then,” the cook continued, retrieving the parchments, “let’s settle the meals for the next few days before those Mackenzies start poking at our walls again.”
She spread the parchment across the table.
“Oat porridge and honey for the morning, bannocks and smoked lamb slices for midday. Then a simple barley stew with carrots, onions, and the salted beef the laird brought in last month. The night after, roasted hens with turnips and boiled cabbage. We’ll stretch the stores, but no one will go hungry. ”
Destiny nodded, grounding herself in the practicality of the words. “The men need strength. They will be worn down if the attacks continue.”
“Aye. That they will.” Mrs Baxter cast her a sidelong glance. “And so will you. Which is why you’ll take your meals proper-like and not simply pick at your plate. Understood?”
Destiny flushed slightly. She had not realised she had been so transparent.
Mrs Baxter went on, lowering her voice. “And regarding the laird . . .”
Destiny’s heart thumped.
“I know he has a reputation,” the woman said.
“A fierce one. Highlands are full of tales about Cameron Munro, some true, some pure fancy. A man who fights like the devil himself. A man with a temper sharp as a dirk.” She shook her head.
“But I’ve known him since he was a bairn wrapped in wool, kicking his feet and screaming for more milk.
” A fond smile tugged at her lips. “And let me tell you what the tales leave out.”
Destiny leaned in despite herself.
“He’s kinder than people think,” Mrs Baxter said simply. “Loyal to a fault. And though he carries his grief like armour, it’s not an armour he means to use against you. Give him time. That man would crack stone with his bare hands if it meant protecting those he cares about.”
Destiny’s breath trembled at the edges. Images flashed in her mind of Cameron lifting her from her horse, his steady hand at her back, the rare softness in his eyes when he thought she was not looking.
Mrs Baxter squeezed her hand once more. “He’s more than his battles. More than his actions in battle that folk whisper about. And I’ve seen the way he watches you, mistress. Not with suspicion. But with something he doesn’t quite know how to name yet.”
Heat crept up Destiny’s neck. She looked down at the parchment, unable to hide her reaction.
Mrs Baxter chuckled. “Aye, I thought so.”
Before Destiny could respond, the cook stood, lifting the dough to set it near the hearth.
“All right now. Enough of this sentimental talk. Let’s finalise what we’ll need from the storerooms tonight.
We’ll send two lads for fresh turnips, and I’ll have the scullery maid fetch the last of the smoked lamb. ”
Destiny rose to help, instinct guiding her.
Together they gathered herbs from the hanging bundles near the hearth, took inventory of the bins, and discussed preparations for the meals to come.
Mrs Baxter moved swiftly, confidently, and Destiny found comfort in being near her, anchored by her steadiness, soothed by the sounds of a knife tapping on a wooden board and the bubbling of broth on the fire.
At last, when the plans were set and the hearth’s glow cast soft gold across the kitchen, Mrs Baxter rested a hand on Destiny’s shoulder.
“We’ll manage, lass. The castle. The meals.
The long nights. And aye, even the battles.
” Her gaze softened. “And you? You’ll manage too.
Not because you must do it alone, but because you don’t have to. ”
Destiny’s eyes misted, this time not with despair but with gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Mrs Baxter nodded, then turned back to her work, humming a soft Gaelic tune as she kneaded the next round of dough.
Destiny lingered a moment longer, letting the warmth sink into her bones.
For the first time that day, the castle did not feel quite so vast. Or so lonely.
She gathered her skirts and made for the doorway, carrying Mrs Baxter’s words with her like a small, glowing ember against the encroaching dark.
Before she could pass through, a heavy wooden door at the far end of the kitchen swung open.
A gust of cold air rushed in, swirling flour from the table. Mrs Baxter looked up with a start, then relaxed, recognising the tall figure who filled the threshold.
Cameron strode inside. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing. It paused when it found her. “Destiny.” His voice was low, roughened from barking orders in the courtyard.
She straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of her gown. “Cameron. I did not expect to see you here.”
“I came looking for you.” He rubbed his hands together absently. “Someone said they had seen you headed towards the kitchen.”
Mrs Baxter let out a soft snort. “Aye, and thank goodness she did. I told her a kitchen’s a safer place than pacing the corridors like a restless spirit.”
Destiny flushed, but Cameron’s gaze softened, barely, but enough that she felt the shift like a warm hand on her cheek.
“What brings you in?” Mrs Baxter asked, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “It’s rare we see the laird in my domain unless he’s come to complain about being fed too well.”
Despite the tension in his broad shoulders, Cameron’s mouth twitched. “I have never once complained.”
“Aye, because you’ve sense,” she shot back. “So what is it?”
He nodded towards Destiny. “I wished a word.”
Mrs Baxter’s brows arched knowingly, far too knowingly for Destiny’s comfort.
“Then I’ll just check on the bread rising by the fire.
” She gathered a bowl and turned away, humming again, but Destiny noticed she moved no more than three steps before taking a great interest in a pot that didn’t need stirring.
Cameron moved closer. The warm air from the hearth curled around him as though trying to thaw the cold hardness the world had pressed into him.
“Are you well?” he asked.
The question was simple, but still, Destiny trembled. After Sorcha’s departure, after the scouts’ grim news, after feeling so painfully adrift, it was too much kindness, too direct, too unexpected.
“Aye,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Mrs Baxter and I were just planning meals for the next few days.”
His gaze flicked to the table, to the parchment and herbs and neatly stacked bowls. “You do not have to concern yourself with such things.”
“I know.” She met his eyes. “And yet, it helps.”
Cameron’s jaw tightened, not with anger but with what she could only describe as uncertainty. “The men appreciate your care,” he said. “Even if they have no idea it comes from you.”
Destiny’s breath hitched. There was something in the way he had said the words, with rough sincerity and quiet pride.
“Then I am glad,” she whispered.
He looked at her fully then, and the kitchen seemed to shrink to the space between them. His eyes, usually sharp and fierce, softened as though the hearth light reflected in their depths.
“You have had a difficult day,” he murmured. “Your friend’s departure. The threat outside our walls.” He hesitated, the words fraying at the edges. “I should have been here sooner.”
Her heart twisted. “You have duties more important than me and my feelings.”
Cameron shook his head once. “No duty outranks my wife.”
The words landed with gentle weight, settling into places inside her she had long forgotten were empty.
Behind them, Mrs Baxter made a faint noise, something between approval and triumph, before returning to an exaggerated stirring of her unnecessary pot.
Cameron ignored the cook. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You need not bear the burden alone, Destiny.”
Her fingers curled at her sides. “Mrs Baxter reminded me of that,” she said softly. “She said I have friends here.”
“You do.”
His tone left no room for doubt.
Destiny swallowed. “She also said that you are not the man people whisper about.”
He stiffened, not angrily, but painfully, as though old wounds pressed up through his armour. “She exaggerates.”
Destiny studied him. “She told me that you are loyal. Protective. Kinder than people think.”
A long breath escaped him, uneven. He glanced away, then back, something raw flickering across his features before he mastered it.
“Mrs Baxter talks too much.”
“Nay,” Destiny said, taking a small step towards him. “She sees you.”
His eyes locked onto hers, something fierce flaring there. Not temper, but vulnerability, rare and unguarded. His voice dropped to a husky whisper.
“And do you?”
The question shook her to her bones. For a heartbeat, the kitchen, the war, the danger outside the walls, all melted away.
“I am beginning to,” she breathed.
The words hung between them, quivering like a held breath.
Cameron’s hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for her but did not know if he had the right.
Mrs Baxter, still stirring loudly, muttered under her breath, “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Destiny blinked, heat flooding her cheeks. Cameron’s lips twitched again, this time unmistakably closer to a smile.
“Come,” he said gently. “Walk with me back to the keep. The scouts will want to speak with us both soon.”
She nodded, gathering her skirts. As she stepped past him, he rested a warm, steady hand at the small of her back, a touch so light she might have imagined it, except her entire body reacted as if he had laid claim to her in full.
Mrs Baxter called from behind them, “And don’t forget you’ve friends here. Both of you.”
Cameron paused at the doorway, giving the cook a look that was equal parts gratitude and irritation. Mrs Baxter waved her spoon dismissively, shooing them off like unruly children.
Destiny smiled, truly smiled, for the first time since Sorcha had left.
As Cameron guided her into the dim corridor, his hand stayed at her back. Steady. Certain. Protective.
And Destiny felt the stirrings of something she had not dared hope for. A home.