Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Destiny entered the great hall and made her way to where Cameron sat. As she went, she felt the weight of every eye upon her. Her pale-blue gown trailed at her heels, its fabric worn but still dignified, pressed and mended carefully by her own hand.
Cameron looked up from the high table, his brow furrowing. His gaze lingered, not with admiration, but with sharp curiosity. When she took her place beside him, he leaned close enough that only she could hear.
“You are wearing the same dress as you did yesterday,” he murmured. “How many dresses did you bring with you?”
Destiny stilled but met his eyes with a spark of wry defiance. “I brought all that I had. Perhaps you do not remember, my laird, that my family had fallen on hard times. New clothing was a luxury I could not afford.”
Cameron’s frown deepened. “Yet your father—”
“Spared no expense for his own finery,” she said, her tone cool.
“Velvets, brocades, embroidery enough to clothe ten men. All paid for with coin borrowed from men he never meant to repay. I covered those debts when I could, by selling what little remained in our furnishings, silver, even linens. I traded away all my clothing, except those things worn too thin to be worth money.”
The words slipped out sharper than she had intended, but she did not soften them.
Mrs Featherstone set a bowl of porridge before her, her eyes downcast, pretending she did not hear their conversation.
Destiny thanked the chatelaine as she picked up her spoon, trying to keep it steady, even as her hand trembled.
For a long moment, Cameron said nothing. She felt the weight of his gaze on her, not angry, not mocking, but something else. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, steadier.
“I had not understood the hardship you faced,” he said. “How much you bore to keep your father’s house standing.”
Destiny’s throat tightened. She forced herself to lift her spoon, though she could not bring herself to meet Cameron’s eyes.
He straightened and waved Mrs Featherstone back to the table.
In a soft voice he said, “Please send for the tailor in Dingwall. My wife will have new gowns made, in colours and fabrics fit for the lady of Foulis. A few finer ones also for more formal occasions. It would honour me to see her dressed as she deserves.”
“Nay, my laird. None of your men can be spared for such a task. They are needed here at the castle. Besides, new clothing can wait until we are beyond this trouble with the Mackenzies.”
Cameron’s expression did not shift. “I have learned not to delay what matters—and this matters. Mrs Featherstone, send for the tailor.”
Mrs Featherstone offered him a smile, nodded, then hurried from the chamber.
Destiny’s cheeks heated. She set her spoon down carefully, her composure strained.
“My laird,” she whispered, still not looking at him, “you need not—”
“I would do as much for anyone living under this roof,” he interrupted, his tone final but not unkind.
Pride and gratitude warred inside her for a heartbeat, until she at last gave the smallest nod, her fingers curling in her lap.
For the first time in years, she felt the prospect of a gown not as a burden or a reminder of debt, but as a gift freely given.
*
With his escort, the tailor arrived safely three days later, his arms laden with bolts of cloth and his female apprentice carrying a basket brimming with threads, ribbons, and measuring tools.
Destiny stood in the solar, her hands clasped tightly before her as if the weight of her entire past pressed down upon her shoulders.
She had not stood for a fitting since she was a girl, back when her mother still lived, before debts and wagers had stripped the Gunn household of its dignity. The rustle of silks and the gleam of rich dyes stirred not delight in her now, but a hollow ache of memory.
The apprentice curtsied to Cameron, then turned briskly to Destiny. “My lady, if you will allow, I will take your measure first.”
Destiny felt her cheeks heat. To be measured like a child, to have strange hands pulling at her sleeves and skirts—every instinct urged her to refuse this luxury.
More from instinct than logic, she opened her mouth to object, to remind them that she did not need any new gowns, that she was accustomed to mending and making do. But Cameron’s voice stopped her.
“I will stay,” he said simply, moving to stand near the hearth.
His arms crossed, his gaze steady, not harsh, but anchoring.
The tailor’s apprentice blinked, surprised, but said nothing more. She motioned Destiny atop a stool and began her work.
Destiny swallowed hard, her throat tight as the measuring cord slid over her shoulders and waist. “This is unnecessary,” she whispered, feeling shame at being so poorly provided for by her father.
Cameron’s eyes met hers. “It is necessary,” he said quietly, but firmly enough to silence argument. “Might I remind you that you are the lady of this house, and I will have you look the part.”
The tailor’s apprentice bustled on, calling out numbers, noting measurements.
When she lifted Destiny’s arms, Destiny fought to steady her breath, remembering the years she had worn patched gowns until the seams gave way.
Every tug of the cord felt like an accusation, a reminder of all she had lacked.
Then Cameron pushed away from the fireplace and came to stand before her. “They will see you as I see you, Destiny. Worthy of honour. Not because of what you wear, but because you are mine, and I will have them know it.”
Her breath caught. For a moment she could not move, the words settling into her chest with the weight of something more dangerous than silks or velvet curled inside her, warming her. It was the slow, careful knitting of trust.
When at last the tailor’s apprentice unfurled the bolts of cloth, Destiny found herself reaching for one, a soft wool in deep green, the colour of the Munro hills in the distance. She brushed her fingers across it, hesitant, then nodded once.
Cameron’s lips curved, just faintly. He did not speak, but the satisfaction in his eyes told her enough. He liked the colour and her choice.
For the first time since leaving her father’s house, Destiny felt not like a pawn to be bartered, but like a woman whose place is recognised, rather than a recipient.
Later, after the tailor and his apprentice had left, the castle’s residents gathered in the great hall for an early supper.
The cook, Mrs Baxter, had prepared a simple spread of crusty bread, slices of ham, and a tasty chutney that was both sweet and savoury and the perfect accompaniment to the meat.
Sliced apples and a tankard of ale rounded out the meal.
Cameron sat back with a sigh at his place next to Destiny, while she nibbled at the last few bites, marvelling at how delicious something so simple could taste.
The men chatted quietly, enjoying a quiet evening after all the recent commotion when suddenly a scout burst into the chamber, his breath ragged, his plaid soaked to the knees.
“My laird,” he cried, his voice bringing silence to the room. “There is unusual movement on the north side of the castle. I fear ’tis the Mackenzies. They’re testing the moat for entrance to the lower chambers of the keep.”
At once the men stood, Cameron included, the weight of the moment hardening his features. “How many?”
“Dozens, mayhap more. ’Tis hard to tell the way they keep bobbing in and out of the water. The darkness makes it difficult to tell as well, but the sewage channels at Foulis empty into the moat and are large enough for a moderately sized man to slip through,” the scout said.
A ripple of unease passed through the hall. Destiny felt it like a tremor in her own bones. If the Mackenzies gained access . . .
“To arms, men,” Cameron barked.
His clansmen rushed for the armoury, the rhythm of their boots echoing like a drumbeat of war.
Destiny rose too. “Cameron.” Her pulse thundered.
He turned to her, his hand finding her elbow, steadying, protective, even in the chaos. His eyes searched hers.
In his hazel eyes, command and care mingled in equal measure. “Please stay here. Stay safe.”
She shook her head, words rushing before she could stop them. “You will need the lower gates barred from within. If the Mackenzies have found the tunnels, someone must cut them off at the chambers.”
For an instant, Cameron froze, her insight piercing through the noise of panic.
His jaw tightened, then he gave a single, sharp nod. “You are right.” To one of his men he ordered, “Take five men below. Seal the passage. Kill none if it can be helped. Drive them back.”
The warrior bowed and bolted from the room, with others following him.
Cameron lingered one heartbeat longer at Destiny’s side. “You think like a Munro already,” he said, the faintest edge of pride in his voice. Then he was gone, striding into the night, sword at his side.
The clash of steel and the cries of men sounded, a stark reminder that the battle was close, within their very walls.
Destiny stood rooted in the hall, her hands trembling faintly, though she held herself tall.
Around her, the women whispered in fear, their voices like the rustle of dry leaves in the torchlight.
Yet, for the first time since her arrival at Foulis Castle, she did not feel powerless.
Her heart still raced, but she felt it steady beneath the weight of responsibility.
“Those of you with children, go abovestairs and comfort them,” she told the women, her voice carrying through the chamber.
“Those of you with no other obligations, join me in the solar.” She paused.
“I must think not only as a Munro but as the wife of its chieftain. We must prepare for what may yet come. The Mackenzies are near, and the unexpected may follow.”