Chapter Eleven #2
The laundress and the cook hurried to obey her orders.
The solar’s hearth blazed as fresh logs were thrown on, its warmth driving back the chill.
Furniture scraped as the women cleared space for pallets.
The air filled with the scent of damp wool and hot broth as linens, blankets, and steaming basins were carried up.
Destiny herself strode with two women to the armoury, torchlight throwing long shadows across racks of pikes, axes, and swords. She passed the heavy claymores and halberds, eyes settling instead on the smaller blades that lighter hands might wield. She pointed. “Take two apiece,” she instructed.
One of the women hesitated, her brow furrowed. “You wish us to fight?”
“Nay,” Destiny said firmly, her voice echoing against the stone. “But if the Mackenzies breach the walls, I want them to see we will not be easy prey. We must look ready to defend what is ours. Even the illusion of steel in our hands may give them pause.”
Back in the solar, the preparations were nearly complete.
The women moved with brisk determination now, no longer drifting in fearful confusion.
Pallets lined the floor, each with blankets folded at the foot.
Basins steamed beside them, bandages neatly stacked, the scent of herbs filling the chamber.
The smaller swords leaned within easy reach along the wall, gleaming in the firelight.
The doors burst open. Lightning flashed, bleaching the threshold in stark white, thunder rolling close behind, and in that shifting glare, two figures took shape.
Destiny grabbed a nearby sword and held it as she had seen Cameron and his men do, ready to defend the women around her.
When two injured and sodden men stumbled in, one half-carrying the other, she relaxed and lowered her weapon, setting it back within reach before hurrying to the men.
She took the place of the one man half carrying the other and guided him towards a pallet.
The water from their boots mixed with the blood from their wounds, leaving dark stains on the flagstone floor.
Mrs Baxter followed close behind, bowls of hot broth sloshing in her hands.
The laundress and another woman also rushed forward to assist.
Destiny knelt by the more gravely injured man who now reclined on a pallet, her pale-blue gown brushing against the blood-spattered floor. She touched his shoulder gently. “You are safe now,” she told him, her voice calm, though her heart clenched. “Rest. We will tend you.”
The soldier blinked at her, eyes clouded with pain, but he stilled beneath her hand.
The laundress pressed fresh linen to his wound; another woman poured steaming water into a basin.
Compresses were dipped, wrung out, and applied.
The work was swift and coordinated as the women stripped him of his wet clothing and replaced the items with dry ones, while also tending his wounds.
For a long moment Destiny simply watched, her chest tightening with both pride and belonging. She was not merely an outsider here. Tonight, she stood among them, and the women followed.
As the cries of the injured softened into murmurs, she rose slowly, gazing into the firelight of the solar. The crackle of the flames filled the silence. She clasped her hands behind her back. Outside the chamber, silence fell. Had the battle ended?
A moment later, a young woman entered the solar with yet another injured man whom she guided to a pallet. Once he was settled, she turned to Destiny. “The Mackenzies have retreated. We are safe for tonight.”
Destiny smiled at the women in the chamber. “The Munros are strong, but so too are the women who keep Foulis standing. And we will be ready again tomorrow, and the next day, if need be.”
The women answered with quiet nods as they went back to their tasks of rinsing bloodied cloth, spooning broth between trembling lips, and soothing the wounded.
Destiny remained near the hearth, issuing calm instructions, her gown marked now with streaks of ash and red.
And her hair, loosened from its plait, hung about her shoulders like a banner of gold.
Boots clattered in the stairwell beyond. The doors swung wide, and Cameron stepped inside, rain-darkened and battle-worn, helm tucked beneath one arm, sword still stained from the fight. His gaze swept the chamber, narrowing as he took in the makeshift infirmary.
Destiny’s thoughts did not go to what name his men had given him. Instead, all she could think about was that he was safe.
For a moment he simply stood there, silent, as if uncertain of what he was seeing. Then something in his gaze shifted, and Destiny’s breath caught. She had seen Cameron in fury, in command, in suspicion. Tonight, she saw something else in his eyes—relief, but also recognition.
Destiny left the side of the man she was caring for and came to Cameron. “A few of your men are injured. We are tending them here,” she said, her voice low but even. “The Mackenzies are truly in retreat?”
“Aye,” Cameron replied, setting his helm aside. “For now.”
“You were ready for them,” she said softly. “The lower chambers, the moat . . . you knew.”
His mouth curved, faint and wry. “You knew,” he corrected. “You suspected what others missed.”
The acknowledgment warmed her, unexpected and fierce. “And you listened.”
He gave a short nod, his eyes never leaving hers. “Aye. I listened. And no one died tonight, because of it.”
For a moment, the sounds of the keep seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them standing in the candlelit solar. The silence stretched, not tense as before, but easier.
As he searched the chamber, Destiny said, “They needed someone to guide them. I could not sit idle while the Mackenzies were at our gates.”
For the first time since their marriage, Cameron’s mouth softened into a smile. “You have done well here, Destiny,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. “You have kept order amid chaos. My people followed you.”
Destiny held his gaze. “You do not have to fight me, Cameron. I want what you want. I want this castle to stand. I want your people to live.”
His brow furrowed, as though the words struck deeper than he expected. Slowly, he reached out, not to seize or command, but to offer. His hand brushed hers, rough calluses grazing her fingers.
“Then perhaps,” he said, his voice low, “we might begin as allies, if not yet more.”
Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers into his, the smallest of gestures, but enough. “Allies,” she agreed.
It was no vow of love. No surrender of mistrust. But it was a beginning for them, a fragile bridge built not from desire or duty, but from choice.
They stood there, hand in hand for a moment as the women tended the injured men. And it was then that Destiny realised she was no longer only Cameron’s wife by bargain. She was his partner if he would allow her to be.