Chapter Twelve
The morning after the attack dawned bright and clear, as if the storm of the night before had never been.
The air smelled clean after the rains, and shafts of sunlight streamed into the great hall.
Destiny sat at the long table, her mending set aside, a trencher of oatcakes before her gone mostly untouched.
She listened to the bustle of the keep—the murmur of servants, the clatter of dishes, the men’s voices in the background as they discussed the night before.
Cameron entered from the courtyard beyond, his plaid flung back, his hair damp from the chilly morning air.
He carried himself with that same quiet command she was coming to recognise, but today his shoulders looked less burdened.
When his eyes found hers across the hall, a strange flutter stirred low in her stomach.
He crossed to her and, instead of taking the laird’s seat at the head of the table, he set his trencher down beside hers. The simple act made the hall feel smaller, more intimate.
“You have not eaten,” he said, glancing at her oatcakes.
Her mouth curved faintly. “Neither have you.”
He gave a quiet huff of laughter, the first she had heard from him that was not edged with irony. “I cannot argue with that assessment.”
They ate in silence at first, not heavy, but companionable. She found herself listening not to the scrape of knives or the crackle of the hearth but to the steady rhythm of his breath beside her.
Finally, he turned to her and said, “Thank you for all your help last night.”
“You are welcome.” Warmth spread through her, unexpected and unsteady. For once, she did not feel the need to defend herself, to brace for his suspicion. Instead, she allowed herself the smallest smile. “Perhaps we might continue as we began last night. As allies.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment, and she saw something there she had not expected—the faintest glimmer of ease. Of trust.
“Aye,” he said simply. “Allies.”
They finished their meal in silence, but it was no longer the silence of strangers bound by duty. It was the quiet of two people sitting side by side, beginning to see one another not as enemies, nor as burdens, but as something closer to equals.
Cameron stood and offered her his hand. “Will you walk with me?”
She pushed her chair back, stood, and accepted his hand. “Where?”
He shrugged. “To the battlements?”
The wind on the battlements tugged at Destiny’s hair, carrying with it the scents of heather and pine.
The Cromarty Firth stretched before her, with a harbor lying to the southeast and the dark line of the Tullich Wood in the north, the rolling hills to the northwest, and the fields where Munro crofters would soon be sowing their summer crops of oats and barley.
Beside her, Cameron said, “This is why the name does not matter. Butcher or laird, cursed or praised. It makes no difference. All that matters is this land. These people.”
Destiny followed his gaze. From above, the farms looked so small, the cottages mere specks of grey against the green. Yet she imagined the lives within them—children learning to walk, women baking bread, men mending harnesses. Ordinary, fragile lives. Lives he bore on his shoulders.
“I begin to see,” she murmured.
He turned his head, his dark eyes steady on her. “Do you?”
Her heart quickened, but she held his gaze. “You fight not for bloodlust, but for this. For them. That is no butcher’s work.”
His jaw shifted, as if her words unsettled him more than flattery ever could. He looked away, back to the hills.
Destiny’s hands rested on the cold stone of the wall. She took a breath, then dared more. “Let me help you, Cameron. Not only in council, not only with whispers of warning, but here, in knowing the people. Let them see I stand with you. That I am more than what they expected. A token wife.”
His gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and searching. For a moment she thought he would rebuke her, shut her out again. But instead, he studied her, as though weighing her like he would weigh any seasoned warrior.
At last, his shoulders eased. “You would walk the land? Meet them? Speak for this keep as mistress?”
Destiny’s breath caught. “If you will allow it. If you will trust me to be more than what I was given as.” She hesitated, then added, “As long as it is safe to do so.”
The wind whipped around them, carrying away the silence that stretched between. Then, slowly, Cameron gave a single nod.
“The Mackenzies are no doubt regrouping. We will have a short reprieve before, or if, they attack again.” He released a slow breath. “Very well. You will ride with me when I make the rounds tomorrow.”
Relief and pride bloomed inside Destiny, though she kept her composure. She only inclined her head. “Thank you.”
He did not smile, but his eyes lingered on her longer than before, softer, as if some guarded part of him recognised that they had taken a step, small but certain, towards being partners.
From below, the bustle of the courtyard rose up to them—the clatter of buckets at the well, the murmur of women sorting grain, the sharp squawk of chickens being herded towards feed.
A pair of boys twisted lengths of hemp into rope, their laughter carrying on the breeze, while older men hauled sacks of meal into the cellar.
Ordinary tasks, the daily heartbeat of Foulis, but today every sound seemed sharper, edged by the memory of the night before and the knowledge that danger pressed close against the castle’s borders.
Destiny turned to Cameron, whose gaze swept over the people who depended on him.
There were no swords in the courtyard this morning, no drills echoing off stone walls; only the quiet courage of men and women who kept life moving, even under the shadow of war.
Cameron watched them as though counting each one, anchoring himself in their resilience, or perhaps reminding himself of what, and whom, he must protect.
His jaw flexed. Something heavy moved behind his eyes.
She hated to disturb the fragile quiet between them, but the words pressed against her lips, refusing to stay silent. “Cameron.”
At the sound of his name, he shifted towards her, lids lowering slightly as if bracing for whatever truth she was about to lay before him. The morning wind tugged at the ends of his plaid.
“Destiny,” he murmured, his tone low, steady, yet it carried a tension she felt deep in her chest. “What troubles you?”
She hesitated, her gaze drifting to the women hauling laundry towards the large tubs in the courtyard. One slipped, nearly dropping her bundle, and another caught her arm, laughing softly as she steadied her. The simple kindness twisted something inside Destiny.
“All of them,” she whispered. “They are trying so hard to pretend this is just another day.”
Cameron followed her gaze. “They do it because they must. Because fear has no place in work that needs doing.”
“And you?” she asked, turning back to him. “Do you pretend as well?”
He huffed a quiet breath that was somewhere between a laugh and resignation.
“I have been pretending since I was a boy.” His eyes drifted back to the courtyard.
“Pretending I could stop every attack. Pretending I could keep everyone safe. Pretending I could carry the weight of this clan without bending.”
Her heart squeezed. She stepped closer, though not quite touching him, but near enough that the warmth from his body reached her skin. “You do carry it,” she said softly. “Even when you should not have to.”
A muscle in his throat jumped. “If I do not, then who will?”
Destiny met his gaze fully. “We all will. The castle. The people. Your wife.” Her voice steadied, gaining strength she had not known she possessed. “You do not have to hold everything alone, Cameron.”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her, his expression shifting, softening, something unguarded slipping through the cracks of his control. “You say that,” he murmured, “as though you mean to take some of that burden on yourself.”
“I do.”
Wind rustled the courtyard below, stirring the chickens and carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and grain. The rope-making boys paused to stare up at the battlements where their laird and his lady stood, shoulder to shoulder. One of them smiled before turning back to his work.
Cameron’s gaze flicked to them and back to her, a slow breath leaving him. “Then perhaps,” he said quietly, “I am not as alone as I thought.”
Destiny felt the truth settle warm and fierce in her chest, an understanding, a promise forming between them like threads of rope twisted tight and strong.
She reached out, letting the back of her hand brush the rough wool of his plaid. “You are not alone.”
His fingers closed gently around hers, a wordless acknowledgement, a fragile peace offered as life continued below.
Destiny hesitated, the warmth of Cameron’s hand still lingering against her skin, even as a colder, heavier understanding pushed its way forward.
The Mackenzies had struck twice now, not because the Munros held their laird’s son, but because they meant to take him.
They had not come to speak, nor to bargain.
They had come to force the Munro’s hand and would do so again, whether the prisoner lived or died.
She thought of the first day in the dungeon, the way pain had hollowed the man’s face despite his pride.
She had approached him with care then, not as a Munro, but as a Gunn, offering broth, a clean blanket, the dignity of being treated as more than spoils of war.
Not because she believed kindness would tame a Mackenzie, but because she had hoped to prove that another path existed.
That peace, however fragile, might be possible if someone dared to offer it first.
He had met every gesture with cold disdain. Not surprise. Not gratitude. Only the certainty that force would come for him.
And force had come.