Chapter Thirteen #2
“I am mistress here now. You no longer speak for me, and you cannot make me be your eyes and ears amongst the Munros as you threatened before I left.” In that moment, she felt the weight of the shadow her father had always cast begin to lift.
His eyes hardened then, the warmth draining away as though it had never existed.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “If you are truly mistress here,” he said quietly, “if you have any power at all, then prove it.”
Destiny stiffened.
“The Mackenzies have paid me well for their kinsman’s freedom,” he continued. “You will see to it that the prisoner walks free. Quietly. By tomorrow’s first light.”
Her breath caught. “Nay,” she whispered. “Why would I—”
He tightened his grip on her arm, not cruelly, but firmly enough to make his meaning clear. “Because Sorcha is at Clyth.”
The world tilted.
“You sent for her,” he said, watching her face closely. “I told her you had returned. That you were unsettled. She came willingly, poor fool. She always would, for you.”
Destiny’s chest tightened painfully. “You lied to her.”
“I used what I had,” he replied coolly. “Just as I taught you to.”
“What have you done to her?” Destiny demanded, her voice shaking now.
“Nothing,” he said lightly. “Yet.” His gaze sharpened.
“But she is alone, Destiny. No kin near enough to intervene. No husband to shield her. Accidents happen in old castles. Illness. Falls. Or . . .” He paused, letting the silence do the work.
“A marriage could be arranged quickly. One that would put her well beyond your reach.”
Destiny’s heart hammered, dread flooding her veins. “You would not dare.”
“I already have,” he said. “And if the Mackenzie does not walk free, Sorcha will remain my guest. A very compliant one, I should think. She has always been one to endure what she must. Her first marriage was proof of that.”
The threat settled like ice in Destiny’s bones.
“You see,” he went on softly, “this has nothing to do with what the Mackenzies might do to me. I am of little consequence to them now. Sorcha, however . . .” His mouth curved in a thin smile. “Sorcha is quite valuable to you.”
Her voice broke. “You would use her against me?”
“I am using her,” he corrected. “To remind you where your loyalties truly lie.”
Destiny wrenched her arm free, her breath coming shallow and fast. He watched her struggle, untroubled.
Sorcha was at Clyth.
The truth crashed through Destiny with sickening clarity, and guilt followed close behind.
I sent her away. She had been the one to insist Sorcha leave Foulis, the one who had told herself it was necessary; that the clan had to come first, that Cameron’s people needed fewer vulnerabilities, not more.
She had chosen duty over friendship, believing it the wiser, braver course.
What had she done? Destiny’s chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. This was not merely her father’s cruelty; it was the cost of her own decision.
“I told her you needed her,” he said, watching the realisation dawn in her eyes. “She did not hesitate.”
Destiny closed her eyes for a heartbeat, shame burning hot behind them. Because she never would. Sorcha had always been that way, loyal to the point of danger, brave in the quietest, most devastating ways.
“Release the prisoner,” her father said. “Tomorrow before the sun sets. And Sorcha returns to you unharmed. Refuse . . .” His gaze flicked meaningfully away. “And you will learn how much suffering a single, unprotected woman can endure while the world looks the other way.”
He straightened, smoothing his coat as though the matter were settled. “The choice is yours, Destiny,” he said calmly. “Mistress of Munro, friend to the girl who would follow you anywhere.”
Cameron’s gaze sharpened as he watched them. Destiny felt it like a prickle along her spine. Did he sense the poison her father poured so carefully into her ear? She glanced at her husband, her laird, the man who had begun to trust her, and her stomach twisted hard enough to steal her breath.
Her father’s eyes never left hers. “One prisoner, and all is settled.”
Destiny’s pulse raced, her breath turning shallow as the truth closed in from all sides.
She stood caught once more between two men and two futures, neither of which she could reach without blood on her hands.
If she spoke now, telling her husband the truth, Sorcha would pay for it.
If she stayed silent, Cameron remained safe from a choice that could destroy what little peace he had managed to hold.
When the music ended, Destiny stepped back abruptly and left her father standing there.
Let them all think her rude, if they must. She could not endure another heartbeat in his grasp.
Her breath came in uneven bursts as she moved away, one hand pressed to her stomach to quell the sick, rolling dread there.
She should never have let Cameron invite him to Foulis.
Fool that she was, she had hoped that blood might count for something, that a father might come to bless his daughter’s marriage, if not her happiness.
Instead, he had cornered her among the dancers, his grip bruising, his voice low with threats meant for her alone.
Worse than the threat itself was the look in his eyes—not fear, not desperation, but calculation.
He had come with a plan. And once again, she was the piece he intended to sacrifice.
There was nothing left between them worth saving.
But Sorcha was a different matter entirely.
Her feet carried her back to Cameron without conscious thought. He turned the moment she drew near, as though he felt her unease before she spoke. His eyes searched her face with unsettling precision.
“Are you well?” His voice was low, meant for her alone.
She forced her features into calm and brushed her hand against his sleeve, grounding herself in the solid warmth of him. “Of course. It was only a long set. I needed a breath.”
The lie tasted bitter. Guilt gnawed at her even as she spoke it. Not because she intended betrayal, but because she did not yet know how to protect Sorcha without destroying Cameron’s trust. She needed time to find a way forward that did not end with bloodshed at his gates or on her hands.
Cameron studied her a moment longer, his brows creasing, but he did not press her. He offered her space instead, a kindness that cut deeper than suspicion would have. Later, when the music resumed, he asked her to dance as though nothing had changed.
And when the last strains of the music signalled the night’s end, he offered his arm and escorted her from the hall.
The warmth of him beside her steadied her steps, even as her heart fractured quietly within her.
She walked beside him as his wife, her face composed, carrying a secret that could shatter them both, and knowing she could not speak it aloud.
Not tonight. Not while Sorcha’s life hung in the balance.
When they reached her chamber, he lingered at the threshold.
His hand rested lightly on hers, and for a moment he seemed almost uncertain, a rare thing for Cameron Munro.
Then his gaze deepened, softened, carrying a question she had not expected, a hope she had not dared to imagine.
He wanted more—more than alliance, more than duty.
Her breath caught. God help her, she wanted it too.
Wanted desperately to know affection, to taste tenderness at least once in her life before she destroyed everything.
For she knew the truth. When she obeyed her father’s command, when she released the Mackenzie prisoner, Cameron would see it as betrayal.
He would never forgive her. He would cast her from Foulis, strip away the only home she had begun to believe might be hers.
Still, her heart cried out against the emptiness she had known all her days. Could she not take this one night? One night in her husband’s arms before she broke them both?