Chapter Fifteen
Destiny woke to the grey wash of dawn seeping through the shutters, the chamber silent, except for the slow, steady rhythm of Cameron’s breathing beside her.
His arm was heavy across her waist, anchoring her against the warmth of his chest. For a moment she lay still, eyes closed, letting herself drift in the illusion that nothing waited beyond this room, that the world was only the two of them, bound together after a night of closeness she had never thought possible.
Heat rose in her cheeks, not with shame but with wonder.
The night had been nothing like she feared, nothing like the whispered warnings of matrons or the sharp lessons of her father’s bargains.
It had been careful, unhurried. A discovery of hands and lips, of whispered laughter and quiet gasps, of learning how trust could grow in the space between two hearts.
She shifted slightly, her cheek brushing Cameron’s shoulder.
He slept still, his dark hair tousled, his jaw softened without the stern weight of command.
She had never seen him so unguarded. He looked younger in sleep, less the laird who bore his people’s burdens and more the man beneath, one who had bared himself to her as surely as she had to him.
Her fingers itched to trace the line of his cheek, the scar near his temple, the strength in him she was only just beginning to know. But she held still, savouring the rare moment of peace.
Only days ago, she had feared him, called him Butcher, and doubted every word he spoke. Now she lay in his arms, her heart no longer her own.
And despite her efforts to keep other thoughts from intruding, they pushed forward. Her father’s words returned with merciless clarity. Release the prisoner, or you will learn how much suffering a single, unprotected woman can endure. Sorcha.
Destiny’s stomach tightened, her heart hammering as though it would betray her secrets aloud. She shifted carefully, but Cameron stirred, his hand flexing against her waist. When she glanced up, his eyes were open, watching her with a quiet softness she had not seen before.
“Good morning, wife,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep.
The title pierced her like a blade. How could she answer? How could she return his smile, knowing what she might yet do?
She forced a small one anyway, though it felt fragile on her lips. “Good morning.”
He studied her, as if he sensed her unease. His thumb traced a slow circle against her hip. “You look troubled.”
“I am only tired,” she lied quickly, pressing her forehead against his chest to hide her eyes.
The truth weighed heavier than any chain. If she betrayed him to save Sorcha, Cameron would never look at her this way again. He would never hold her, never call her wife with such tenderness. The bond they had begun to weave through laughter, shared burdens, and now this night would all unravel.
Yet if she did nothing, if she chose Cameron and her new clan over her father, then could she live with that?
Her chest ached. There was no path that did not end in heartbreak.
Cameron pressed a kiss to her hair and whispered, “Rest. You have earned it.” He sounded content, at peace in a way that twisted the knife deeper. For him, last night had been a beginning. For her, it might be the end.
Destiny closed her eyes and lay still in his embrace, clinging to the fleeting safety of his arms. But beneath her calm facade, her mind spun.
At some point soon, she would have to choose between her husband’s trust and Sorcha’s life.
God help her, she feared whichever path she took would destroy her.
She lay against Cameron’s side until his breathing became slow and even.
Then, with one small shift after another, she managed to manoeuvre from beneath his arm and away from the warmth of his body.
Quietly, she tiptoed across the room to where her chemise was discarded and put it on.
After that she made her way to the armoire and removed one of her old gowns, slipping it silently over her head.
She found her hose and shoes and waited until she was outside in the hallway to put them on.
She moved quickly through the silent corridors, her steps as muffled as she could make them.
Every fading shadow seemed to whisper accusation; every flicker of torchlight threatened to expose her.
Her father’s demand echoed in her mind, relentless.
Release the prisoner, or you will learn how much suffering a single, unprotected woman can endure.
She had told herself she would resist, that she owed her husband her loyalty above all else.
But lying in Cameron’s arms while she waited for him to go back to sleep, the truth had clawed its way free.
She could not condemn her friend to death, or anything else her father might force upon her. She loved Sorcha too much.
She had thought she had won freedom from her father at last, had finally spoken the truth that had haunted her since childhood.
Yet here she was again, trapped by him and his lies.
Only now the price was not her hand in marriage; it was her best friend’s life and her loyalty to the man who had begun to trust her.
Cameron’s face rose in her mind, the warmth in his eyes when he called her an ally, the gentleness of his hands last night as they lay together. For the first time, she was more than a pawn, more than her father’s daughter. She was Cameron’s wife, his partner, his mistress of Foulis.
Sorcha’s face rose before her. Sorcha, frightened and alone, held fast by a man who knew exactly where to cut deepest. Every step Destiny took was measured against the brutal truth that Sorcha’s life depended on her silence. Her steps slowed for a heartbeat before she forced herself onward.
She climbed the steps to the tower room. Two guards stood outside the chamber where the prisoner was being held. Their spears were crossed in front of the door. Destiny’s breath caught in her throat, but she steadied herself, summoning the poise she had learned at her father’s side.
“The laird wishes the prisoner questioned further,” she said, steady despite the pounding of her heart. “He has commanded me to see it done.”
The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain looks, but they did not bar her way.
One lifted the latch and swung the door wide.
Weak light spilled through the chamber from a brace of candles that had burned low, almost sputtering in the remaining wax.
Destiny stepped inside the chamber, each step binding her more tightly to the path she had chosen.
At her presence, the prisoner sat up, his chains clinking faintly. The wound on his chest was healing, the bandage clean and dry, and his arm moved without the splint that had once held it rigid. His eyes, no longer dulled by pain, fixed on her with wary suspicion.
She stopped just outside the reach of the candlelight, her shadow stretched thin across the stone floor. Her hand trembled as she reached for the ring of keys on the wall opposite the cell. The metal was cold, heavier than it had any right to be.
This one act would destroy everything Cameron had begun to build with her. Their fragile trust. Their tender night together. The foolish, aching hope that she might at last belong somewhere. All of it would turn to ash.
And yet, Sorcha was alone.
Destiny crossed the few remaining steps and pressed the key into the lock.
The Mackenzie prisoner turned towards her at once, the movement quicker than it should have been for a wounded man.
Torchlight caught the angles of his face, his mouth curving into a wolfish grin. “So,” he said softly, “the laird’s pretty bride comes to visit again.”
“I come because I must,” she said, the words torn from her throat.
“Aye. Your father came to see me.” His eyes gleamed. “Whispered the plan in my ear. Your betrayal of your vows.”
Her grip slackened. “Be silent,” she hissed, though shame burned hot along her cheeks.
He rose from his pallet, chains rattling. “I knew it. A woman of bargain and barter, just like the man who sold you. The Munros think they’ve won a treasure. But you”—he leaned closer, voice low and taunting—“you’ll gut them yet.”
Her heart thundered. Sorcha’s face filled her mind—frightened, helpless. Sorcha is alone.
Destiny turned the key a fraction. The lock groaned.
Then she stopped.
Her breath shattered in her chest. She could not do it. She would not. She could not betray Cameron, not like this, not ever. With a sharp, almost painful motion, she twisted the key back and pulled it free, her hand closing around it as if it might burn her skin.
Behind her, footsteps sounded.
“Step away.”
The command froze her where she stood. Deep. Low. Edged with steel.
Cameron.
She turned slowly. He filled the doorway, the tail of his plaid thrown back over his shoulder, his face carved from fury in the half-dark. From where he stood, all he could see was her hand near the lock, the key still gleaming in her grasp.
For a long moment, there was no sound but her ragged breathing and the prisoner’s soft, mocking laugh.
“Cameron . . .” Her voice cracked. “I had no choice.”
His gaze never left her. “You always have a choice.”
Tears blurred the candlelight. “My father has kidnapped Sorcha. He holds her at Clyth. He said he would harm her if I did not—” Her throat closed, the words breaking into a sob. “I could not let that happen. I did not know what else to do.”
The prisoner laughed again, bitter and triumphant. “See, Munro? Even your wife was willing to betray you.”
Cameron stepped forward and wrenched the keys from Destiny’s hand. The lock clanged as he secured it fully. The prisoner’s curse echoed from behind the bars.
Cameron turned back to her, towering now, his jaw rigid with fury. “You would have freed him.” Not a question, but a verdict.
Her shoulders shook. Her hands clenched in the fabric of her gown.
“I do not want to betray you,” she whispered. “But I cannot condemn Sorcha to suffering.”
The silence stretched between them, raw and jagged. She braced herself for his wrath, for the cold judgement she knew she deserved.
Instead, his voice came low and rough, threaded with something far more dangerous than anger. “You should have trusted me. Told me.”
She lifted her gaze then into the storm in his eyes, and beneath it, the hurt.
That cut deeper than any fury ever could.
*
Cameron clenched his teeth, biting back the anger that pressed hard against restraint—words of betrayal he would not give voice to.
Instead, he dismissed the guards with a barked command, his voice harder than steel.
When the men hurried down the stairs, the tower fell into silence, except for Destiny’s uneven breaths and the muffled curses of the prisoner.
He paced, his boots echoing against the stones, trying to burn off the fury twisting in his chest. He should haul her before the council, make her confess her treason openly. He should set her aside as an example that not even his wife stood above the clan’s safety.
But when he turned back, torchlight caught her face, and he saw no pride, no cunning. Only fear. Only anguish.
“Do you understand what nearly happened?” His voice came low, taut with restrained rage. “One turn of that key, and every man under my command would be at risk. The Mackenzies would be emboldened, the clan weakened. You would have undone all this clan has sacrificed to hold us together.”
She flinched. “I know.”
His breath hissed through his teeth. “And still you tried.”
Her eyes shone, tears spilling freely now.
“I was going to, aye. I cannot deny that. But in the end, I could not do it.” Her breath broke.
“I know that is not what you saw.” She swallowed hard.
“Now Sorcha will suffer, and whatever is done to her will be on me. Her blood will be on my hands.” Destiny lifted her gaze to his, raw and pleading.
“Would you not do the same if it were Gavan or Kenzie they threatened?”
The words struck sharp. He thought of Kenzie and of Gavan, his foolish brother, who was hot-tempered and half-crippled now by Sorcha’s bullet.
Aye, even Gavan, with all his flaws . . .
Cameron himself would accept death before letting harm come to his brother.
Cameron’s gaze returned to Destiny’s. He pressed his lips thin, torn between laird and man.
When Cameron felt some measure of control return, he stepped closer, his shadow falling over Destiny. He did not touch her. His hands remained clenched at his sides, the distance between them deliberate.
“You cannot carry this alone,” he said, his voice low, stripped of warmth. “And you cannot stand between your father and the Mackenzies without it changing you.”
He turned away, pacing a single step, as if the stone itself were the only thing holding him steady.
“I will have to send men to Clyth,” he went on.
“Good men. I will weaken my own defences to do it. They will cross Mackenzie land and move where an ambush will be waiting for them.” He faced her again, his eyes hard. “Some of them may not return home.”
The words were not an accusation. They were consequence. It was exactly what she had feared, but this was his choice, not hers.
“The staff at Clyth will give you no resistance. They all love Sorcha and will be eager to help.”
Silence stretched, heavy and unforgiving.
“When this is over,” he finally said, his voice roughening, “we will speak of what you almost did. Of what you kept from me.” His jaw tightened. “Do not mistake action for absolution.”
Destiny’s breath stuttered. She nodded once, barely.
“Next time,” he said, the command as sharp as drawn steel, “you come to me. Before keys are taken in hand. Before lines are crossed.”
“Cameron. . .” Her voice broke. “I am sorry.”
He did not answer.
He turned away, already issuing orders in his mind, already carrying the weight she had placed upon him—men to send, risks to take, trust left cracked and bleeding between them.
” Go back to the hall,” he said, his tone quieter now, though no less firm.
“I will deal with the prisoner, and with your father. But Destiny . . .”
She paused at the threshold, her hand tightening on the fabric of her gown.
“If you ever put this clan at risk again,” Cameron said, his gaze hard on hers, “not even my heart will save you.”
Her breath shuddered, but she nodded once and disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell.
Cameron stayed behind, his hand braced on the cold iron bars of the cell, his chest tight. His heart warred with his duty, and for the first time, he feared both would tear him apart.