Chapter Sixteen
Destiny knew she should go directly to the great hall as she had been instructed, but her feet had another idea. Instead, she found herself heading for the guest chamber the Munros had given her father. She knocked once on the door and entered without waiting for a response.
Her father sat before the hearth. The fire burned low, casting more shadow than warmth. A cup of wine rested in his hand, another half-empty on the table beside him. The air was thick with smoke and sour drink. He looked up and smiled.
“Well done, daughter,” he said easily. “I knew you would not disappoint me. The Mackenzies will be grateful. Far more grateful than the Munros ever could be.”
Her stomach turned, not with fear for him, but with a cold, tightening dread.
Sorcha.
Destiny did not close the door behind her. She left it open, as if some part of her refused to seal this moment away. “Tell me,” she said, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. “Did you really kidnap Sorcha? Or was that just another lie to twist my hand?”
He laughed, the sound rough and dismissive. “Twist your hand? I call it persuasion.” He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a small bundle bound with twine.
Slowly, deliberately, he set it on the table and loosened the knot.
A lock of hair spilled free, thick, unmistakable, and fiery red. It was Sorcha’s hair.
Destiny’s breath left her in a sharp, broken sound. The room tilted, her vision blurring as if the stone floor itself had shifted beneath her feet. So, he truly had taken Sorcha.
She lifted her gaze to him, something cold and final settling in her chest. “You are evil.”
His eyes narrowed. “I did what had to be done,” he said flatly. “To keep us alive. To make us thrive.”
“Nay,” she said, the word cutting through the air like steel. “You did this to save yourself.” Her voice shook now, but it did not break. “You gambled us into ruin. You bartered me away. And now you threaten the life of my dearest friend to force my obedience.”
His smile thinned, his eyes hardening. “Respect will not save you when the Mackenzies burn these walls. They have promised me gold for their kinsman’s freedom.
Do you think Cameron Munro will give you that?
” He sneered. “Nay. He will give you duty and call it honour. Do as I command, or Sorcha pays the price.”
Destiny’s heart thundered, grief and fury crashing together. But she did not look away.
“The prisoner remains where he is,” she said. “If the Mackenzies want their kinsman, they can come for him in battle. I will not be the one to open the door.”
For the first time, fear flickered across her father’s face, not for Sorcha, not for Destiny, but for the loss of coin and control. “You would let your own blood be slaughtered?” he demanded. “You would let that girl die?”
The question tore at her, but the answer was already there.
“I will never again betray my husband,” Destiny said, her voice trembling but clear. “Not for gold. Not for threats. Not for you.”
Silence fell, heavy and final.
Her father’s face hardened. “So, you choose him over me.”
Destiny felt the last thread between them stretch and snap. She held his gaze. “I choose myself,” she said quietly. “And if Cameron Munro will have me beside him, then aye, I choose him.”
She turned before he could answer, her hand tight on the latch. As she stepped into the corridor, her legs shook, but beneath the fear was something steadier. For the first time, she had stood against her father and not bent.
The passage beyond his chamber felt longer than any she had ever walked. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone, her pulse loud in her ears, the image of that fiery red hair burned into her mind. I will never again betray my husband. I choose myself.
And whatever her father chose to do next, Sorcha’s fate would no longer be bargained away by Destiny’s silence.
*
Cameron had not meant to stop. He had been halfway down the corridor when Destiny’s voice carried from within her father’s chamber. Her voice was tight, controlled, edged with something he had not heard from her before. Not fear. Not pleading.
Steel.
He slowed, then stilled altogether, standing just beyond the open door of the guest chamber. The firelight inside threw long shadows across the threshold. He remained in the dark.
“Did you really kidnap Sorcha? Or was that another lie to twist my hand?”
Cameron leaned back against the wall, listening, every instinct urging him to step forward, to end this now, but something in Destiny’s tone held him there.
He heard the scrape of movement, the low murmur of her father’s voice, oily and certain. Then silence.
A heartbeat passed.
Then Destiny’s breath broke.
Cameron’s gaze fixed on the open door just as her father spoke again, smug and satisfied. He could not see what lay on the table between them, but he heard the shift in Destiny’s voice, the way it hardened around pain.
“You gambled us into ruin,” she said. “You bartered me away. And now you threaten the life of my dearest friend to force my obedience.”
Cameron closed his eyes once, briefly. Mackenzie threats were one thing. This was worse. This was rot that began at the bone.
“If the Mackenzies want their kinsman,” Destiny said, “they may come for him in battle. I will not be the one to open the door.”
Cameron’s breath went shallow.
She had gone to the cell. She had taken the keys. That much he knew. But she had not yielded.
Her father laughed then, sharp and ugly. “You would let your own blood be slaughtered? You would let that girl die?”
Cameron’s jaw clenched.
“I will not betray my husband,” Destiny said. Her voice shook, but it did not bend. “Not for gold. Not for threats. Not for you.”
The words struck deeper than he expected. Not I could not. Not I was afraid. I will not.
There was a pause, thick and dangerous.
“So,” her father said at last, “you choose him over me.”
Cameron waited. He did not breathe.
“I choose myself,” Destiny replied. “And if Cameron Munro will have me beside him, then aye, I choose him.”
Something fierce and painful tore through him all at once. Pride, anger, and fear braided together so tightly he could scarcely tell one from the other. She had stood alone against a man who had broken her all her life. And she had done it without knowing he was there.
The door creaked.
Cameron stepped back into the shadows as Destiny emerged, her face pale, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She did not see him. She walked past, her steps unsteady but determined, carrying the weight of that choice on her shoulders.
He remained where he was long after she had gone. She had gone to the cell. She had taken the key. She had stopped. He swallowed roughly. It did not erase what she had almost done. It did not mend the fracture between them, but it changed the shape of it.
Cameron pushed away from the wall at last, his chest tight, already counting men, routes, risks. Sorcha would be rescued. That much was certain.
As for Destiny . . . trust, he knew grimly, would not come so easily again. But neither would he ever look at her as a pawn.
*
When Destiny reached the great hall, she paused at the entrance.
She would wait here for Cameron and live with whatever consequences her actions brought.
She took a chair near the hearth, perching on the edge of the seat.
She could not be at ease, not until there was some reparation for the damage she had done to the clan, to her marriage, to her husband.
When Cameron entered the chamber an hour later, his broad shoulders were tense, his features dark. He turned at once to her, his eyes unreadable. For a heartbeat, Destiny thought he might turn away from her, but then he headed in her direction, ignoring the other men who vied for his attention.
When he stopped before her, she stood. “I need to tell you something,” Destiny said, forcing her voice steady.
He said nothing, only gesturing for her to continue.
“My father came here under false pretences,” Destiny said quietly. There was no rush now, no need to defend herself with too many words. “Not to make peace. Not to protect me.” She met Cameron’s gaze. “He sold himself to the Mackenzies. They promised him coin for their kinsman’s release.”
Cameron’s jaw tightened. He did not look surprised.
“And you?” he asked. The question was measured, careful. “Where do you stand now?”
Her throat tightened, but her voice did not waver. “With you. The prisoner remains here. I will not free him. I will not be the instrument of my father’s schemes again.”
The silence that followed was not empty; it was weighted, deliberate. Cameron studied her as if recalibrating something long unsettled.
“I have heard enough,” he said at last. “You did not choose him.”
Her breath caught, though she did not move.
“But do not mistake that,” he continued, his tone firm, unyielding, “for trust restored.” His gaze held hers, steady as drawn steel. “That must be earned.”
She nodded once. “I understand.”
“Your father cannot remain here,” Cameron said. “Not another night.”
Pain flared sharp and sudden, but Destiny did not argue. If it meant her father’s death at the hands of the Mackenzies, then so be it.
“Do what you must,” she said softly. “I will not stand in your way.”
His eyes lingered on her, searching. “Nor will you stand apart from the consequences.”
She lifted her chin. “Nor would I wish to.”
Something shifted then, not mended, not forgiven, but redefined. No bargain. No illusion. Only a choice, made clear-eyed and costly.
Cameron stepped back, giving her space rather than comfort. “We will see what comes of this,” he said.
And for the first time, Destiny understood exactly what that meant. And accepted it.
*
The great hall was hushed when Cameron summoned her father before the fire. A few warriors lingered near the walls, their presence to be witnesses to what must be done. Destiny stood at Cameron’s side, her palms damp in her skirts, her heart hammering with dread.
Her father strode forward, cloak sweeping behind him, his head held high as though he were not a man with no coin, but a lord still in command of his fortune. His eyes flicked to Destiny briefly—accusing, wounded—and then fixed on Cameron.
“You have no right to put me on trial in front of your men,” he said, voice hard. “I am here as your kin by marriage.”
“You are here,” Cameron replied evenly, “as a guest who bartered with our enemies for coin. The Mackenzies paid you for the freedom of their kinsman, and you sought to use my wife to see it done.” His voice sharpened. “That is no kin. That is betrayal.”
Murmurs rippled among the warriors. Destiny’s stomach twisted. She drew breath to defend him, the instinct as old as childhood—yet the words stalled, hollow even before they were spoken. What lay before her would not be denied. She stood motionless, bearing each cutting word.
Her father’s face flushed dark. “Betrayal? You speak of betrayal? Look at yourself, Munro. They call you Butcher for a reason. Do you think I did not hear the stories before I brought my daughter here? Do you think the Mackenzies call you that out of envy? You earned it through blood spilled without mercy. Through slaughter. And now you drape yourself in righteousness, while you accuse me of betrayal?”
The word Butcher echoed through the hall. Destiny flinched, her chest tightening. She saw Cameron’s jaw clench, his eyes narrowing, his fury coiled but contained.
He stepped forward, his presence filling the hall, his voice low and hard enough to chill the air.
“Aye, they call me Butcher because when they came with fire and steel, I gave them blood for every man, woman, and child they threatened. I will wear that name if it means my clan stands safe behind these walls.”
The men bowed their heads at his words, grim but approving.
Cameron turned his gaze back to Destiny’s father, cold as winter stone.
“But I will not bear betrayal in my own hall from you or your daughter. Since Destiny has promised not to free the prisoner again, she will stay. However, you will leave Foulis by nightfall. And if the Mackenzies seek to use you again, they will find no ally here.”
Her father’s eyes burned with fury.
He looked at Destiny, his mouth twisting. “You chose this man over me? A butcher who will drag you into ruin? Mark my words, child, when the Mackenzies strike again, they will make you a widow.”
Destiny’s breath hitched, but Cameron’s hand found hers, firm and steady, as if anchoring her against the venom.
Her father spat on the floor and turned, his cloak snapping as he strode from the hall. The silence he left was heavy, laced with fear and anger both.
Destiny’s chest ached with shame, grief, and relief all tangled together. She had spoken the truth to Cameron, but hearing her father’s scorn made it all too raw.
Cameron squeezed her hand once, his voice pitched low for her alone. “Do not let his words root in you. The Mackenzies may call me Butcher, but I will not let them, or your father, make you believe I am less than the man you have seen.”
And though the sting of her father’s words lingered, Destiny felt the truth in Cameron’s touch. Yet deep inside, a new fear took root. Her father’s bitterness had not ended here. It would find its way to the Mackenzies, and when it did, they would strike Foulis Castle and the Munro clan again.