Page 13 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

There was a part of him, dark, stubborn, and prideful, that was not so different from Gavan. A part of him wanted a measure of revenge for her defiance, for dragging him into marriage.

Tomorrow, he would take a wife, whether he wanted one or not.

*

Morning arrived far too quickly. Destiny sat in the chair beside the bed, sleepless, her thoughts tangled in the memories of the day before and the weight of what lay ahead. She had not closed her eyes once, only watched as night slowly gave way to the pale light seeping through the narrow window she had left open. It spilled softly across the cold, grey stones, painting the room in a quiet, mournful glow.

She took a breath, trying to steady herself, but before she could rise or gather her thoughts, the door flew open and the stillness shattered, replaced by a flurry of motion and voices.

Maids spilled into the chamber, bustling like a sudden wind. “Time tae rise, milady,” one said cheerfully, while another brought in a basin of steaming water and fresh linens. The smell of lavender soap filled the room as they prepared her for the day.

Destiny’s heart pounded with the weight of what awaited her. She had no chance to dwell on it, for Sorcha rushed in soon after, eyes wide, her red hair unkempt from a restless night.

“I was locked in the bedchamber next to yours,” Sorcha said without preamble, gripping Destiny’s hands. “They told me it was for my own safety. I was furious, but there was nothing I could do.”

Destiny’s breath caught. “I was locked in as well.”

“I know,” Sorcha said softly, eyes narrowing. “But we are together now. And ’tis time to get you ready.”

Destiny nodded, finding comfort in her friend’s presence. She reached for the simple dress she had brought, a pale-pink gown, unadorned but elegant, the colour soft against her fair skin. The maids helped her into it with careful hands, fastening the delicate buttons and smoothing the fabric.

Her golden hair was brushed until it shone, then twisted and pinned into an intricate style, with a few loose curls left to frame her face. When she turned to the mirror, even she was struck by the reflection that stared back. Her blue eyes looked luminous, almost otherworldly in their brightness. She looked ethereal, like a girl in a dream, or perhaps one stepping into a life she had not chosen.

Arm-in-arm, she and Sorcha descended the stone staircase, the sounds of voices rising ahead. The great hall had been transformed for the occasion. Banners hung from the rafters, and flowers, wild heather and white roses, adorned the tables. At the far end, standing beneath a carved arch of stone and garland, waited Cameron.

At the sight of her, she could swear his breath caught before he shifted his attention to his boots. Gone was the sombre black he had worn before. Today, he stood tall in the bold red and black of the Munro tartan, the wool draped across him with an easy authority. A crisp white shirt lay beneath, the brightness of the linen setting off the rich hues of the tartan, and over it he wore a tailored black jacket that emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. His dark hair was neatly tied back, and there was an air of command about him. Her soon-to-be husband was powerful, certain, and undeniably handsome.

For a fleeting moment, Destiny could almost forget the stories, forget that this man before her was known as the Butcher, his ruthlessness in battle earning him fear and respect in equal measure.

Then his gaze came up, and their eyes met as she moved towards him, and for an instant, something unreadable passed between them, curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of understanding. For all the whispers of his ruthlessness, he did not look cruel. He looked solid. Commanding. And far too compelling for a man she was meant to despise. His hair was damp, his jaw shadowed, his stance both warrior and laird. When she reached his side, he held out his hand. When she placed her fingers in his, a tingle rippled up her arm, a treacherous awareness that had nothing to do with duty.

She pushed the sensation away, furious with herself. Attraction was the last thing she needed.

The minister’s voice droned, binding them in vows neither of them had chosen. Cameron’s I do was firm, unyielding. Destiny’s voice caught in her throat.

When she finally forced the words, they rasped like broken glass in her throat. “I do.”

At the pledge, Cameron tightened his hand around hers, not painfully, but more as a show of support. His palm was hot, callused, and his grip steady, too steady. The contact sent a rush of warmth up her arm, burning through her resistance. She told herself it was fear. It had to be fear. Yet when she dared to lift her eyes, he looked at her, not with softness, but with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

Chains, she reminded herself. This marriage was chains, cold, heavy, unyielding.

When the minister said a final blessing, a cheer rose from Cameron’s men and his two brothers. One of them, the one Sorcha had shot, stood off to the side, his arm in a sling and a scowl on his face that darkened his features. His gaze lingered on Sorcha with cold disdain.

Afterward, Cameron’s grip lessened, then vanished, leaving her hand suddenly chilled. She clasped her own hands together to stave off the sudden loneliness she felt. He guided her to the dais, where he pulled out a chair for her. Destiny sat, then Cameron seated himself beside her. The table before her was laden with platters of meat, bread, and honeyed fruit. The wine flowed freely, and the hall buzzed with conversation and toasts, though Destiny only picked at her food. She glanced down at Sorcha, who sat two seats down, her face impassive. Most likely because of the scowling man across the table from her.

Destiny forced herself to lift a cup when a toast was called, her lips stiff in a smile. Cameron drank with the ease of a man born to be watched, his every gesture measured. He leaned close enough that she felt the heat of his body, the brush of his sleeve.

“They will look to see if you falter,” Cameron murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Her whole body betrayed her with a shiver.

She clenched her hands in her lap, furious with herself for reacting. “I will not falter,” she whispered back, though her voice trembled with more than defiance.

The nearness was unbearable. He smelled of leather and mint, with a hint of something sharper, like pine. She should have pulled away. Instead, her traitorous heart quickened, as though it wanted to lean closer still.

She hated it. Hated him. Hated herself most of all for noticing the way her body betrayed her.

When the meal ended, Cameron stood and offered his arm. For a beat, she considered refusing. Yet with every Munro eye on her, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. The hard muscle beneath his sleeve startled her, made her pulse skip. She told herself it was revulsion. It was not.