Page 32 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Cameron clenched his jaw, torn between admiration and unease. He had sworn to himself not to let her close, not to let his wife become more than duty. Yet each choice she made, each risk she took, pulled her further into the fold of his clan and into him.

Chapter Ten

Feeling anxious and a little sad after Sorcha’s departure, Destiny found herself walking through the castle until she ended up in the kitchen. Another Mackenzie attack would happen soon, but in this chamber it was easy to forget that as the air shimmered with heat from the great hearth, fragrant with the mingled scents of baking bread and simmering broth.

Mrs Baxter, the castle cook, moved around the preparation table with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had commanded this domain for decades. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with flour, and her apron was a patchwork of stains from the day’s work. Destiny watched her knead a ball of dough, the rhythm steady, comforting, so unlike the chaos gathering at the castle’s borders.

“Sit yourself down, mistress,” Mrs Baxter said without looking up. “No need for you to be pacing holes in my kitchen floor.”

Destiny realised she had been doing exactly that. She slid onto the bench beside the long table where several sheets of parchment lay weighted with a wooden spoon. They were Mrs Baxter’s meal lists for the coming days, marked with tidy script and floury thumbprints.

“I did not mean to intrude,” Destiny said softly.

“You’re no intrusion,” the cook replied. “You’re the mistress of this house. And a kitchen’s meant to be a refuge, especially for one who needs it.”

Destiny’s throat tightened. It had not even been a full day since Sorcha left, sent home because of Gavan. Her friend’s laughter no longer echoed down the corridors. The absence was a hollow space in Destiny’s chest, raw as a new wound.

Mrs Baxter glanced up as she shaped the dough into a round loaf. “You miss your friend.”

Destiny blinked against the sting in her eyes. “Aye. Sorcha has been with me since I arrived. She understood things that are difficult to explain.” Destiny swallowed. “Now she is gone, and I feel—”

“Adrift.” Mrs Baxter’s voice softened. “As though someone pulled the only familiar plank from a storm-tossed boat.”

Destiny looked sharply at her.

The woman offered a gentle, knowing smile. “Aye, lass,” Mrs Baxter said, “I’ve seen that look on more than just your face. Foulis is a grand castle, but she can be lonely when you’re trying to find your place inside her walls.”

The tenderness in the cook’s tone nearly undid Destiny.

She bowed her head. “I fear I am failing,” she whispered. “As mistress. As Cameron’s wife. As a woman who should remain strong while the men prepare for battle.”

Mrs Baxter set down the dough and wiped her hands on a cloth before sitting beside her. “Now listen to me.” Her voice held the firmness of a command wrapped in kindness. “You are not alone. Not here. Not ever. You’ve friends among the staff, even if you don’t yet see it.” She patted Destiny’s hand with warm, flour-scented fingers. “We’ve all watched you. How you treat the serving lassies with respect, how you listen before speaking, how you carry yourself with quiet dignity. Foulis Castle isn’t blind, Mistress Destiny. Nor heartless.”

Destiny felt something loosen inside her, just a little. “’Tis difficult to believe that sometimes.”

Mrs Baxter nodded. “Aye. Fear clouds the mind. Grief too. But trust me when I say you’ve made a mark here. The women talk about you with pride. And the lads in the courtyard? Och, there’s not a one who doesn’t stand a bit straighter when you pass.”

A startled laugh escaped Destiny, soft but real. Mrs Baxter grinned, pleased with the sound.

“Now then,” the cook continued, retrieving the parchments, “let’s settle the meals for the next few days before those Mackenzies start poking at our walls again.”

She spread the parchment across the table. “Oat porridge and honey for the morning, bannocks and smoked lamb slices for midday. Then a simple barley stew with carrots, onions, and the salted beef the laird brought in last month. The night after, roasted hens with turnips and boiled cabbage. We’ll stretch the stores, but no one will go hungry.”

Destiny nodded, grounding herself in the practicality of the words. “The men need strength. They will be worn down if the attacks continue.”

“Aye. That they will.” Mrs Baxter cast her a sidelong glance. “And so will you. Which is why you’ll take your meals proper-like and not simply pick at your plate. Understood?”

Destiny flushed slightly. She had not realised she had been so transparent.

Mrs Baxter went on, lowering her voice. “And regarding the laird . . .”

Destiny’s heart thumped.

“I know he has a reputation,” the woman said. “A fierce one. Highlands are full of tales about Cameron Munro, some true, some pure fancy. A man who fights like the devil himself. A man with a temper sharp as a dirk.” She shook her head. “But I’ve known him since he was a bairn wrapped in wool, kicking his feet and screaming for more milk.” A fond smile tugged at her lips. “And let me tell you what the tales leave out.”

Destiny leaned in despite herself.

“He’s kinder than people think,” Mrs Baxter said simply. “Loyal to a fault. And though he carries his grief like armour, it’s not an armour he means to use against you. Give him time. That man would crack stone with his bare hands if it meant protecting those he cares about.”