Page 33 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Destiny’s breath trembled at the edges. Images flashed in her mind of Cameron lifting her from her horse, his steady hand at her back, the rare softness in his eyes when he thought she was not looking.

Mrs Baxter squeezed her hand once more. “He’s more than his battles. More than his actions in battle that folk whisper about. And I’ve seen the way he watches you, mistress. Not with suspicion. But with something he doesn’t quite know how to name yet.”

Heat crept up Destiny’s neck. She looked down at the parchment, unable to hide her reaction.

Mrs Baxter chuckled. “Aye, I thought so.”

Before Destiny could respond, the cook stood, lifting the dough to set it near the hearth. “All right now. Enough of this sentimental talk. Let’s finalise what we’ll need from the storerooms tonight. We’ll send two lads for fresh turnips, and I’ll have the scullery maid fetch the last of the smoked lamb.”

Destiny rose to help, instinct guiding her. Together they gathered herbs from the hanging bundles near the hearth, took inventory of the bins, and discussed preparations for the meals to come. Mrs Baxter moved swiftly, confidently, and Destiny found comfort in being near her, anchored by her steadiness, soothed by the sounds of a knife tapping on a wooden board and the bubbling of broth on the fire.

At last, when the plans were set and the hearth’s glow cast soft gold across the kitchen, Mrs Baxter rested a hand on Destiny’s shoulder. “We’ll manage, lass. The castle. The meals. The long nights. And aye, even the battles.” Her gaze softened. “And you? You’ll manage too. Not because you must do it alone, but because you don’t have to.”

Destiny’s eyes misted, this time not with despair but with gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Mrs Baxter nodded, then turned back to her work, humming a soft Gaelic tune as she kneaded the next round of dough.

Destiny lingered a moment longer, letting the warmth sink into her bones. For the first time that day, the castle did not feel quite so vast. Or so lonely. She gathered her skirts and made for the doorway, carrying Mrs Baxter’s words with her like a small, glowing ember against the encroaching dark.

Before she could pass through, a heavy wooden door at the far end of the kitchen swung open.

A gust of cold air rushed in, swirling flour from the table. Mrs Baxter looked up with a start, then relaxed, recognising the tall figure who filled the threshold.

Cameron strode inside. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing. It paused when it found her. “Destiny.” His voice was low, roughened from barking orders in the courtyard.

She straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of her gown. “Cameron. I did not expect to see you here.”

“I came looking for you.” He rubbed his hands together absently. “Someone said they had seen you headed towards the kitchen.”

Mrs Baxter let out a soft snort. “Aye, and thank goodness she did. I told her a kitchen’s a safer place than pacing the corridors like a restless spirit.”

Destiny flushed, but Cameron’s gaze softened, barely, but enough that she felt the shift like a warm hand on her cheek.

“What brings you in?” Mrs Baxter asked, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “It’s rare we see the laird in my domain unless he’s come to complain about being fed too well.”

Despite the tension in his broad shoulders, Cameron’s mouth twitched. “I have never once complained.”

“Aye, because you’ve sense,” she shot back. “So what is it?”

He nodded towards Destiny. “I wished a word.”

Mrs Baxter’s brows arched knowingly, far too knowingly for Destiny’s comfort. “Then I’ll just check on the bread rising by the fire.” She gathered a bowl and turned away, humming again, but Destiny noticed she moved no more than three steps before taking a great interest in a pot that didn’t need stirring.

Cameron moved closer. The warm air from the hearth curled around him as though trying to thaw the cold hardness the world had pressed into him.

“Are you well?” he asked.

The question was simple, but still, Destiny trembled. After Sorcha’s departure, after the scouts’ grim news, after feeling so painfully adrift, it was too much kindness, too direct, too unexpected.

“Aye,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Mrs Baxter and I were just planning meals for the next few days.”

His gaze flicked to the table, to the parchment and herbs and neatly stacked bowls. “You do not have to concern yourself with such things.”

“I know.” She met his eyes. “And yet, it helps.”

Cameron’s jaw tightened, not with anger but with what she could only describe as uncertainty. “The men appreciate your care,” he said. “Even if they have no idea it comes from you.”

Destiny’s breath hitched. There was something in the way he had said the words, with rough sincerity and quiet pride.