Page 35 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

As Cameron guided her into the dim corridor, his hand stayed at her back. Steady. Certain. Protective.

And Destiny felt the stirrings of something she had not dared hope for. A home.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning, Destiny entered the great hall and made her way to where Cameron sat. As she went, she felt the weight of every eye upon her. Her pale-blue gown trailed at her heels, its fabric worn but still dignified, pressed and mended carefully by her own hand.

Cameron looked up from the high table, his brow furrowing. His gaze lingered, not with admiration, but with sharp curiosity. When she took her place beside him, he leaned close enough that only she could hear.

“You are wearing the same dress as you did yesterday,” he murmured. “How many dresses did you bring with you?”

Destiny stilled but met his eyes with a spark of wry defiance. “I brought all that I had. Perhaps you do not remember, my laird, that my family had fallen on hard times. New clothing was a luxury I could not afford.”

Cameron’s frown deepened. “Yet your father—”

“Spared no expense for his own finery,” she said, her tone cool. “Velvets, brocades, embroidery enough to clothe ten men. All paid for with coin borrowed from men he never meant to repay. I covered those debts when I could, by selling what little remained in our furnishings, silver, even linens. I traded away all my clothing, except those things worn too thin to be worth money.”

The words slipped out sharper than she had intended, but she did not soften them. Mrs Featherstone set a bowl of porridge before her, her eyes downcast, pretending she did not hear their conversation. Destiny thanked the chatelaine as she picked up her spoon, trying to keep it steady, even as her hand trembled.

For a long moment, Cameron said nothing. She felt the weight of his gaze on her, not angry, not mocking, but something else. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, steadier.

“I had not understood the hardship you faced,” he said. “How much you bore to keep your father’s house standing.”

Destiny’s throat tightened. She forced herself to lift her spoon, though she could not bring herself to meet Cameron’s eyes.

He straightened and waved Mrs Featherstone back to the table. In a soft voice he said, “Please send for the tailor in Dingwall. My wife will have new gowns made, in colours and fabrics fit for the lady of Foulis. A few finer ones also for more formal occasions. It would honour me to see her dressed as she deserves.”

“Nay, my laird. None of your men can be spared for such a task. They are needed here at the castle. Besides, new clothing can wait until we are beyond this trouble with the Mackenzies.”

Cameron’s expression did not shift. “I have learned not to delay what matters—and this matters. Mrs Featherstone, send for the tailor.”

Mrs Featherstone offered him a smile, nodded, then hurried from the chamber.

Destiny’s cheeks heated. She set her spoon down carefully, her composure strained.

“My laird,” she whispered, still not looking at him, “you need not—”

“I would do as much for anyone living under this roof,” he interrupted, his tone final but not unkind.

Pride and gratitude warred inside her for a heartbeat, until she at last gave the smallest nod, her fingers curling in her lap.

For the first time in years, she felt the prospect of a gown not as a burden or a reminder of debt, but as a gift freely given.

*

With his escort, the tailor arrived safely three days later, his arms laden with bolts of cloth and his female apprentice carrying a basket brimming with threads, ribbons, and measuring tools. Destiny stood in the solar, her hands clasped tightly before her as if the weight of her entire past pressed down upon her shoulders.

She had not stood for a fitting since she was a girl, back when her mother still lived, before debts and wagers had stripped the Gunn household of its dignity. The rustle of silks and the gleam of rich dyes stirred not delight in her now, but a hollow ache of memory.

The apprentice curtsied to Cameron, then turned briskly to Destiny. “My lady, if you will allow, I will take your measure first.”

Destiny felt her cheeks heat. To be measured like a child, to have strange hands pulling at her sleeves and skirts—every instinct urged her to refuse this luxury. More from instinct than logic, she opened her mouth to object, to remind them that she did not need any new gowns, that she was accustomed to mending and making do. But Cameron’s voice stopped her.

“I will stay,” he said simply, moving to stand near the hearth.

His arms crossed, his gaze steady, not harsh, but anchoring.

The tailor’s apprentice blinked, surprised, but said nothing more. She motioned Destiny atop a stool and began her work.