Page 4 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

“Cattle first,” her father said. “Enough to replace what was lost. Horses. Provisions. And their word. Support, if I require it. A man backed by Munro steel is not easily dismissed.”

“And if their support is not enough?” she asked, her voice barely more than breath.

“Then others will offer more,” he said. “The Mackenzies, for instance, are always eager to weaken Munro influence. A man with insight, with access . . .” He shrugged. “Such things have value.”

Destiny’s heart stuttered. So that was it. Not peace. Not protection. Information.

“I will not have you think this unkind,” he continued, as if granting her comfort. “You will live well. You will be safe behind their walls. And you will serve a purpose greater than yourself. You should be grateful for what I have done for you this day.” His gaze narrowed. “You will thank me someday.”

She nodded because she had always nodded. Because silence had kept her safe before. Inside, something quiet and fragile folded in on itself.

“And remember this,” her father said, his gaze sharp. “Names are rebuilt through patience and advantage. This marriage is how I begin again.”

Destiny lowered her head, the weight of her father’s ambition pressing down on her like a hand between her shoulders.

“Aye, Father,” she whispered.

But even as she spoke, she knew the truth. She was not being given away. She was being placed.

*

The door closed behind her with a final, echoing click. For a long moment, Destiny simply stood there in the corridor, her breath shallow, her body numb. The cold of the flagstones seeped through her slippered feet, anchoring her in a world that suddenly felt foreign.

The castle was silent save for the distant wail of wind through the high windows. It should have been familiar, these walls, these corridors that she had walked alone for years, but they seemed to close in on her now, heavy with her father’s demand that she marry.

Her vision blurred. She pressed her back to the stone wall and slid down until her bottom struck the floor. The strength she had clung to for so long broke like glass beneath her palms.

A sob escaped before she could stop it. Sharp, choking, raw. She pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle the sound, as if shame could contain it. But the tears came anyway, hot and relentless, spilling down her cheeks in silence.

She had endured much these past months—poverty, loss, the slow crumbling of the world she had been born into. But this was different. This was betrayal. Not from an enemy’s sword, but from her own blood.

Her father’s words spun through her mind, twisting like thorns. In a fortnight, her betrothed would send for her. In a fortnight, her life would no longer be her own. In a fortnight, she would belong to a Munro.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, her breath catching. The Munros. Their name alone turned her stomach. Every story she had ever heard as a child came flooding back. The night raids, the burning of crofts, the wailing of widows left behind. And now the Gunns would align themselves with that clan.

She wished her father had shared this scheme before he left, had given her a chance to wrestle with it, to formulate her own response. To what? To craft a way to refuse such a match? But would she have really done that? Nay. Her father understood her far better than she cared to admit. He knew she would bristle at the notion, which was exactly why he delivered his cruel ultimatum the way he did. And he knew, with an almost infuriating precision, that she would object fiercely, only to relent in the end, just as she always did.

A trembling laugh broke from her lips, bitter and hollow. “This is how the Gunns survive,” she whispered to the empty hallway. “We sell our daughters for cattle, protection, connections, and call it salvation.”

Destiny scrubbed at her face, drawing in a shuddering breath. She would not let her father see her broken. She would not give him that victory.

When at last she rose, her legs were unsteady, but her chin lifted. The tears had dried, leaving only a quiet, dangerous calm behind.

She turned towards where she had left Sorcha, whispering under her breath. “If I am to be bartered, then I will choose what remains of me.” And though her heart was breaking, a spark of something fierce stirred beneath the grief, something that felt almost like defiance.

Destiny began the slow walk towards the drawing room. Each step echoed along the corridor like a drumbeat of finality. When she reached the door, she paused, her hand hovering over the latch. For a moment, she wanted to turn away, to flee to her chamber and let the world crumble without her. But then she heard Sorcha’s soft humming from inside, the familiar tune of a Highland lullaby. The sound of it cracked something open in Destiny’s chest, and she pushed the door open.

Sorcha turned at once, her smile brightening, then fading at the sight of Destiny’s face. “What has happened?” she whispered, crossing the room in an instant. “You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

Destiny tried to answer, but no words came. Her throat ached, and the composure she had fought so hard to reclaim slipped away in an instant.

Sorcha caught her hands, gripping them tightly. “Tell me.”

Destiny shook her head, the tears rising again despite her will. “He has pledged me in marriage,” she managed at last. “To a Munro.”

For a heartbeat, Sorcha said nothing. Then her eyes widened, disbelief and anger chasing each other across her face. “Nay.”

“He has.” Destiny’s voice broke. “He has arranged it all. The heir will send for me in a fortnight.” She tried to laugh, but the sound was brittle. “Father said I should be grateful. That I would be safe. That I would thank him one day.”