Page 41 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Cameron looked up to see Alastair leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, firelight throwing gold across the lines of his weathered face. The old warrior had fought in the same battles of Cameron’s youth. His uncle’s presence steadied a room the way iron steadied a blade.

Cameron managed a thin smile. “Better the oak than my skull. I have hammered it enough today.”

Alastair moved to stand beside Cameron and then lowered himself heavily into a chair, the wood groaning beneath him. He studied Cameron, eyes narrowing. “You held them off well enough. But you’ve no answer for them, do you?”

“Nay,” Cameron admitted. The word came out harsh, scraped raw by frustration. “Keep the man, kill the man, release the man. It is all the same. Blood. Oaths broken. War at our gates. And they all look to me to find the path that spares them.” His hands curled into fists on the table. “I see no such path.”

Alastair folded his arms. “Aye. Because there is no clear choice here. But you’re laird now, and they will follow you whether you are certain or not.”

Cameron stared into the fire, its shifting light painting long shadows along the walls. “And if I choose wrong?” he murmured. “If the path I take costs more lives than it saves?”

For a long moment, Alastair was silent. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and steady. “That’s what it means to wear the mantle. Your father knew it. I know it. And you will learn it. Sometimes there is no right answer, only the one you can live with.”

Cameron’s throat tightened. “And what if I cannot?”

A softness entered Alastair’s gaze, rare and unexpected. “Then you lean on those who can help you bear it. Destiny. Your kin. Your warriors. You do not shoulder this alone, lad. Even when it feels like you do.”

Silence filled the chamber once more, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Cameron released a slow breath and nodded. “A few days,” he said. “That is all I have bought. God grant it is enough.”

Alastair stood and clapped a heavy hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Think hard, aye. But do not think yourself into the grave. You have the makings of a fine laird, Cameron. Remember, strength isn’t found in choosing the easy path. It’s in walking the hard one.”

When he was gone, Cameron remained in the shadow of the firelight, alone with the pounding weight of the prisoner’s fate. No answer came. Only the restless crackle of the flames and the cold certainty that time was running out.

*

Later that morning, Cameron and six of his warriors rode with Destiny to the village, which lay in the hollow of the valley. Destiny was both excited and nervous to make her first appearance before those of Cameron’s people who did not live in the castle.

As they entered the village, the scent of baking bread carried on the breeze. Children darted between cottages, laughing as they chased a dog, while women with baskets paused to curtsy when Cameron rode past. Destiny followed close at his side, her mare picking her way carefully along the rutted road.

At first, the people watched her with guarded curiosity, their glances quick, measuring. She greeted them with a smile, asking a question here, offering a kind word there. As she did, she saw their wariness soften. When Cameron dismounted and helped her from her horse’s back, a woman stepped forward and pressed a small posy of heather into her hand. A child dared to touch her skirts and then grinned when she laughed.

It was a small thing, yet Destiny felt her heart swell. Perhaps she could belong here.

They walked side by side through the village, and Destiny glanced at the man beside her.

“You carry yourself well among them. They will remember it.” His profile was stern in the late morning light, but his voice was low, meant only for her.

She glanced down at the posy of heather in her hand. “I only gave what I could. A kind word costs nothing,” she said, her voice soft.

His mouth curved, faint but true. “Aye. But not all are so generous.”

Something in his tone drew her gaze to him, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. “My father never was.”

Cameron looked at her then, sharp with curiosity but without judgement.

Destiny swallowed, her throat tight, but she forced herself to go on. “I was the one who kept the accounts, who paid the servants when I could, who dealt with the creditors. He gambled away everything, Cameron. Gold, land, honour. And when all else was gone, he bartered me. For alliance. For safety. For his pride.”

Her chest ached, the truth rawer for having been spoken aloud. She had never told anyone—not even Sorcha—in so many words.

Cameron’s jaw tightened, not with scorn but with something heavier, older. “My father and I . . .” He shook his head. “He believed a laird’s worth was measured in blood spilled, not in lives preserved. I fought him more often than I obeyed. When he died, I swore I would lead differently. But the rift never healed. Death does not mend what was broken.” His gaze softened as it met hers. “Yours yet lives. That wound can still be bound.”

Destiny’s breath caught. “After what he has done, you think I should forgive?”

“I think,” Cameron said quietly, “that you deserve the chance to choose. Not have the choice stolen from you.”

The weight of his words sank deep, stirring something fragile in her. Choice. Freedom. Two things she had thought lost to her forever.

Ahead, the villagers had gathered in the square, curious eyes lifting to their laird and his new bride. Cameron raised his hand, and the murmurs hushed.