Page 59 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

The men nodded, pleased, and returned to their cups. As Destiny moved on, offering words of welcome to the warriors, she felt the eyes of the hall upon her. Not just the allies, but Cameron’s people as well, watching their new lady take her place among them.

When at last she returned to the high table, Cameron’s gaze met hers. His expression was unreadable at first, but then it cleared and approval shone clearly in his eyes.

He nodded once, firmly, before raising his goblet to the hall. “To our allies,” he declared, his voice carrying over the tables. “To the strength of the Highlands.”

The hall erupted in cheers, and Destiny’s heart swelled. This was her place. At Cameron’s side. With his people. And perhaps, if she were steadfast enough, with his trust, and in time, his heart.

*

The next morning four scouts left Foulis to search the north, south, east, and west. The Mackenzies lay quiet, but it was supposed they would not stay that way for long. The men who remained sparred in the lists, readying for the battle to come.

Cameron moved through the motions of swordplay with his, the Sutherland, and Ross warriors, yet every strike felt heavier than it should, his focus unravelling with each swing. Not from lack of sleep, even though he had lain awake half the night, staring at the beams above his bed, remembering last night.

He had watched her move among the Sutherlands and Rosses with a grace he had only just begun to expect, her words softening old rivalries, her presence lending warmth to a hall filled with wary men. She had steadied them better than he could have with a dozen commands. And she had done it not as his pawn, nor as a figurehead, but as his equal.

Her voice still echoed in his mind, bright and clear. “Our strength lies not only in numbers, but in unity.” The men had listened. They had nodded. And for the first time in many long days, he had seen his people look not only to him, but to her.

Relief should have settled in. Her skill should have been a welcome thing—and it was. Still, unease lingered beneath it. The desire to trust her came hard and sharp, an ache lodged deep in his chest. When she stood beside him tonight, gaze unwavering, voice low with conviction, vowing to prove her fidelity, something inside him had shifted.

A restless pass of his hand through his hair accompanied his pacing the hearth’s edge. She had given the clans hope today. She had given him hope today, though he would not say it aloud. He had even caught himself almost smiling as she had moved about the great hall tonight, her cheeks flushed. When she had stood before him, he had wanted so desperately to reach out and touch her. He almost had. Her breath had caught. He had heard it. Felt it. And for one perilous heartbeat, he had wanted nothing more than to close the scant space between them and taste her lips.

“Brother,” Gavan’s voice broke through his thoughts, sharp as a blade.

His younger brother stood at the edge of the yard, shoulder bound in fresh linen from the wound that kept him from training.

Gavan’s eyes narrowed. “Your guard slips.”

Cameron stilled, lowering his sword. He would not admit aloud what consumed his thoughts. He could not. Not when his brother was already irritated by his connection to Destiny, and through her, Sorcha.

“See to your own healing before you lecture me,” Cameron said evenly.

But the barb lacked its usual bite, and Gavan’s answering frown told him so.

Cameron dismissed the men, sending them back to their drills, and turned towards the keep. Each step up the stone stairs was weighted. He should be thinking of the Mackenzies, of defence lines, of war preparations. But instead, his thoughts circled back to Destiny’s whisper of a smile, her eyes gleaming with questions she was too proud to ask.

She was trying so hard to win back his trust. And even though he kept her at arm’s length, she stood her ground before him like no other had dared.

The contradiction gnawed at him. She was both his fiercest critic and his most loyal ally, though she herself did not yet see it.

He reached the top of the stairs and paused, looking down the corridor towards her chamber. The urge to go to her nearly overcame him. But he clenched his jaw and turned away. Trust could not be demanded. It had to be built, stone by stone, no matter how long it took.

Even if the waiting burned him alive.

*

Later that afternoon, news of riders approaching came to Cameron. He strode to the courtyard where the first rider clattered back through the gates. Cameron strode forward, his brother Gavan at his side, every eye in the yard fixed on the mud-splattered scout who swung down from his saddle.

“Report,” Cameron demanded.

The man bowed his head. “Not a single Mackenzie to the east, m’laird. But there is a ship. She sails under the Royal Navy’s flag, pushing through the Cromarty Firth as we speak. She’ll dock at Invergordon by nightfall.”

A ripple went through the men, murmurs of uneasy surprise and uncertain hope. A ship of the king’s navy here, in the north? It could be relief, it could be a summons, or it could mean the king had grown weary of Highland feuds altogether and come not to judge between clans, but to end the problem by force. An English army in his wake would not ask who was right or wrong. It would strike both sides, burn strongholds, and leave silence where rivalry once stood.

Cameron gave a sharp nod. “We will see soon enough what colours they truly fly. Thank you for your report.”

The man saluted and withdrew, leaving the yard buzzing with speculation.

Before the hum had died, two more sets of hooves thundered through the gates. The scouts who had ridden south and west slid from their saddles, sweat streaking their brows. The portcullis closed behind them.