Page 11 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Destiny exhaled so sharply it felt as though the world had shifted. “Praise the saints you are not dead,” she whispered, moving to Sorcha’s side and clasping the other woman’s icy hand in her own.

“Quickly, get Gavan into the carriage,” Cameron barked. His men hoisted the wounded warrior to a seat beside the coachman. “Ride with them,” the laird ordered one guard. “Shoot the Mackenzie if he tries to flee.”

Once the door slammed shut and a guard shuffled to sit beside the coachman on the carriage’s seat, the vehicle lurched forward.

Cameron’s shrill whistle summoned two horses from the nearby undergrowth. “Take this woman to Foulis,” he commanded, and one of his men folded Sorcha onto the back of a horse.

They galloped into the distance after the carriage.

Cameron turned towards Destiny. “You ride with me.” The words barely escaped his lips before firm hands lifted her into the saddle, and instantly she felt the weight of his broad, unyielding frame pressed against her back.

Without hesitation they launched into a gallop. The wind tore Destiny’s hair across her face as Cameron’s scent, pine tinged with mint and musk, rose around her, strangely at odds with the soldier’s ruthless reputation.

She inhaled sharply as her senses came alive—the pounding of the horse’s hooves, the slap of air against her skin, and the dry bitterness of dust on her tongue. She turned to look at the man behind her. His dark eyes stayed fixed ahead, unblinking and resolute. In that moment, Destiny understood how unlike any man she had ever met he truly was, both dangerous and formidable, but she had glimpsed a gentler side, a rare vulnerability behind his warrior’s mask.

The open terrain blurred past, the midday sun sliding into dusk. Shadows deepened as the road curved, and before them rose Foulis Castle, its grey stones silhouetted against the fading light of day. The grip of Cameron’s thighs tightened around her, neither comforting nor cruel, but instinctive, possessive. As the castle’s towers grew larger, Destiny shivered, but not from cold. She still did not know if he was what his name implied or something more nuanced. She hoped for the latter but steeled herself for the former.

Her gaze met his over her shoulder. “Foulis,” she whispered, voice steady though her pulses thundered.

Cameron’s response was a single nod.

The road behind faded into silence.

Ahead, Foulis stood looming and absolute. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we marry at first light.”

The clop of hooves echoed as they passed through the castle gates along with the others. When all had entered, the heavy portcullis settled behind them with a hollow thud, closing the outside world away. Destiny’s heart hammered. As Cameron guided the horse towards the barracks and hall beyond, dusk’s chill curled around the courtyard. She dared a glance at him, his profile resolved in torchlight, and she felt something shift inside her.

Here, beneath ancient stones, her life would begin anew. Whether just as a bride or also a captive, she did not yet know. But as Cameron swung her down before the great doors, his features softened.

“Welcome to your new home, Destiny.”

A shiver ran through her at the gentleness of his voice. How could the man who was known as the Butcher have this softer, gentler side he had shown her in the last several hours? Were the stories about him true? Or merely an invention to strike terror in the hearts of his enemies?

“Let us get inside,” he said more firmly, and the moment was broken.

Destiny squared her shoulders. Whatever tomorrow brought, she would meet it head-on.

Chapter Four

The corridor was dim and silent as Destiny followed the maid and a manservant, the soft taps of their footsteps the only sound in the air.

The woman, older and silent, save for a murmured, “This way, milady,” opened the heavy door to a bedchamber and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.

A manservant entered after her and set her one bag from the coach near the door, then left.

The room was modestly furnished. The stone walls were hung with faded tapestries, and a fire had already been lit in the hearth, casting flickers of gold across the flagstones. A small bed stood near the window, its coverlet neatly turned down, as though someone had tried to make the chamber welcoming. Yet, Destiny felt no comfort in it.

The maid moved with practised ease, helping her out of her heavy travelling cloak. “There’s food fer ye,” she said quietly, motioning to a tray on the small table—a bowl of steamy soup, a crust of bread, and a goblet of wine.

Destiny glanced at it, but her stomach twisted at the thought of eating. “Thank you,” she replied softly.

The maid nodded, stepping back towards the door. “Ye have only to ring the bell if ye need anythin’, milady.” With a shallow curtsy, the woman slipped out, the latch clicking softly behind her.

Destiny stood still, staring at the tray. Hunger gnawed faintly in her belly, but it was dulled by the knot of unease growing in her chest.

She turned her gaze to the brazier, where orange coals glowed and cast a gentle warmth across the chamber. Near the hearth stood a small table bearing a basin of water and a simple bowl. Folded beside it lay strips of clean linen, clearly left for her use, to wash away the blood, to bind her wound. The care behind these quiet preparations was unmistakable, each detail chosen to offer comfort, to make her feel welcome. But welcome was the one thing she did not feel. She felt out of place in this unfamiliar castle, like an invader in someone else’s life. Her thoughts turned immediately to Sorcha. Where was she? Perhaps Sorcha found herself in a similar situation in a bedchamber nearby. There was only one way to find out.

Destiny crossed the room and tried the door. It did not budge. She rattled the handle again. Locked.