Page 12 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Her breath quickened, fear pooling low in her stomach. The maid had locked her in. Like a prisoner. If she rang the bell, as the maid had suggested, would anyone come?

Destiny thought about testing that theory, but instead crossed to the window, throwing open the wooden shutters. Cool night air rushed in, brushing her face, a balm against the heat of her rising panic. She breathed it in deeply, pressing her palms to the sill, eyes scanning the dark courtyard below.

The grey stones of the wall were worn and rough beneath her hands. She could climb down. She could run. Escape. But go where? Her father had made certain of this path, this marriage. He would never allow her to come home, not after she had defied him by selling off their furniture, despite the fact it had eased his financial burden. There were no other kin or friends she could turn to in Scotland, no safe haven waiting for her. She was alone.

Destiny swallowed hard, blinking against the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She could not run. Not tonight or any night. Not from this.

In the morning, she would stand before a minister and wed a man she did not know. And perhaps then, after the vows were spoken, she would have more freedom, more power to shape the course of her life. She had made good of terrible situations before. She could, and would, do it again.

Closing the shutters slowly, Destiny stepped back into the room’s dim warmth, her chin lifting with quiet resolve. Let the dawn come. She would meet it with her head held high.

*

He should go abovestairs and wish Destiny good night. She must be nervous, if not terrified, to be alone in this castle with nothing familiar. But instead of heading for her temporary bedchamber, Cameron strode down the corridor that led to his brother’s chambers. The heavy door was ajar, and from within came a low groan, followed by the sharp clatter of metal in a basin.

Inside, Gavan sat in a high-backed chair, pale and sweating, his shirt discarded, blood staining the cloth that had been wrapped hastily around his shoulder. The steward, Hobbins, was bent over him, hands slick with blood as he worked carefully with a small knife and forceps.

“Hold still, lad,” Hobbins muttered, his brow furrowed. “The ball’s lodged deep.”

Gavan cursed under his breath, his jaw clenched tight. Cameron stepped inside just as Hobbins gave a final twist and pulled the misshapen lead ball free. Gavan let out a strangled cry, his hand gripping the chair arm so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

Hobbins dropped the bloody ball into a basin and reached for clean linen. “It will take time,” he said, glancing up at Cameron as he bound the wound. “The bone is not shattered, thank God, but the muscle is torn. He won’t wield a sword for weeks, perhaps months. With healing and strengthening . . . he will have use of the arm again. But as for fighting . . .” Hobbins shrugged, tying the bandage tightly.

Cameron crossed his arms, his face unreadable. “You will recover,” he said simply.

Gavan, breathing hard through clenched teeth, shot his brother a bitter look. “She did this,” he snarled. “That hellcat, Sorcha, shot me like I was a bandit on the road.”

“You were charging after her with a sword drawn,” Cameron replied coolly.

Hobbins finished dressing the wound and stepped back, gathering his tools. “He needs rest, my laird. And no excitement.”

Cameron nodded and dismissed the steward. As the door closed behind them, Gavan pushed himself up slightly, wincing at the pain.

“I want her gone,” he growled. “When the wedding is over. Send her away.”

Cameron’s gaze sharpened. “She is Destiny’s companion. Sending her away now would cause more trouble than it is worth.”

“If she had aimed a little higher or to the left, I would be dead. I will have my revenge on her, one way or another.”

Cameron stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Nay, Gavan. You will not act without my leave. I will protect what is mine,” Cameron said, his voice firm. “Destiny is mine now, and that includes those under her protection.”

For a moment, the brothers stared at one another, tension crackling between them like a drawn bowstring. Gavan’s chest heaved, rage in his eyes, but he said nothing more.

Cameron turned to leave. “Rest,” he said over his shoulder. “Heal. There will be time enough to deal with everything else later.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, leaving Gavan alone in the dim chamber, his rage no doubt burning just beneath the surface.

Cameron knew his brother well. Gavan would not forget this injury, nor let it rest. But for now, pain would keep him compliant. Time and weakness would be Cameron’s allies, at least for a while.

Still, peace in the castle came at a price. Sooner or later, Sorcha would have to be sent away. There would be no harmony under this roof with her presence stoking Gavan’s wounded pride. Cameron exhaled slowly. That decision would tear open another wound, this one in Destiny. Sorcha was her only anchor in a life she had been forced into, a storm not of her own making. Taking her friend away would leave her truly alone.

And it would fall to him to find a way to soften that blow.

Cameron paused outside Destiny’s door, hand hovering near the latch. He should go inside to offer a few words, welcome her properly, perhaps wish her a peaceful night. It was the duty of a husband, or at least the beginning of one. But instead, he stood there in silence.

Let her rest, he told himself. Let her think about what tomorrow would bring, let her stew a bit in the reality of what awaited her. He told himself it was not punishment for the trouble she had caused, for fleeing into the woods, for climbing a tree to escape him.

But he would be lying.