Page 27 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

He had not expected trust to come easily between them, but the realisation that it might never come naturally, that it might always be measured, earned in fragments rather than given freely, left a quiet ache in his chest.

There would be no easy courtship, no unguarded beginning built on mutual faith. Whatever grew between them would be forged under watchful eyes, tempered by reputation and necessity, not innocence. Respect might come. Even affection, in time. But a simple bond, born of ease and unquestioning trust?

He doubted such a thing had ever been possible for either of them.

Cameron shook his thoughts away, turning back to the situation at hand. “Men to the parapets and the courtyard,” Cameron ordered, his voice hard and commanding again.

The Butcher’s name would serve him well in the battle to come. But it was Destiny’s faith in him, both fragile and uncertain, that he found himself clinging to as he hurried into the courtyard, his hand on his sword and the tail of his plaid thrown over one shoulder.

The night split open with the blare of horns. Shouts rang from the walls, and the thunder of boots echoed within the castle as men rushed to the courtyard and the battlements. Torches flared, lighting the grim set of his men’s faces as the Mackenzies surged towards the castle, a tide of steel and fury.

Cameron’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with sharpened purpose. This was the ground he understood. Where doubt fell away and hesitation had no place. Here, he was not husband or negotiator or would-be peacemaker. He was the shield before his people.

“The Mackenzies are at the gates with a ram,” a voice called from above.

“Archers!” Cameron’s voice cut through the chaos. “Loose!”

A volley of arrows hissed skyward, falling in steep arcs, striking the Mackenzies as they charged. Screams answered the command. Still the Mackenzies came, slamming their ladders against the curtain wall.

“Spearmen on the crenellations, make your pikes ready,” Cameron barked, moving among the men in the courtyard, steadying them with a word, a glance. He felt their eyes on him. They wanted him to be the Butcher tonight, the iron hand that would not give way. As always, he would do whatever had to be done to keep his clan, his people, safe. He reached for his sword, but before he could act, his gaze caught on a movement that seemed out of place. A splash of light blue above the courtyard. Destiny. He looked up to find her at the railing, torchlight painting her face pale against the dark. She should not have been there. He had ordered her to stay in the safety of the keep.

Her presence was a knife in his gut. Fear formed, sharper than any enemy blade. For all his discipline, his stride lost its rhythm. If the Mackenzies breached, if she—

“Cameron!” Alastair’s shout yanked him back.

The portcullis gave way and the gates cracked, splinters flying. His men braced, shields locked.

“Hold the line!” Cameron roared, planting himself at the fore. The ram struck again, then the gates burst inward, and the Mackenzies poured through, wild and bellowing.

Steel clashed. The courtyard erupted into chaos. Cameron met the first wave head-on, his sword cleaving down with brutal precision. A man fell. Another lunged. Cameron caught him with a thrust to the ribs. Around him, the Munros tightened their ranks, driving the enemy back step by step.

Yet even as he fought, he knew where Destiny stood. Every glance of torchlight, every flicker of flame, he felt her gaze on him. Watching. Judging. Seeking the truth in the man they called Butcher.

He fought harder. Not for the name. Not even for the fear it stirred in his enemies. But because, for the first time in years, he wanted to be seen clearly.

And when the Mackenzies broke at last, retreating into the night with their dead and dying left behind, Cameron stood in the wreckage, chest heaving. His men raised a cheer, voices rough with triumph.

But his eyes sought only hers.

Above, Destiny gripped the rail, her face flushed, her eyes wide, but not only with fear, but also something else. Something that made his chest ache.

Cameron lifted his sword, saluting his men. But it was not to them that his heart gave thanks.

It was to her.

*

The courtyard still rang with the roar of victory, but Destiny could scarcely hear it over the pounding in her chest. She gripped the stone railing until her knuckles whitened, watching Cameron below. His sword was dark with blood, his shoulders broad and unyielding as he strode through his men, giving orders with a voice that carried strength, even in its exhaustion.

She had seen him fight. Truly fight. Not in stories, not in whispers. With her own eyes. He had been fierce, unstoppable, the laird his people needed. Not as a murderer. Not in the way she had feared.

Her legs felt unsteady as she descended from the gallery. The great hall’s firelight threw long shadows across the stone as she found Cameron there. He turned at once when she entered, his dark gaze finding her as if he had known she would come.

She stopped before him, her breath quick and shallow, but she made herself meet his eyes. His face was smeared with dirt, blood, and sweat, but she did not find it offensive. Instead, he looked human. Real. And somewhat vulnerable.

“You fought like . . .” The word butcher caught in her throat. She forced it aside. “Like a laird defending his people. You were . . .” Her voice caught, then steadied, soft but unyielding. “Terrible and magnificent all at once.”

Something flickered across his face. Pride, but also something deeper that made her heart clench. He stepped closer, and the air between them seemed to shrink until she could feel the warmth of him, smell the smoke and musk clinging to his skin.