Page 28 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

He lifted the tail of his tartan and wiped his face before letting the woollen fabric slip from his fingers. “You stayed,” he said, his voice rough. “You watched the battle, though you should have hidden.”

She lifted her chin, even as her pulse raced. “How else am I to know the truth about you?”

For a moment, silence roared louder than the battle had. His eyes searched hers, fierce and unguarded, and she felt herself unravel beneath them. When his hand rose to brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek, she did not move. Could not. Her breath caught in her chest, trembling with an anticipation she refused to name.

And then he kissed her.

It was not soft, nor cautious. His mouth claimed hers with fire, with hunger barely leashed, and to her shame, or perhaps her salvation, she answered him. Heat coursed through her, fiercer than fear, fiercer than doubt. She had meant to resist him, to keep her guard high. Instead, she found herself clinging to the strength in him, caught in the storm he unleashed.

When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath uneven. His words came low, almost a vow. “Trust. It will not come easy between us, Destiny. But neither will it break easily, once earned.”

Her heart thundered, her lips tingling from the heat of him. She wanted to believe him. God help her, she wanted it more than she dared admit. Still, she would not surrender so easily.

Her voice came out as a whisper, laced with defiance and hope. “Then let us see if you are worthy of it.”

The flicker in his eyes told her she had struck true, not only with challenge, but with something that unsettled him far more.

Hope.

*

Dawn crept slowly into the chamber, pale light seeping through the window. Destiny lay awake, her body still, though her mind refused rest. The echoes of the night before would not leave her. She mourned the loss of lives the battle had caused on both sides. While she did not know any of those who had died, she was certain others would miss them. And even though she should be focused only on grief, her mind wandered to her husband.

She could still feel Cameron’s mouth on hers, fierce and consuming, as though he had branded her with fire. She touched her lips, startled at the tremor in her fingers. What had she done, answering him so willingly? She should have turned away. Should have reminded herself that this marriage was nothing more than duty and bargain. That he was not hers to want.

And yet she had wanted him to kiss her. God help her, she wanted him to kiss her again.

She turned onto her side, clutching the coverlet around her. The keep was quiet, but not the courtyard below. The men no doubt gathered the remaining dead to bury, and the distant pounding of hammers against steel told her they also patched the gates and portcullis. It should have been comforting, that rhythm of life continuing after battle. But the sound only reminded her of him. Cameron, striding among them with his calm authority, his presence filling every space.

The Butcher. The word haunted her. She had asked it aloud, dared to put the weight of rumour between them. He had not denied it, but neither had he embraced it. His truth had been more complicated, more human. She had seen with her own eyes that he did not fight with a lust for blood, only as a man must. And that unsettled her more than any monstrous tale. Because if he was not the monster they painted him to be, then what excuse remained for her to resist the pull between them?

She closed her eyes, but all she could see was the look in his as he said, Stay. Watch. Learn about me for yourself. There had been fire in that command, but something else, too, something perilously close to vulnerability.

Her heart twisted. She longed to trust him; to believe she had glimpsed the man beneath the name. But still she hesitated to fully trust what her own eyes had revealed.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor jolted her, heavy and deliberate. Cameron’s. She knew it without question. Her pulse leapt, betraying her resolve. She sat upright, gathering the coverlet close, as if it could shield her from what she wanted as much as from what she feared.

The door did not open. His steps moved past, steady, unhurried, carrying him towards the day’s duties. A rush of relief mingled with disappointment surged through her.

He had not come for her.

And perhaps that was for the best. She needed time, time to understand her own heart, and to decide whether she would let this marriage be nothing more than a bargain, or something more dangerous. Something that might consume her entirely.

Destiny pressed a hand over her heart, feeling its frantic rhythm. Last night she had kissed her husband. Today she must live with the consequences.

*

Cameron rose before the first light of dawn, though he had barely slept. The battle had left his body weary, his muscles taut with the strain of command, but it was not the clash of steel that had kept him awake. It was his wife.

Her lips against his, fire and defiance all at once. He had kissed her like a man starved, and worse, she had kissed him back. No hesitation, no meek surrender. She had met his hunger with her own. The memory burned hotter than any wound.

He dragged a hand over his face, willing the thought away, but it lingered, dangerous and insistent. What had possessed him? He should have held his distance, kept her at arm’s length until trust was earned or never earned at all. Instead, he had let her in. Allowed her to see a truth he rarely gave even to his own brothers.

Now the lines between duty and desire blurred. He hated the weakness it revealed in him, but it gave him hope at the same time. With a sigh, Cameron belted his sword at his hip, the weight grounding him.

From the yard below came the steady sounds of labour—men repairing the breach in the walls, resetting timbers, clearing away the last traces of blood and splintered wood as though the battle itself might be erased by effort alone. The Mackenzie prisoner remained secured in the dungeon, alive, breathing, and very much the fulcrum upon which the next choice would turn.

Before the day was done, two Munro warriors would be laid in the earth, and the bodies of four Mackenzies carried closer to the encampment where their clan had withdrawn, so their own might reclaim them. Death, at least, would be returned with honour.