Page 29 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

The Mackenzies had not come to bargain for their son. Cameron had known it, even as he sent the messenger, even as he allowed himself the briefest hope that restraint might prevail. The ram at the gates had answered that hope plainly. Steel was still the language they trusted. To release the prisoner now, after blood had already been spilled, would not end violence but invite more of it, teaching every clan watching that force bent Munro will. Cameron would not leave that lesson behind him.

Holding the prisoner was not cruelty. It was containment. As long as the Mackenzie son remained within Munro walls, his kin would hesitate, however briefly, before striking again. Safe passage across Mackenzie land still mattered, more now than before. Without it, Munro and Gunn territory would be divided by hostility, every journey shadowed by threat. To abandon that aim would condemn his people to an endless war fought in ambush and reprisal. Cameron had offered another road. The Mackenzies had chosen the old one, and that choice would be seen for what it was.

His people would look to him now for certainty, for strength unmarred by doubt. That was what he owed them, not the turmoil Destiny had stirred within him. Yet when he passed through the corridor outside her chamber, his steps slowed of their own accord. He felt her presence behind the closed door as surely as if she stood before him, her steady gaze fixed on his back. His chest tightened with the memory of her breath, her quiet, unsettling challenge. Then let us see if you are worthy of it.

Worthy.

For a heartbeat, he almost pressed the latch, almost faced her again in the fragile light of morning. But nay. He was the laird, and lairds did not indulge in longing. Not when their enemies gathered nearby. The Mackenzies had retreated, but they were still close, his scouts had reported. So he’d kept on walking, his shoulders squared as if the weight of his clan rested on them alone. Perhaps it did.

He told himself it was better this way. That distance would keep both himself and Destiny sharper, safer. That the kiss they had shared had been a mistake.

But as he stepped into the courtyard and barked orders to his men, Cameron knew the lie for what it was. The memory of her lingered with every breath, every command. The Butcher could keep his clan safe. The laird could hold the walls. But he, the husband, was already perilously close to being undone by his wife.

Chapter Nine

By the time they had buried the dead and repaired the gates, it was afternoon. Cameron had gathered his men in the council chamber. They shouted at each other across the table, voices sharp with pride and fear. Instead of sitting next to Cameron, Destiny lingered at the edge of the room, her pulse hammering with each angry word.

“Guard the gates!” Gavan shouted.

“Nay, the northern wall is too exposed,” Kenzie countered.

“They’ll come in a different manner than they did before. Mark my words,” Uncle Alastair growled.

Destiny agreed with Alastair. She remembered the prisoner’s gleam of certainty, the cruel curl of his mouth as he boasted that the Mackenzies would come for him. Almost as if the castle’s walls, the gates, the keep itself would not stop them from that task.

Cameron sat at the head of the table, silent, his broad arms folded, eyes narrowed in patient calculation.

Finally, he pounded his hand on the wood, demanding silence. “The scouts report that the Mackenzies have retreated to the valley north of us. They appear to be regrouping for another attack. We must be ready when they come.”

“The gates are secure,” Gavan confirmed.

“We are ready,” Kenzie said with a nod. “Sentries are posted on the walls. The armour is cleaned and ready.”

Relief softened Cameron’s rigid shoulders. “We must try to anticipate their next move. That will give us the advantage we need.”

The voices in the chamber erupted again as each man voiced his opinion on what they must do to prepare.

Destiny clenched her hands at her sides, trying desperately to hold her tongue. She had an idea about how the Mackenzies might attack, but would these men listen to her again?

When she could hold herself back no longer, Destiny said, “My laird.” Her voice, so different from the others, stood out.

The men stopped. As before, every head turned towards her.

Cameron’s eyes flicked up to meet hers—dark, steady, warning. He had not given her leave to speak. But she would not falter.

“The Mackenzies want their kinsman back,” she pressed, her voice firmer now. “They will not waste themselves against your walls. You proved that you could hold them admirably last night. Instead, they will strike where they can reach their kinsman the fastest. In the dungeon.”

A few of the men muttered. One scoffed openly. “A wife’s fancy.”

Destiny’s cheeks burned. “Not fancy. I spoke with the prisoner. He swore his kin would not leave him to rot. If the lower passages are breached, your walls and gates will not matter. They will take him and vanish, leaving us bloodied and broken.”

The silence that followed was heavy as stone.

Then Cameron rose, his voice crisp as steel. “Double the guard in the cellars and on the parapets. Move the prisoner to the high tower under watch. If the Mackenzies come for him, they will find nothing but blades.”

The warriors stirred, bowing heads, already murmuring new orders. Destiny’s chest surged with pride and terror both. He had listened to her once more.

But when the men left, Cameron remained, his gaze fixed on her. “You speak your opinions freely, wife,” he said quietly.