Page 47 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

When at last they lay twined together and exhausted in the hush of the dying fire, his breath warm against her hair and his arm heavy around her waist, she closed her eyes. But even as sleep tugged at her, the bitter weight of her father’s demand pressed close. She would have to choose. To betray Cameron, or to condemn her father.

And she knew, with aching certainty, that whichever path she chose would break her heart. For now, though, she allowed herself the solace of Cameron’s embrace, the steady beat of his heart under her cheek, and the fleeting illusion that she belonged to him fully.

Tomorrow, the world would return. But tonight, she was his.

Chapter Fifteen

Destiny woke to the grey wash of dawn seeping through the shutters, the chamber silent, except for the slow, steady rhythm of Cameron’s breathing beside her. His arm was heavy across her waist, anchoring her against the warmth of his chest. For a moment she lay still, eyes closed, letting herself drift in the illusion that nothing waited beyond this room, that the world was only the two of them, bound together after a night of closeness she had never thought possible.

Heat rose in her cheeks, not with shame but with wonder. The night had been nothing like she feared, nothing like the whispered warnings of matrons or the sharp lessons of her father’s bargains. It had been careful, unhurried. A discovery of hands and lips, of whispered laughter and quiet gasps, of learning how trust could grow in the space between two hearts.

She shifted slightly, her cheek brushing Cameron’s shoulder. He slept still, his dark hair tousled, his jaw softened without the stern weight of command. She had never seen him so unguarded. He looked younger in sleep, less the laird who bore his people’s burdens and more the man beneath, one who had bared himself to her as surely as she had to him.

Her fingers itched to trace the line of his cheek, the scar near his temple, the strength in him she was only just beginning to know. But she held still, savouring the rare moment of peace.

Only days ago, she had feared him, called him Butcher, and doubted every word he spoke. Now she lay in his arms, her heart no longer her own.

And despite her efforts to keep other thoughts from intruding, they pushed forward. Her father’s words returned with merciless clarity. Release the prisoner, or you will learn how much suffering a single, unprotected woman can endure. Sorcha.

Destiny’s stomach tightened, her heart hammering as though it would betray her secrets aloud. She shifted carefully, but Cameron stirred, his hand flexing against her waist. When she glanced up, his eyes were open, watching her with a quiet softness she had not seen before.

“Good morning, wife,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep.

The title pierced her like a blade. How could she answer? How could she return his smile, knowing what she might yet do?

She forced a small one anyway, though it felt fragile on her lips. “Good morning.”

He studied her, as if he sensed her unease. His thumb traced a slow circle against her hip. “You look troubled.”

“I am only tired,” she lied quickly, pressing her forehead against his chest to hide her eyes.

The truth weighed heavier than any chain. If she betrayed him to save Sorcha, Cameron would never look at her this way again. He would never hold her, never call her wife with such tenderness. The bond they had begun to weave through laughter, shared burdens, and now this night would all unravel.

Yet if she did nothing, if she chose Cameron and her new clan over her father, then could she live with that?

Her chest ached. There was no path that did not end in heartbreak.

Cameron pressed a kiss to her hair and whispered, “Rest. You have earned it.” He sounded content, at peace in a way that twisted the knife deeper. For him, last night had been a beginning. For her, it might be the end.

Destiny closed her eyes and lay still in his embrace, clinging to the fleeting safety of his arms. But beneath her calm facade, her mind spun. At some point soon, she would have to choose between her husband’s trust and Sorcha’s life. God help her, she feared whichever path she took would destroy her.

She lay against Cameron’s side until his breathing became slow and even. Then, with one small shift after another, she managed to manoeuvre from beneath his arm and away from the warmth of his body. Quietly, she tiptoed across the room to where her chemise was discarded and put it on. After that she made her way to the armoire and removed one of her old gowns, slipping it silently over her head. She found her hose and shoes and waited until she was outside in the hallway to put them on. She moved quickly through the silent corridors, her steps as muffled as she could make them. Every fading shadow seemed to whisper accusation; every flicker of torchlight threatened to expose her.

Her father’s demand echoed in her mind, relentless. Release the prisoner, or you will learn how much suffering a single, unprotected woman can endure. She had told herself she would resist, that she owed her husband her loyalty above all else. But lying in Cameron’s arms while she waited for him to go back to sleep, the truth had clawed its way free. She could not condemn her friend to death, or anything else her father might force upon her. She loved Sorcha too much.

She had thought she had won freedom from her father at last, had finally spoken the truth that had haunted her since childhood. Yet here she was again, trapped by him and his lies. Only now the price was not her hand in marriage; it was her best friend’s life and her loyalty to the man who had begun to trust her.

Cameron’s face rose in her mind, the warmth in his eyes when he called her an ally, the gentleness of his hands last night as they lay together. For the first time, she was more than a pawn, more than her father’s daughter. She was Cameron’s wife, his partner, his mistress of Foulis.

Sorcha’s face rose before her. Sorcha, frightened and alone, held fast by a man who knew exactly where to cut deepest. Every step Destiny took was measured against the brutal truth that Sorcha’s life depended on her silence. Her steps slowed for a heartbeat before she forced herself onward.

She climbed the steps to the tower room. Two guards stood outside the chamber where the prisoner was being held. Their spears were crossed in front of the door. Destiny’s breath caught in her throat, but she steadied herself, summoning the poise she had learned at her father’s side.

“The laird wishes the prisoner questioned further,” she said, steady despite the pounding of her heart. “He has commanded me to see it done.”

The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain looks, but they did not bar her way. One lifted the latch and swung the door wide. Weak light spilled through the chamber from a brace of candles that had burned low, almost sputtering in the remaining wax. Destiny stepped inside the chamber, each step binding her more tightly to the path she had chosen.

At her presence, the prisoner sat up, his chains clinking faintly. The wound on his chest was healing, the bandage clean and dry, and his arm moved without the splint that had once held it rigid. His eyes, no longer dulled by pain, fixed on her with wary suspicion.