Page 54 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Cameron’s eyes sharpened. “You would have us appeal to the Crown?”

“Aye,” she said. “Not because the king commands peace, but because peace is worth choosing. Because if this battle between the Munros and Mackenzies spreads, half the Highlands will bleed for it.” She met his gaze. “Let the Mackenzies rage against the throne, not against Foulis.”

She could see him considering her words.

At last, he nodded. “Kenzie and Alastair will ride for Stirling at dawn. Clans Ross and Sutherland will be summoned to stand with us, to fortify our numbers.” His voice hardened. “And until the king answers, we hold.”

Destiny released the breath she had been holding. “You will stay.”

“I must,” he said. “Foulis cannot afford to lose its laird. Not now.”

“I am pleased,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

He looked at her then, something conflicted flickering in his eyes. “As am I,” he said quietly. “That does not mean things are mended.”

“I understand,” she replied. “But perhaps they are not broken beyond repair.”

The night pressed in around them, thick with risk, with unfinished truths. Somewhere beyond the hills, Mackenzie eyes would be watching. Somewhere farther still, six men rode hard through the dark towards Clyth. And another followed her father.

Cameron stepped back at last and gathered his sword. “Get some rest, Destiny. Tomorrow will demand more than either of us wishes to give.”

He did not leave her to the dark. Instead, he walked with her to the keep, silent but present. At the entrance, he paused, then inclined his head before turning away. She remained where she was for a moment, the night air cool against her skin, resolve settling deep within her.

Trust was not yet hers again, but neither was she alone.

After watching him leave, Destiny remained a few minutes more before she headed for her chamber. Once there, she closed the door softly behind her. The silence pressed close, broken only by the faint hiss of the candle as she coaxed it to life. Its glow painted the stone walls gold, but the corners remained heavy with shadow.

Her shawl slid from her shoulders, falling across the chair by the fire. She moved to the small chest near her bed and lifted the lid, her fingers brushing over the hidden treasure within—the brooch from Cameron’s tartan, left behind last night when they had lain together.

She drew it out slowly. The polished metal gleamed dully in the candlelight, worked into a tight Celtic knot at its heart, endless lines weaving over and under one another, without beginning or end. It was solid, purposeful, made to hold fast. Warmth lingered in it still, or perhaps she only imagined it, but her hand closed around the brooch as if it might anchor her to that fragile moment before everything had splintered.

She pressed it briefly to her palm as she sank onto the bed, the weight of the brooch a reminder of what bound them and how easily even the strongest knots could be tested. “He is my husband,” she whispered, her voice trembling in the quiet chamber. “I owe him loyalty. Respect.”

But the brooch was heavy in her hand, weighty with truth. Her heart beat faster, as if it, too, knew there was more.

She lifted the brooch to her lips, her eyes stinging as she pressed a kiss to the metal. The scent of steel and leather still clung to it, as if it carried part of him here, into her solitude. And in that moment, the words broke free.

“I love him.”

The confession slipped into the night like a prayer, fragile and fierce all at once. She loved Cameron, not because he was laird, not because duty bound her to him, but because he was strong and unyielding and yet gentle enough to draw her shawl close at her throat. Because he listened to her. Because he saw her for who she truly was.

Tears traced down her cheeks, caught in the hollow of her throat. She clutched the clasp to her chest, feeling the sharp press of its edges over her heart.

“I love him,” she whispered again, as if saying it aloud would bind it into truth.

Yet even as warmth filled her, fear crept in. Would he ever forgive her? For nearly betraying him, for almost freeing the prisoner at her father’s bidding? That moment stood between them like a wall of stone, and she did not know if love alone could tear it down.

Destiny drew her knees up, curling around the brooch as though it were a talisman. The candle guttered low, its flame shivering in the draft, until at last she leaned forward and blew it out.

Darkness wrapped the chamber, but her heart glowed bright and unrelenting. She lay awake long into the night, holding the brooch against her breast, whispering into the silence the words she had never dared believe she would speak. “God help me, I love him.”

*

After Cameron had sent messengers to their closest allied clans, he returned to his chamber that was lit only by the glow of embers in the hearth, the flames burning low, their warmth fading. He set his sword against the wall and yanked off his boots, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. Yet for all the weariness of the day, sleep would not come.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands braced on his knees, thoughts circling back to the courtyard. To Destiny’s eyes, steady and unflinching as she had stood before him, offering counsel as if she had been born to it. She had spoken with the wisdom of a laird’s wife, not a pawn in her father’s games.

And yet she had almost betrayed him.