Page 38

CHAPTER THIRTY

T he hearth crackled gently in the dimly lit chamber, casting long shadows across the thick stone walls.

The scent of wood smoke mingled with lavender oil that lingered faintly in the air—a delicate trace of Valora’s presence in Torrin’s chambers, something that surprised her every time she entered the room.

Now more than ever, it seemed to her that the chambers belonged to them both, a testament to how close they had become in the short time they were together.

Torrin stood near the fire, staring into the orange flames that danced in the hearth. He only turned around when Valora closed the door behind her, greeting her with a small smile.

He took a slow step forward and Valora paused there, near the door. “I spoke with Faither Lyell this afternoon,” he said, voice low and deliberate.

Valora tilted her head, curious. “About?”

“Our wedding,” Torrin said. “I asked if he would join us in marriage afore the week’s end.” For a moment, he paused, watching her closely. “He agreed.”

Valora’s lips parted in surprise, her brows knitting together. “But … the banns?—”

“Will be waived,” Torrin said, moving closer. “Everyone understands the importance o’ this weddin’ happenin’ soon. An’ besides, I told him our hearts are in the right place. He daesnae mind.”

Valora stared at him, motionless for a long breath. She could hardly believe that the day had come when she would be someone’s wife—no, not someone’s. She would be Torrin’s wife, the wife of a man who was kinder, gentler, better than she could have ever imagined.

Torrin approached her and reached for her hands, rough fingers closing over her delicate ones. Valora felt their warmth, the tender way in which they cradled hers, the callouses after years of training and combat dragging against her skin.

“I ken it’s soon,” he said softly, “but me reasons fer rushin’ are more than political. Aye, it is true that we should wed soon tae ensure Laird Keith doesnae attempt another attack, but Valora, I dinnae wish tae spend another day without bein’ married tae ye if I can help it.”

A silence stretched between them, full of tension and tenderness. Then, Valora stepped into his arms, and he wrapped her in them with the certainty of a man who knew he had found the only woman he could ever love so fully, so fiercely.

Her head pressed against his chest, the steady thud of his heart grounding her. “Then so be it,” she said. “I wish tae marry ye, too, Torrin. I’ve made up me mind. I want us tae be together.”

Torrin smiled at her, his eyes shining with a warmth that rivalled that of the flames in the hearth.

He lifted her chin with a gentle touch. Their lips met; not with haste, but with reverence.

His mouth moved over hers as if memorizing the shape, the taste of her.

He kissed her slowly, as though every moment was sacred, and Valora found herself lost in it—in the sensations his lips, his hands, his breath left behind on her skin, feather-light and delicate.

Her hands slid to his shoulders, anchoring herself to the warmth of him.

He deepened the kiss only when she pulled him nearer, her breath catching softly.

The fire crackled louder now, its golden light flickering over the bare stone walls and the rich tapestries.

Torrin brought her closer to the hearth, where the flames danced wildly, bathing the room and their bodies in gold.

There, with only the crackle of the fire and the quiet hum of the wind outside, he undid the laces of her gown with careful hands.

Valora’s fingers trembled as she helped him free himself of his garments, not with urgency, but with aching intention. Their gazes never left each other as they undressed; their fingers dragged gently over heated skin, their lips meeting again and again in gentle kisses.

“Torrin…” Valora whispered, her voice filled with what she could only call love, and a quiet hunger that mirrored his own.

Silently, Torrin drew her down onto the fur laid before the fire.

His touch was slow, reverent, discovering her again with each caress.

Her skin warmed beneath his hands, her breath catching as he whispered her name like a prayer.

Valora arched into him as his hands trailed down her body, caressing her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, her eyes wide and wild with pleasure already.

Torrin kissed her shoulder, her jaw, her brow, so tender that an ache grew in Valora’s chest—one that was as painful as it was welcome, a reminder that despite everything she had been made to believe in her life she was worthy of love.

“I will cherish ye,” he whispered. “Nae just taenight, or after we wed—but every day I draw breath.”

His sweet, loving words were enough to make Valora loose her breath, the air rushing out of her chest in a sharp exhale. It was easy to believe him—never before had he misled her or tried to trick her, and there was no doubt in her mind or in her heart.

Valora’s fingers explored him in return, stroking the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the strength of his back as he moved over her. She marveled at the way he looked at her—as though she were the first and last woman he would ever see.

He laid her back onto the fur, the heat of the fire flickering across her skin. When he joined his body with hers, it was with a shuddering breath and a whisper of her name, as though even then he feared it might be a dream.

Their rhythm was slow at first—deliberate and gentle.

Each movement a conversation of flesh and breath, a weaving of promises beneath the skin.

She held him tightly, her legs entwining with his, her body rising to meet him in quiet surrender.

His lips found hers again and again, their kisses broken only by whispered endearments and the soft sounds of pleasure that passed between them like secrets.

They moved together in waves, as if the fire had set their blood to a kindled flame. The world outside fell away—no war, no duty, no lineage or legacy, no wound. Only this: the sacred joining of two souls who had found home in each other.

When release came, it did not break them apart, but drew them tighter, their hearts racing in unison. He cradled her afterward, wrapping her in the plaid that lay nearby, his arm heavy across her waist, his nose pressed into her hair.

She rested her cheek to his chest, still breathless. “Ye are nae what I expected in a laird.”

He smiled against her hair. “And ye are everything I never dared tae expect in a wife.”

Outside, the wind sang across the hills, but within the chamber, all was still but the soft crackle of the fire—and the sound of two hearts, no longer separate, beating together in the hush of night.

The rain had passed, but the wind was still sharp as a blade.

Torrin had thought it a good idea to visit the village with Valora that morning—a rare chance for them to spend some time together now, before the wedding, despite the weather.

By the time they had made it to the village, they were both soaked to the bone, but now, despite being dry, the wind cut through him and seeped to his bones.

Beneath a sky heavy with dark clouds, the narrow track winding through the forest glittered with wet leaves and slick stones. The wind tore through the high trees, rattling branches and tugging at the cloaks on their backs, sharp with the scent of pine and moss.

Torrin leaned slightly in his saddle as he guided his horse along the treacherous path.

The creature moved cautiously, hooves slipping now and again on the sodden ground.

The usual road from the village curved east, broad and well-kept, but Torrin had chosen the lesser-known track through the forest—an old hunter’s way, narrow and dangerous, but much faster.

Beside him, Valora rode in silence. Her hair was tucked under the hood of her cloak, but a few strands still fluttered in the wind. Torrin kept a close eye on her. The last thing he wanted was for her or the horse to slip and for something to happen to her.

“We’ll reach the west gate sooner this way,” Torrin said, his voice low, barely rising over the creaking of branches above. It was a small reassurance, the only thing he could give her now that they were already so far down this path that turning around would only be foolish.

Valora’s reply was quiet. “Even so, the woods feel unsettled.”

Torrin nodded. He felt it too.

A tension hung in the trees, subtle but ever-present.

Not the natural wariness of prey hiding from predator.

Not the charged silence that sometimes blanketed the Highlands before a tempest. There was a strangeness in the air.

Years of watching over his shoulder, preparing for the sudden appearance of an enemy, had taught Torrin these instincts, instilling them deep in his mind.

The farther they got, the more he felt this strange unease.

Just as they rounded a bend in the path, Torrin raised a hand, slowing their pace.

The horses stepped more deliberately, their breaths misting in the cold air.

Around them, the trees began to thin, giving way to a gentle hollow veiled by mist.

Then he saw it; a flicker that was barely there.

There was a glint of metal half-hidden in the underbrush below, where no light should catch so cleanly.

Torrin’s eyes narrowed. He dismounted in a fluid motion, gesturing at Valora to stay behind him.

Quietly, she slid off her saddle and followed, crouching low beside him behind a tangle of heather and pine.

The hollow stretched out below them, shallow but wide; a natural basin nestled beneath the ridge.

Smoke curled faintly from a half-concealed firepit.

Tents had been pitched beneath a canopy of tree branches, their muted greys blending with the mist. Men moved quietly among them—soldiers, not woodsmen.

There were too many of them, and they all moved with the trained motions of soldiers.

And on their cloaks was stitched the red and black sigil of Clan Keith. There was no mistaking it, even from a distance.

Torrin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Keith’s men,” he said.

Valora was already counting. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, an’ that’s just what we can see.”

“They’ve been here at least two nights,” Torrin said, noting the freshly cut wood stacked by the fire, the deep-set trenches for drainage. “They’re nae enough fer a siege, but they’re enough tae deliver a message… a quiet one.”

He watched as a man in a long cloak stepped from one of the central tents, speaking to a younger soldier who was quick to follow the orders he had received.

Torrin watched as the younger soldier began to prepare the horses, and he couldn’t help but think they were about to start moving again now that the weather had cleared.

“We ride fer the castle,” he said at last. “We keep hidden an’ quiet, as much as we can.”

Valora gave a single nod, already stepping back towards her horse. “It looks like they’re movin’.”

It wasn’t a question. Valora had seen what he had seen, too, and she knew what it meant.

“Aye,” he said. “So we move faster.”

A gust of wind stirred the trees above, and somewhere deeper in the wood, a crow called—a raw, rasping sound that echoed too long.

Torrin stared one last time at the camp below.

It looked peaceful to him, like a camp his own scouts could have while on a mission or a camp where he might have once been himself.

And yet he knew it was only an illusion. This camp was nothing but a herald of war.