“Careful there,” he drawled, his tone laced with dry amusement. “Sigh like that again, and folks might start thinkin’ that the Laird’s worn ye down with his little games.”
Sorcha turned her head slowly to look at him. He stood a few steps away, his flute dangling loosely from his hand. His eyes were sharp and knowing, reading her face as though they could glimpse the secret beneath.
She looked away at once. If Avery and Rhea had swallowed her half-truth easily enough, Caelan would not. He never had. He saw too much, noticed too well, and cared far more deeply thanhe ever admitted. Sometimes, she wondered if her father had put them together to keep an eye on her every move.
She rose to her feet, gathering her unfinished embroidery.
“It would take far more than idle provocation to make me yield,” she said lightly. Too lightly. “Ye ken me better than that.”
Caelan hummed, stepping aside to clear her path. But when she was about to walk past him, his hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing in quiet reassurance.
It was not a question or a challenge. More like unconditional support that only family could offer.
“Aye,” he said softly. “And I ken ye well enough to say this. Whatever it is ye want, daenae let anyone convince ye that it’s beyond yer reach.”
The words made her freeze. Because to her, the meaning was far deeper.
William.
That was all she could think about. Because that was what she truly wanted. And William? He was certainly beyond reach.
What would Caelan think if he knew? If she confessed that what she wanted now was not merely safety or freedom or independence, but William MacLean himself?
Her throat tightened.
She nodded, offering a small smile. “Thank ye,” she murmured. “Truly.”
Caelan’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, then he stepped back, allowing her to pass.
She made her way down the corridor to her chambers, the scent of old stone and beeswax following her. Just when she closed the door behind her, she heard it open again.
“Caelan,” she began without turning, a hint of weary fondness in her voice. “Ye daenae need to follow me. I’m only in a mood, nae at death’s—” She paused when she noticed it wasn’t her six-foot cousin standing at the door.
It was Avery.
She stood in the doorway, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes sharp with concern. Quietly, she closed the door behind her and crossed the room.
Sorcha could already sense the purpose of the visit. She forced a smile, but it quickly faltered.
Avery did not return it. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. She studied Sorcha with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“I followed ye,” she admitted softly, “because I felt… something.” She shrugged her shoulders, clearly unsure how to express herself. “And I daenae like feeling things I cannae explain.”
Instantly, the hairs on the back of Sorcha’s neck stood on end.
Did Avery sense it? The pounding of her heart? The way her thoughts circled endlessly around one man? The heat that flared whenever she remembered his voice, his touch, the way he looked at her as though she were both a challenge and a temptation?
Sorcha cleared her throat, before slowly lowering herself beside Avery. “What do ye mean?” she asked, trying her best to keep her voice even.
Avery tilted her head. “I can feel when ye’re hidin’ something,” she said simply. “Ye’ve always been terrible at it.”
Despite herself, Sorcha’s lips twitched slightly, then she exhaled slowly.
“The night of the cèilidh,” Avery continued, her eyes never leaving Sorcha’s face, “Keegan returned to the hall alone. I asked him where ye had gone.”
Sorcha’s eyebrows rose in question.
“He told me,” Avery went on, “that ye were somewhere quiet. With the Laird.”
