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Sorcha’s knees nearly gave. This was it. The edge of the cliff.

Destiny’s hand squeezed hers, silent encouragement.

“Because,” Sorcha whispered, voice shaking, “you are the only man in Scotland with enough honour to stop this from becoming a killing done in haste.”

Gavan’s eyes narrowed.

Sorcha stepped forward, one step. Not towards Cameron. Not towards Destiny. Towards Gavan. And did what she had to do. Sorcha sank to her knees. The stone floor was cold even through her skirts. It stole her warmth instantly, but Sorcha did not move.

She lifted her face to him, tears shining in the firelight. “Please,” she whispered. “I am begging you. For the sake of the law you serve, for the sake of the man you are, do not let them hang my brother like a dog in the yard, not without a trial, at least.”

A silence settled that was so complete Sorcha could hear the fire crackle. She felt Cameron’s gaze like a weight. Destiny’s breath trembling beside her.

Yet, Gavan stood over her like judgement made flesh. And for one terrifying heartbeat, Sorcha could not tell if she had just saved her brother or sealed his death.

Chapter Three

Gavan watched Sorcha kneeling on the stone floor and felt something dark and jagged twist through him. The sight should have satisfied him. After everything her brother had done—after forged letters bearing Munro names had nearly dragged innocent men into chains, after suspicion had spread through the Highlands like rot through grain, after Gavan himself had bled from a pistol shot fired by her hand—he should have felt vindicated seeing a Sutherland brought low. Instead, he felt only weariness and a dangerous, unwelcome awareness of how thin and fragile she looked beneath the remnants of her pride.

Her hands were clenched tightly over her chest as though she could hold herself together through sheer force. Mud stained the hem of her skirts. One side of her face was bruised, her cloak torn at the shoulder, and though she fought to hide it, her body shook as a faint tremor ran through her. She had come to Foulis alone through winter woods.

That realisation troubled him more than it should have.

The chamber remained silent, except for the crackle of the hearth behind him. Destiny stood rigid near the doorway, pale with distress, while Cameron leaned against the table with the stillness of a man carefully withholding judgement. Gavan was acutely aware of both of them watching him, measuring what sort of man he would choose to be in this moment.

Sorcha lifted her gaze to his at last. Fear lived there, aye, but something else remained too. Determination, perhaps. Or desperation sharpened into courage.

“You are begging for a fair trial,” he said quietly.

She nodded once.

Gavan studied her for a long moment, remembering another night entirely—the flash of pistol fire, the violent burst of pain tearing through his shoulder. And another, as he’d listened to Cameron explaining the chaos surrounding the forged correspondence and the growing suspicion aimed at Clan Munro. William Sutherland had not merely lied. He had endangered every man bearing the Munro name.

And Sorcha had stood beside him through it all. Or so Gavan had believed.

“And you think I will grant mercy,” he said at last, “because of your friendship with Destiny?”

“Nay,” she whispered. Her voice shook, though she did not lower her eyes. “I think you will do what is right, even when you have reason not to.”

Something tightened painfully beneath his ribs. God help him, she still believed well of him. Even now. Even kneeling before a man she had every reason to fear.

Anger rose swiftly to smother the thought. “Your brother forged letters in our name,” Gavan said, the control in his voice costing him more than she knew. “He would have seen tenants questioned, loyal men imprisoned, and my clan branded as traitors to the Crown.” He took a slow breath, but it did nothing to cool the bitterness inside him. “What he did cannot simply be forgiven.”

Colour drained from her face. For a moment, she looked as though she might break beneath the weight of it, yet still she remained upright on her knees.

“I did not know,” she said softly. “Not until it was already done.”

Destiny moved then, stepping closer. “Gavan, Sorcha is not William.”

His gaze snapped towards his sister-in-law. “Nay,” he said coldly. “She is only his twin.”

The words landed harder than he intended. He saw it immediately in the way Sorcha flinched, though she fought to hide it.

“That is cruel,” Destiny said sharply.

Cruel.

The word scraped against old fury. Gavan’s jaw tightened as memory surged hot and immediate through him—blood soaking his sleeve, fever burning through long nights, the humiliation of weakness, the knowledge that one frightened young woman had nearly killed him because she had chosen fear over thought.