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At last Cameron said, “If her brother is behind this plot, bringing her under your roof may draw enemies into the open.”

“That is the intent,” Gavan said.

“And if he was not the architect?” Cameron pressed.

Gavan’s jaw worked. “Then we will learn who was, and why they chose William to carry the noose meant for us.” Gavan turned back to the fire. “We watch her,” he said at last.

Cameron nodded once. “Aye. We watch.”

Chapter Four

Destiny did not lead Sorcha to a guest chamber. Instead, she led her to the small withdrawing room beside the solar, where the warmth felt gentler and more private. Evergreen garlands draped the mantle and doorframe, threaded with dried berries and tiny twists of ribbon, while beeswax candles flickered softly beside sprigs of holly tucked into carved wooden holders. The room smelled faintly of lavender, pine, and warm beeswax, and near the hearth, a kettle sat quietly steaming above the flames. Cushions embroidered with winter knotwork looked soft enough to swallow sorrow whole.

Destiny shut the door firmly behind them, cutting off the castle’s hum as neatly as closing a book. Then Destiny turned. And the fierce composure she had worn before Cameron and Gavan cracked like thin ice. “Oh, Sorcha,” Destiny whispered.

Sorcha had barely crossed the threshold before Destiny gathered her into her arms again, holding her as though she might vanish if Destiny loosened her grip.

The warmth of the embrace hit Sorcha like a blow. She had been holding herself upright by force of will alone. She had been walking for days with her spine stiff and her teeth clenched against fear. But now, in the safety of this room, with Destiny’s arms around her and the fire’s glow painting the walls gold, Sorcha’s knees gave.

Destiny held her up without hesitation, bracing her weight as Sorcha’s legs trembled violently. “I am sorry,” Sorcha choked.

Destiny pulled back just enough to look at her face. “For what?”

Sorcha’s mouth trembled. “For coming like this. For dragging trouble to your door. For—”

“Stop.” Destiny’s eyes flashed, sudden and fierce.

Sorcha blinked.

Destiny reached up and cupped her cheek, careful of the scraped skin, her thumb gentle as prayer. “You came because you were alone. You came because you were desperate. You came because you trusted me.”

Sorcha’s eyes burned.

“I will not have you apologise for that,” Destiny said, her voice softening. “Not to me.”

Sorcha’s throat tightened until she could hardly breathe.

Destiny’s gaze dropped to the torn cloak on Sorcha’s shoulder. She inhaled sharply at the bruise blooming beneath the fabric and the dark smear of dried blood.

“Sit,” Destiny ordered gently.

Sorcha obeyed, sinking onto a cushioned chair near the hearth. The heat from the fire seeped into her hands and face, and the thaw hurt. Sensation returned in stinging waves; first, her raw knuckles, then her aching feet, her bruised shoulder, and the scrape on her cheek.

Destiny moved briskly, calling for the maid. Within moments, a maid appeared, her eyes wide but wisely silent under Destiny’s sharp glance. “Bring tea. And something warm to eat. Bread, broth, anything.”

“Aye, milady.”

When the door shut again, Destiny gathered the basin and cloth that had been brought earlier then knelt before Sorcha. “Let me,” Destiny murmured, lifting Sorcha’s hands one at a time.

Sorcha flinched as the warm cloth touched her skin, loosening dirt and dried blood. Her hands looked like a stranger’s—caked with mud, scraped, the nails broken. The sight made humiliation surge.

“I look like—” Sorcha started, voice hoarse.

“Like someone who survived,” Destiny interrupted.

Sorcha’s throat tightened.

Destiny washed Sorcha’s hands with slow care, as though each finger mattered. As though Sorcha mattered.