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Sorcha swallowed hard. “I never thought . . .” She stopped, voice cracking. “I never thought I would lose everything this way.”

Destiny’s eyes lifted. “I did not think I would either,” Destiny admitted.

There was something in Destiny’s tone, an echo of her own past with her father, her own losses, that made Sorcha look at her more closely.

Destiny gave a small, sad smile. “Do you remember how we escaped when the Mackenzies attacked the carriage? We ran through the trees. When we saw there were two men pursuing us, we decided to split up. We both thought they were going to hurt us, and I gave you my pistol.”

Sorcha’s throat went tight with shame. “And I shot Gavan.”

Destiny’s eyes shimmered. “You did not know who he was. Neither did I.”

Sorcha closed her eyes, the memory rising clear and brutal as the pistol cracked, as Gavan staggered, as blood blossomed on his shirt. “He hates me,” Sorcha whispered.

“He is wounded, in body and pride.”

Sorcha laughed softly, bitterly. “And I am the easiest place to put the blame.”

Destiny leaned forward, voice urgent. “Sorcha, listen to me. Gavan is hard, but he is not cruel. He will not raise a hand to you.”

Sorcha opened her eyes and looked at her friend. “You do not know that.”

Destiny’s gaze held hers. “Aye,” Destiny said, “I do.”

Sorcha’s breath shook. She wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it.

When Sorcha was finally washed and dressed in a clean gown borrowed from Destiny, she returned to the withdrawing room with wet hair plaited loosely down her back.

Tea waited on the table alongside a bowl of broth, bread, and a small plate of cheese. The sight of it made Sorcha’s stomach twist with the hunger she had not allowed herself to feel.

Destiny sat her down and forced her to eat, watching with hawk-like attention until the colour returned faintly to Sorcha’s face.

“You are still shaking,” Destiny observed. “Are you cold still, or is it something else?”

Sorcha swallowed another mouthful of broth. “’Tis tomorrow and the unknown.” Tomorrow, she would belong to Lemlair House. The thought made her chest ache with dread and grim resolve. If servitude was the price of William’s life, she would pay it. But she could not pretend that she was not afraid.

A knock came at the door.

Destiny stiffened, then rose. “Aye?”

The door opened, and Cameron Munro stepped in.

Sorcha felt her spine go rigid.

Cameron shut the door behind him quietly. His gaze swept across the room from the emptied bowl, the tea, Sorcha’s borrowed gown, to Destiny’s hand, still half protective at Sorcha’s shoulder.

His expression was unreadable for a heartbeat. “Are you well enough to speak?” he asked. His voice was low; not gentle but controlled.

Sorcha nodded once.

“Cameron,” Destiny’s voice sharpened. “If you’ve come to scold her—”

“Nay.” Cameron cut in. His gaze flicked to Destiny, softer than it had been in the other room. “I am not here to scold.”

He looked back at Sorcha.

Sorcha held his gaze. She would not flinch. She had flinched enough in her life.

Cameron’s jaw worked once. “You are fortunate my wife found you first,” he said. “This is not a safe hour to be walking alone.”