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For the first time, Cameron’s expression shifted, not into mercy, but into thought. Into the grim recognition that the matter before them had grown larger than one reckless man’s betrayal.

“You believe someone used him,” he said slowly.

Sorcha closed her eyes briefly. “I believe William was foolish enough to think he controlled something far more dangerous than he understood.”

Cameron stared at her for a long moment before exhaling heavily. “You are not wrong,” he admitted at last.

Relief struck Sorcha so sharply that her knees nearly weakened beneath her. She had not expected understanding.

Cameron rubbed a hand across his jaw, weariness replacing some of the anger in his face. “That,” he said quietly, “is why Gavan agreed.”

Sorcha could not hold back a gasp.

Cameron’s voice lowered. “But understand me, Sorcha Sutherland. If you bring harm to my wife, if you bring danger to my child—”

Sorcha froze. “Child?”

Destiny’s hand moved unconsciously to her belly.

Destiny was with child. Sorcha’s throat tightened with sudden fierce emotion, joy twisted with grief, envy twisted with love.

Cameron continued, voice hard as stone. “Then not even Gavan’s sense of law will stop me from ending you and your brother.”

The threat should have terrified Sorcha, but deeper than fear was understanding. “I would die before harming her,” Sorcha whispered.

Cameron’s gaze held hers a few seconds longer, then he looked to Destiny, and the hardness eased—just a little. He crossed to her and brushed his knuckles along her cheek. At the tenderness of the gesture, envy rose in Sorcha’s chest.

Then Cameron looked back at her. “Get some rest,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow will not be kind.”

Sorcha nodded.

Cameron hesitated at the door, as if wrestling with himself.

Then he said, almost grudgingly, “You were trying to protect yourself and Destiny when you fired that pistol. I know that now.”

Sorcha swallowed hard. “I did not know who either of you were.”

Cameron’s eyes flicked towards the floor, as if the memory still burned. “Even so, it does not change what it cost my brother.” He opened the door and left.

When the latch clicked shut, Sorcha turned to her friend. “You are with child?”

A tearful smile touched Destiny’s lips. She smoothed the loose folds of her gown over the unmistakable curve of her belly. “Aye. The gown conceals more than I realized. The babe should come in early spring.”

Sorcha’s heart clenched with something tender and painful. “I am so happy for you,” Sorcha whispered.

Destiny cupped her cheek. “And someday,” Destiny said softly, “I will be happy for you too.”

Sorcha almost laughed. As if happiness were something that might still belong to her. As if she had not traded her life away for William’s. As if she had not shot the man who now held her and her brother’s fate.

Tomorrow, she would go to Lemlair House and begin the work that would bend her back and force her into Gavan’s shadow. But tonight, she had warmth, a friend, a bowl of broth, and the smallest fragile thing she had not felt in months. Not hope, not yet, only the faintest possibility that she might not be entirely alone.

Chapter Five

Sorcha woke before the light. For a heartbeat, she did not know where she was. The bed beneath her was soft, too soft. The kind of softness that belonged to other people’s lives. The air smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen rather than damp leaves and fear. Then memory returned in a rush, and her stomach tightened. Foulis. Destiny’s arms around her. Cameron’s hard warning. Gavan’s cold eyes. Lemlair House.

Sorcha sat up slowly, her shoulder throbbing as if reminding her that yesterday had not been a dream. A dull ache pulsed through her ribs and the muscles of her back. The warmth of the bed had soothed the worst of her chill, but pain lived in her now like a shadow, quiet when she was still, sharp when she moved.

She swung her feet to the floor. Her toes screamed in protest as blood rushed back into them. She hissed softly between her teeth, then forced herself to stand. The chamber was dim, the sky outside still a heavy slate, and frost feathered the windowpanes. Sorcha could hear the castle waking by the sound of a distant scrape of a stool, the soft thud of boots, the low murmur of servants.