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Destiny gave a small, sad smile. “To protect me from fear,” she murmured. “And to protect you from men who would use your name as sport.”

Sorcha nodded, understanding.

Destiny reached for Sorcha’s hands and squeezed them hard. “When you can,” Destiny whispered, “send word. Even a scrap. Let me know you are . . . surviving.”

Sorcha nodded again, unable to speak.

Destiny kissed her cheek, as light as a blessing. “Go, then.”

Sorcha pulled the cloak around herself and tied it tightly, tucking the pouch inside. She slipped the cross cord over her head and let it settle against her skin.

It was not her mother’s emerald, not the last treasured piece of the life she had lost, but the faint warmth of it against her chest steadied her nonetheless. A quiet reminder that whatever waited ahead at Lemlair—cold rooms, hard labour, watchful eyes—she would not walk into it entirely alone.

They went down together. Cameron waited in the hall. He stood near the door, already cloaked, his boots dusted with frost. His expression was stern, but not unkind. He looked like a man who had not slept well. When he saw Sorcha, his gaze flicked to her borrowed cloak. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Destiny touched Cameron’s arm. “Be careful,” she murmured.

Cameron’s hand went to her waist, possessive and protective. “I will. Go back to the fire.”

Destiny hesitated, then obeyed, though her gaze remained fixed on Sorcha as if she could keep her safe with sight alone.

Sorcha turned to Cameron. “I am ready,” she said, voice quiet.

Cameron nodded once. “Then let us go,” he said as they walked into the cold.

The courtyard was rimmed with frost. The sky was beginning to pale, the first weak light bleeding into the grey. Sorcha’s breath steamed. Her boots crunched lightly on frozen ground. The gates opened, and they stepped out. Outside the walls, two horses waited.

Cameron helped Sorcha up onto one, then mounted beside her and took the reins. Sorcha did not speak. Neither did he.

The road to Dingwall lay quiet and stark, the landscape washed in winter’s hard colours. Fields lay stiff and brown. Bare branches scratched at the sky. Smoke curled in thin ribbons from distant cottages.

Sorcha kept her eyes forward. She kept thinking of William. And of Gavan. And she kept thinking of the moment in the forest when her mother’s emerald had been torn away and her hopes stolen.

The ride ended at a modest estate on the edge of Dingwall—Lemlair House. It was not grand like Foulis. It was smaller, sturdier, a place meant for living and work rather than for show. But even at first glance, Sorcha could see neglect. The unkempt yard, the stonework darkened by soot and weather, shutters hanging slightly askew. It was a house that had been waiting a long time for a master with the will to tame it, or a servant forced to do so.

They dismounted. Cameron helped her down. After her feet hit the cold ground, she smoothed her skirt with trembling fingers.

The door opened, and Gavan Munro stepped out. He wore a dark coat, his face stern, composed. Cold air reddened the edges of his cheeks, but his eyes were winter itself. His gaze swept Sorcha once, quick and assessing.

Then he looked at Cameron.

Cameron nodded sharply. “She is here.”

Gavan’s expression didn’t soften. “Aye. I can see that.”

Sorcha’s cheeks burned.

Cameron stepped closer to Gavan, speaking low. Sorcha caught only fragments. “Trial . . . letters . . . We will not let it spread.” They were either talking about clan business, her brother, or her.

Sorcha’s heart hammered. She stood there like an unwanted object, then Cameron turned back to her.

“I will let Destiny know you have arrived safely.”

Sorcha’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”

Cameron hesitated, then said in a tone meant only for her, “Keep your head down.”

Sorcha nodded.