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Cameron mounted again without another word and rode away, leaving Sorcha alone at Lemlair’s threshold. Alone with the man she had shot.

Gavan watched her for a long moment, then he said, “Come.”

Sorcha followed him inside. The house smelled faintly of cold ashes and dust. Not abandoned, not empty, but tired. Like a place that had been waiting many years for someone to care enough to breathe life into it again. They entered a large central room with a hearth blackened by soot and furniture draped in cloth. A stair climbed along one wall. The windows were dull with grime, letting in only washed-out light.

Sorcha’s stomach tightened. This would be her world now.

Gavan stopped at the centre of the room and turned to face her. “You understand the terms?” he asked.

Sorcha nodded. “Aye.”

Gavan’s gaze dropped to her cloak, then lifted again. “You are fed?”

Sorcha nodded.

“And warm enough?”

Sorcha nodded again. He did not ask if she was frightened or if she was hurt. That kindness would have cost too much.

Gavan walked to a small table and lifted a ring of keys with his left hand. “You will sleep in the back room by the kitchen,” he said. “You will rise at dawn. You will eat with the servants, not with me.”

Sorcha’s cheeks burned. “Aye.”

Gavan continued, cold efficiency. “You will not leave the property without my permission. You will not receive visitors without my permission. You will not write letters without my permission.”

Sorcha swallowed. “I understand.”

Gavan’s gaze held hers, steady and hard. “You will do what you are told. If you refuse, my assistance to William ends.”

“Aye,” she whispered. “I understand.”

Gavan stepped away and nodded towards a side corridor. “Your first task,” he said. He opened the door and gestured her inside.

Sorcha followed him. The room was small, but no longer wholly forsaken. The worst of the damage had been tended—fresh timbers braced the ceiling where the roof had once sagged. A faint scent of cut wood lingered beneath the dampness, as though the space was caught somewhere between ruin and repair.

Still, the cold clung stubbornly. Cobwebs gathered in the far corners that the work had not yet reached, and a thin film of dust softened the edges of the floorboards. It might once have been a maid’s chamber or a storage room, something modest and easily overlooked.

In the centre sat a large wooden trunk. Beside it, a bucket, a rag, and a stiff brush.

“This room hasn’t been cleaned in years.” Gavan’s voice was flat. “Scrub it. Top to bottom. Floor, walls, window, hearthstone. I want the dust gone, the mould scraped away, the trunk opened and aired.”

Sorcha swallowed. Her hands curled, imagining the work.

Gavan continued, “And when you are finished, you will scrub the kitchen floor until it shines.” His gaze sharpened further. “Do you understand?”

Sorcha forced the words out. “Aye.” She paused, then asked, “Will you send word to Dingwall today?”

Gavan headed for the doorway as if he had not heard her, then paused. “If you work, aye.” Then he shut the door, the sound echoing like a sentence. Sorcha stood alone in the cold, filthy room. For a moment, she could not move.

Her stomach twisted with humiliation so sharp it made her dizzy. She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back a sob. The urge to collapse, to curl up on the filthy floor and let the world take her, rose strong as a tide.

But then William’s face surfaced again. The boy who once held her hand crossing a stream and promised he would never let her fall. Now he was the one falling.

And she would be the one to save him.

*

The latch clicked into place, and the sound followed Gavan down the corridor like an accusation. He did not slow, not until he reached his library. Only then did he stop, bracing his left hand against the edge of his desk as a pulse of heat moved through his injured shoulder. He breathed through it, jaw tight, gaze unfocused.