Page 25

Gavan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not with sympathy, but with assessment, as if he were gauging how long she would last before her body failed her, how much labour could be wrung from a woman before her spirit collapsed. Then he looked past her to the floor again.

“’Tis clean,” he said.

Two words. Not praise. Not approval. But those two words sent a strange rush through Sorcha’s chest anyway.

She could not hold back the words she longed to say. “Did you send word about William to Dingwall?”

Gavan’s eyes sharpened.

Sorcha forced herself not to flinch.

“You want reassurance,” he said at last.

Sorcha’s throat tightened. “Aye.”

Gavan reached into his coat with his left hand and pulled out a folded paper. He held it up but did not offer it to her. “Last night,” he said. “I wrote to the sheriff and demanded lawful procedure,” he continued, voice flat. “I demanded the charge be properly stated. I demanded an advocate be permitted to speak on your brother’s behalf and sent the missive at dawn.”

Sorcha’s eyes stung. He had sent word before she had even arrived at Lemlair.

Gavan’s gaze stayed cold. “I also requested he be held—securely—until the inquiry is heard. There will be no rope. Or public spectacle.”

Sorcha could not speak as tears fell to her cheeks.

Gavan’s mouth tightened. “I received a reply before noon.”

Sorcha’s whole body went still. “Reply?”

Gavan unfolded the paper and flicked his eyes across the contents.

His face remained carved from stone, then he looked at Sorcha. “Your brother will not be executed today,” he said.

Sorcha’s knees nearly buckled.

A sob tore loose from her chest before she could stop it. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but the sound still escaped, too raw, too relieved, too desperate.

Gavan watched her without expression.

Sorcha’s eyes blurred. Her brother still breathed. She had bought him time.

Sorcha forced herself to lower her hand. “Thank you,” she said, her voice broken.

Gavan’s eyes narrowed. “Do not thank me. I did it because I will not have Dingwall turned into a place where men die without a trial. Not while I am provost.”

Sorcha nodded shakily. “Still, I thank you.”

Gavan’s gaze flicked to her hands again.

His mouth tightened. “You will blister,” he said.

Sorcha blinked, confused.

Gavan’s voice remained cold. “Your hands. You will blister. Then you will bleed. If you bleed into my floors, you will scrub it out.”

Sorcha’s cheeks burned.

But there was something in his tone, something almost practical, almost human. Like a man who had learned pain and did not wish it on anyone, even if he despised them.

Sorcha whispered, “I understand.”