Page 3

At the mention of the name, Cameron’s expression tightened.

Then, he said, quiet but firm, “Do not let your anger at Sorcha or her twin brother keep you from the life you deserve.”

Gavan went still.

Sorcha. Even the name burned. A Sutherland. A girl with innocent eyes and a pistol that had taken his strength and left him in seven months of agony. If he never saw her again, it would be too soon.

“Your future cannot be tied to the shadow of this castle forever,” Cameron continued, voice lowered as if speaking to the part of Gavan that still bled. “Dingwall would be yours. Your own men. Your own stead. A purpose beyond guarding my walls and carrying my burdens.”

Gavan’s chest tightened. Pride rose, unwanted and dangerous. “I am no politician,” he said roughly.

Cameron smiled. “Nay. You are better. You are honest.”

Gavan let out a short laugh. “Is that not the last thing a provost should be?”

“It is the first.”

For a time, neither spoke. The sparring men circled, blades scraping, breath steaming.

Then Cameron’s smile returned. “There is more.”

Gavan groaned. “If you say I have also been given a flock of sheep—”

“No sheep,” Cameron said with satisfaction. “An estate.”

Gavan blinked. “An estate?”

“Lemlair House.”

The name struck like an unexpected blow. Lemlair was old. Munro land. Munro stone. A manor that had once meant something, before it had been left to dust and damp when its last keeper died without heirs. The clan had maintained it only enough to keep out thieves and weather, but it had never been truly lived in again.

“You are giving it to me?” Gavan asked quietly.

Cameron nodded. “It needs cleaning. Repairs. Perhaps a miracle or two. But it stands. And it will be yours. A home befitting Dingwall’s provost.”

The word home lodged in Gavan’s throat like something sharp. His own place. His own hearth. His own door he could shut against the world. Not barracks. Not borrowed rooms. Not the shadow of a laird’s life. Something that belonged solely to him.

He stared at Cameron for a long moment. “I do not know what to say,” he managed.

“Try ‘thank you,’” Cameron said dryly.

Gavan’s hand came down on Cameron’s forearm, gripping hard. “Thank you.”

Cameron laughed, eyes bright, and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “You are welcome, brother.”

Gavan held on a moment longer than he meant to, just long enough to let something settle inside him. Maybe this was the path forward he wanted. A purpose beyond violence. A life beyond bitterness.

But as he released Cameron and turned his gaze back toward the yard, the memory returned with cruel timing. The forest, running, and the wide green eyes of the one who had pulled the trigger.

Sorcha Sutherland.

Gavan’s jaw tightened. No matter what future he built for himself, he would not forget the past nor forgive it.

Chapter One

The woods near Foulis Castle, Scotland

December 12th, 1716