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“And if we find someone watching?”

Gavan’s voice dropped, cold and final. “They do not leave with what they’ve learned.”

Colin held his gaze a moment, then nodded. “Understood.” He turned to carry out the orders, leaving Gavan alone in the open yard—caught between duty, suspicion, and a woman inside the house he did not trust, and could not seem to dismiss.

*

The back room by the kitchen where Sorcha was to sleep was colder than the main house. Not cruelly cold. There was no frost on the inside of the window, no visible breath, but the kind of cold that lived in stone and lingered in corners. It clung to Sorcha’s bones when she lay down, and it made her bruises ache as if the day had pressed them deeper.

Her hands were wrapped in cloth now, greasy with lard, the scent faint and animal, but it had soothed the worst of the burning. Still, when she flexed her fingers, pain throbbed up her palms in dull pulses.

Sorcha lay on her narrow bed and stared at the ceiling beam above her. The room was small. A single chair. A little table. A thin washbasin. A narrow window. It smelled of soap and old wood and the ghost of smoke. There was no hearth or comfort at all besides the worn mattress on which she lay, with only a thin blanket to try to keep her warm. She could hear the life of the house through the walls—pots being set away, the faint clatter of boots, servants’ murmurs as they finished the last tasks of the day. And beyond that, faint but steady, the winter wind.

Sorcha closed her eyes. Her body was exhausted in the brutal, grinding way of hard work after hardship. But her mind would not quiet. It circled the same thoughts like carrion birds. William will not be executed today, though he could be tomorrow. He could be sentenced. He could be made an example. He could—

Sorcha pressed a wrapped hand to her mouth and breathed slowly until her pounding heart eased. Then another thought pushed through. Gavan sent a new missive. His face rose in her memory; hard eyes, scarred pride, his arm held close. He had not sent the letter for her. He had not done it out of mercy, but he had sent it.

And today he had stopped Elsie’s cruelty with one cold sentence. Not because he cared, but because he would not allow disorder under his roof. Because he was a man who could not bear injustice, even when the one benefiting from it was the woman he blamed for his ruined arm.

Sorcha turned her face towards the wall, eyes burning. She was no fool. She would not spin kindness from bare control. She would not imagine softness where there was none. Yet, the memory of his gaze flicking to her raw hands returned, sharp and unwanted. For an instant, she had seen something in his expression. Not pity or tenderness. Something more like the grim knowledge of a man who understood pain intimately.

Above her, the house creaked and a door opened. Then another sound followed, quiet, strained. A breath. Not a sigh. The sound of effort.

She listened, every nerve suddenly alert, as footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond her door. Then a faint scrape, wood against stone, a sharp knock against the wall, and a muffled curse.

Sorcha’s breath caught. Gavan. She sat up, heart thudding. She should not move. She should not interfere. The terms of her employment were clear: obey, work, keep her head down. Then she heard it again: a sharp intake of breath, pain pulled inward and strangled, followed by the unmistakable sound of struggle. Something being lifted that should have been easy. Something slipping.

Gavan cursed again, harsher this time.

Sorcha swung her legs off the bed. Her feet found the cold floor. Her hands throbbed as she pushed to stand. Do not, her mind warned. He will hate it. He will be furious. He will throw you out into the snow just for seeing him like that.

Sorcha stood frozen, listening. She could imagine it too clearly in her mind’s eye—Gavan in the dark corridor, trying to do something simple with one arm that would not obey. His pride alone in the night with his pain. A man who was the Provost of Dingwall by daylight and wounded flesh by night.

Sorcha’s stomach twisted. She knew that kind of humiliation. The kind that did not come from strangers, but from your own body betraying you. She took one step towards the door, then another. Her wrapped hands shook as she reached for the latch.

She hesitated. If you go out there, you cannot pretend you never saw it. Then she heard him again, but this time not a curse. A low, strangled sound, like a man biting down on pain so it did not become a cry.

Sorcha’s hesitation shattered, and she opened her door. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by a distant sconce. Shadows wavered along the stone walls.

Gavan stood halfway down the chamber, near a narrow table. His coat was off. His shirt collar was loosened. His face was pale in the low light, jaw clenched as he leaned towards the table for balance. His right arm was bare, the muscle there tense with strain. In his left hand he gripped a bottle; liniment, perhaps. The sort used for aches and old injuries. Why tend to himself here, where anyone passing through might discover him? He had private chambers where he could hide his pain from curious eyes. Unless he had not expected anyone to be awake at this hour. Convinced of her reasoning, she continued to observe him.

The bottle had fallen. It lay on its side near his boots, dark oil slowly spreading across the stone. Gavan stared at it as if it had insulted him. Then he reached for it with his right hand. His fingers trembled. His shoulder tightened. And his arm did not respond the way he commanded. The bottle skittered away with a small clink.

Gavan’s face contorted with rage, pain, and humiliation all tangled together. He drew in a breath through his teeth and slammed his good left palm against the wall once. Not hard enough to break bone. Hard enough to punish himself for weakness.

Sorcha’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. “My laird?” She spoke before she could stop herself.

Gavan went still. So still Sorcha thought the house itself froze with him. Slowly, he turned his head.

When his eyes found Sorcha in the doorway, the look on his face was lethal. “What are you doing out of bed?” he hissed.

Sorcha swallowed, her throat dry. “I heard—”

“You heard what?” he snapped, voice low and furious. “That I am not whole? That I am not strong enough to lift a bottle without dropping it like an old man?”

Sorcha flinched, even as she forced herself forward anyway. One step. Then another. “I heard you were in pain,” Sorcha said quietly.

Gavan’s eyes burned. “Pain.” He spat the word.