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Something eased in his shoulders, just a fraction, and the lines on his face softened as they returned to work. But the air had changed. Every movement now carried awareness. When he passed behind her in the narrow space, she felt the heat of him. When his sleeve brushed against her back, it sent a tingle down her spine.

She shifted a crate aside and found herself cornered briefly between a beam and his chest as he reached for a trunk above her.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

She nodded but did not move right away. For a breathless moment, they were close enough that she could see the faint scar along his shoulder where his shirt dipped, could smell soap and woodsmoke on his skin. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it, a quiet, traitorous warmth low in her belly.

Gavan’s breath caught. She saw it. The way his chest stilled. The way his gaze dropped, not to her face, but to her mouth.

The space between them thrummed. Then he stepped back, abruptly, as though distance were a vow he could not afford to break.

Sorcha turned away, heart racing, annoyed with herself, with him, and how the silence now spoke too loudly.

In a corner of the chamber, she uncovered a settee with pristine green-damask upholstery. “I wonder why this was placed up here?”

Gavan looked up. “I found a perfectly good pair of side tables and a candelabra in the corner.”

“Might we take them downstairs and place them in the front chamber I cleaned yesterday? They would help make that space a perfectly cosy sitting room.”

Gavan nodded. “I will send someone to retrieve them when we are finished.”

Sorcha fingered a length of cloth she had discovered. She could work the fabric up to become curtains for the window she had cleaned. Not only would it brighten up the chamber, but it would also help keep the chill out of the room. Satisfied with her plans, she set the fabric aside to take with her when she was done for the day.

Later, she reached for a box too high for her injured hands. “I can—” she began.

Gavan reached it first, lifting the box with his left arm and setting it down near her hip. His fingers brushed her wrapped ones as he steadied the lid, and despite the cloth and the distance she pretended existed, warmth bloomed and crept up her arm.

Neither of them moved.

“You should not strain yourself,” he said, his voice suddenly rough.

“And you should not pretend you do not feel pain,” she replied softly, nodding towards his shoulder.

His mouth curved, just barely. “We are evenly matched, then.”

She smiled before she could stop herself, a small, dangerous thing.

The light was already fading when they finished in the attic. With fingers clumsy with fatigue, Sorcha brushed dust from the front of her bodice. Her arms ached in the deep, weary way that came from honest labour. The attic smelled less of neglect now, but of clean wool, aired cloth, and old cedar stirred awake.

Gavan stood near an open trunk, picking up a folded blanket. He moved carefully, favouring his shoulder, but he did not hide it from her the way he once would have. That, more than anything, unsettled her.

“That will do for today,” he said.

Sorcha nodded. “Aye, my laird.” When they finally descended the ladder, Sorcha was aware of him preceding her, close enough that if she leaned back even a little, she would feel him fully.

She did not, but as her feet touched the floor below, she knew with startling certainty that whatever lay between them now was no longer only anger. It was something far more treacherous.

When they reached the bottom of the steps, he handed her the blanket. “Take this. It will keep you warm at night.” But before she could possibly think he had gone soft, he said, “You will eat with the others in the kitchen.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. “Thank you.”

He said nothing more as they walked together through the corridor. Evening had changed the house again with fires lit, voices lower, the scent of bread and broth curling through the air. Sorcha again became acutely aware of the man beside her. The breadth of his shoulder. The quiet authority in his stride. The way he slowed without comment when her pace lagged. It should not have mattered, but it did.

They were nearly to the kitchen when the front door opened and cold air rushed down the passage like a living thing. A boy hurried in, the stableboy, cheeks red from the wind, eyes wide with the importance of his task.

He clutched a folded paper in his fist. “M’laird,” the boy said, breathless. “From Dingwall.”

Sorcha’s heart hammered.