Page 37

Gavan took the paper with his left hand. His expression did not change as he broke the seal, but Sorcha saw the tension coil in his jaw, the subtle stilling of his body.

She did not move, could not breathe.

He read quickly. Once. Then again, slower. The corridor seemed to narrow around them.

At last, Gavan folded the paper and looked at her. “The trial has been set,” he said.

Sorcha’s knees nearly buckled. “Trial?” she whispered.

“Three days from now.”

Her breath rushed out of her in a shudder she could not control. Three days meant William lived. Three days meant time; dangerous, fragile, precious time.

“He will not—” Her voice broke. She steadied it with effort. “He will not be executed before then?”

“Nay,” Gavan said. “Not unless circumstances change.”

Tears burned behind her eyes.

She pressed her lips together, nodding once. “Thank you.”

He held her gaze. “Go,” he said, softer now. “Eat.”

She hesitated, then turned towards the kitchen. At the threshold, she felt him pause behind her.

“Sorcha.”

She turned. For a bit of time, neither of them spoke.

His gaze dropped, not to her face, but to her hands, wrapped and worn. “You will not scrub floors again,” he said. “Not while they heal.”

Something guarded in her chest softened. “Yes, my laird,” she said.

He nodded once and stepped away, leaving her standing there with the warmth of his presence lingering like an imprint.

In the kitchen, a bowl of broth and a crust of bread waited. No ceremony. No welcome. But it was there. Sorcha sat and ate, hands trembling, heart still racing. Three days. She pressed her fingers briefly to Destiny’s silver cross, cool against her skin, and whispered another prayer. This time, it carried something new. Not just desperation.

Hope.

Chapter Nine

The house had gone quiet in the way it only did after midnight. The fires were banked low. Footsteps stilled. Even the stone seemed to ease a long-held breath. But Sorcha lay awake, hands folded atop the blanket Gavan had given her, staring at the shadowed ceiling beam. Her body ached, but not sharply, not cruelly. It was the ache of use, of purpose.

She was drifting, just on the edge of sleep, when a knock sounded on her door. Her heart jumped so violently that she pressed her hand to her chest. Then another knock came, as quiet and careful as the first.

“Sorcha.”

She sat up at once. “Aye.”

The door opened only a hand’s breadth. Gavan stood there with a candle in his hands, his hair loose, his shirt unlaced at the throat, his coat discarded. The candlelight caught the planes of his face, softening the lines that daylight sharpened into command. “I wanted to see your hands,” he said. A request, not a demand.

She swallowed and swung her feet to the floor. “They are better.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. His gaze went straight to her hands, still wrapped and resting in her lap. “May I?” he asked.

The question startled her more than any order could have. She nodded.

He set the candle on the small table and took her fingers gently, turning her hands as if they were something breakable. His thumb brushed the edge of the cloth. She felt the warmth of him immediately—steady, grounding, and dangerously present.