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“You should not have been made to do half of what you have done,” he said quietly as regret laced each word.

She did not answer. The words settled between, heavy with what had gone unsaid.

His jaw tightened. “Tomorrow I will be gone,” he said. “I will be in Dingwall until evening.”

Her breath caught before she could stop it.

“I do not want you scrubbing stone while I am away,” he continued. “Tidy rooms. Set things to rights where they have been neglected. Nothing that splits skin.”

She looked up at him then. “You are trusting me?”

His gaze held hers. “Aye.” The word hummed between them.

She hesitated only a moment before saying, “Your shoulder will be worse tonight.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “You have a gift for stating unpleasant truths.”

She almost smiled. “I could help,” she said softly. “If you wish.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he exhaled. “The liniment’s in the kitchen.”

Sorcha picked up the candle. They walked together down the hallway, candlelight moving ahead of them like a shared secret. The kitchen was cool, shadows long, the hearth nothing but embers. Sorcha set the candle on the table and reached for the bottle.

Gavan removed his shirt without looking at her.

She did not look away.

He sat on the bench, back to her, muscles tight beneath scarred skin. She stepped close, heart hammering, and poured a small amount of liniment into her palm.

“Tell me if it is too much pressure,” she murmured.

He nodded.

Her hands found his shoulder—careful, practised, warm. The scent of herbs filled the air. She worked slowly, feeling the tension beneath her fingers, the way his breath hitched and then deepened despite himself.

“You carry pain like armour,” she said without thinking.

“So do you,” he replied.

The words stilled her comments. She continued, gentler now, thumbs easing along muscle, avoiding the scar until she felt him relax enough to allow it. When she brushed it at last, his breath caught sharply.

“Sorcha,” he warned, voice rough.

“I know,” she whispered.

Her hands lingered longer than they should have. His skin was warm, and she became acutely aware of the line of his spine, the breadth of him, the quiet strength he no longer pretended was effortless.

When she finished, she drew back reluctantly.

He turned then, slow and deliberate, and they were suddenly very close. Too close.

Her breath tangled with his. She could see the faint shadow of beard along his jaw, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them. If she leaned forward . . . if he did . . .

Gavan closed his eyes briefly, as if steadying himself.

When he opened them again, restraint had returned, taut and deliberate. “Thank you,” he said quietly. The words held more than gratitude.