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“Thank you,” she managed at last.

He gave a small nod, as though the matter were settled.

She looked at him then, truly looked. “And you?” she asked softly. “Will you remember the season now?”

His gaze met hers and held. “Aye,” he said. “I will.”

For several seconds, neither of them moved. The space between them felt charged, alive with everything neither dared to name.

Then he stepped back, restraint settling over him once more, but not cold.

“Rest tonight,” he said. “We leave at first light.”

Sorcha nodded. As he turned away, she pressed her fingers to Destiny’s cross, the parcel clutched carefully against her chest, tears finally slipping free.

William would see another dawn. And somehow, against all reason, so would she.

Chapter Ten

Sorcha did not open the parcel at once. She carried it carefully to her room, holding it as though it were something delicate, something that could be easily lost if she moved too quickly. The corridor was dim now, candlelight pooling softly against the Yule green branches she had placed earlier. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if Gavan had noticed all of it; not merely the bough above the arch, but the festive greens tucked into corners everywhere about the house.

Inside her chamber, she closed the door gently and set the parcel upon the narrow bed. The room felt smaller with it there, as though the cloth-wrapped bundle carried more presence than its size should allow.

Sorcha removed her gloves first, flexing her hands slowly. The ache lingered, but it was not the sharp, punishing pain of before. She drew a breath, steadying herself, then untied the cord.

The cloth fell away to reveal a gown of soft wool, dyed a muted blue-grey, not extravagant, but well made, the seams neat and strong. The colour caught the candlelight and seemed almost silver at the edges. It was not finery meant to impress a court. It was practical, warm, chosen with care. Chosen for her. Her fingers brushed the fabric, reverent despite herself. The wool was softer than anything she had worn in quite a while. Beneath it lay a simple sash, and a small linen kerchief folded with precise attention.

She swallowed hard. Gavan had stood in Dingwall and thought of what image she would portray to those who observed her. The realisation struck deeper than she expected. Sorcha lifted the gown and held it against herself, turning slightly towards the small sheet of metal that hung crookedly on the wall.

She could see her image in the polished surface. The candlelight caught in her hair, in the curve of her cheek. For a few seconds, she almost recognised the woman staring back, not the penitent servant, but someone closer to who she had been before everything fractured, before loss and guilt. Before Gavan.

Her throat tightened at that thought. “He wants William to see me well,” she whispered to the empty room.

Yet the careful stitching, the choice of colour, neither too bold nor too plain, felt personal. She folded the gown again with slow care and set it beside her pillow.

Outside, the house creaked softly in the winter darkness. Somewhere above, a door closed, and she wondered if it was Gavan settling into his own chamber, carrying the weight of decisions she barely understood.

Sorcha knelt beside the bed and pressed her fingers briefly to Destiny’s cross. “Let tomorrow be kind,” she murmured.

When she rose, she allowed herself one dangerous thought, not about William, not about fear, but about the way Gavan had looked when he had handed her the parcel. He had looked almost uncertain.

She blew out the candle and slipped beneath the blanket, the folded gown within reach, and for the first time since her arrival at Lemlair, sleep came without dread pressing at her chest.

*

They left Lemlair House before the sun had fully broken the horizon. Frost silvered the courtyard stones, and the world lay quiet beneath the pale wash of dawn. Two guards waited, already mounted near the gate, reins loose in gloved hands, their breath rising in soft clouds against the cold.

Gavan tightened the last strap at his saddle and turned, then stilled. Sorcha stood in the doorway of his house. She wore the blue-grey gown he had purchased in Dingwall, the colour deepened by the morning light. The cut of it suited her more than he had dared hope—modest, strong, unadorned in a way that made her seem steadier rather than diminished. For a fleeting, treacherous heartbeat, he saw not the woman burdened by guilt or circumstance, but a lady of the Highlands standing ready to meet her kin with her head unbowed. In the next moment, she settled her cloak about her shoulders, hiding the dress from further viewing, and stepped outside to join him.

As she approached, his chest tightened. Her hair was not loosely pulled back. She had managed to plait her fiery locks. A true sign that her hands were improving.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked as she came to stand beside him.

“Aye,” she said softly.

He offered his hand to help her mount. Her fingers curled around his, brief, certain, and he felt the warmth of her even through leather. He released her at once, stepping back before the moment could linger longer than was wise. Gavan mounted and set his horse in motion, and the others followed. For a time, there was only the rhythm of hooves and the hush of winter fields stretching wide around them. He kept his gaze forward, but his awareness drifted, unbidden, towards the woman riding at his side.

It was impossible not to remember when she had first arrived at Foulis Castle to see his brother, Cameron, and her friend, Destiny. She had been covered in mud, breathless with fear and defiance in equal measure. She had resembled a creature cornered by the world itself, all sharp edges and desperate strength.