Page 44

“You asked for this meeting,” Gavan said. “Speak plainly.”

William’s eyes shifted briefly towards the guards farther down the corridor before returning to Gavan. “Not here. Not all of it.”

Gavan’s patience thinned. “You forged the letters.”

William closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “Aye.” The admission sounded scraped raw from his throat. “I did.”

Sorcha flinched as though hearing the words spoken aloud still wounded her.

“But you were not alone,” Gavan said quietly.

William’s gaze snapped sharply back to his. Fear moved there instantly. Not fear of punishment. Fear of naming someone.

Cold certainty settled deeper into Gavan’s bones. “You understand now what sort of men you involved yourself with,” he said.

William laughed once under his breath, brittle and exhausted. “Too late.” His gaze drifted at last towards Sorcha, guilt hollowing his expression. “I thought I could force attention where it belonged. Expose what was happening to the smaller clans while powerful men carved apart trade and land behind closed doors.” His jaw tightened. “I did not understand I was only carrying another man’s scheme.”

“Whose?” Gavan asked.

William hesitated long enough for the silence to sharpen dangerously between them.

Then, very quietly, he said, “Calder.”

Hugh Calder. The name landed heavily. Not a merchant himself, but a Calder clansman with ambitions far larger than the modest holdings attached to his family name. Men like Calder rarely dirtied their own hands with forged letters or whispered bargains in taverns. They found others willing to take the risk for them—merchants eager for profit, desperate younger sons, angry men nursing old grievances—and quietly guided events from behind the safety of respectability.

Gavan knew the sort well enough.

For years Calder had moved carefully through northern politics, aligning himself wherever instability offered opportunity. He maintained friendships with certain merchants operating between Dingwall and Inverness, men who controlled shipments, redirected goods, and spread rumour as efficiently as any printed proclamation. Trade routes shifted when such men whispered warnings of unrest. Investors withdrew. Smaller clans weakened while stronger or better-positioned families claimed what remained behind.

And if Clan Munro fell beneath suspicion of Jacobite treason, the consequences would spread far beyond reputation. Merchant agreements would collapse. Trade protections could be revoked. Crown officials might seize lands temporarily for investigation. Rival clans would circle immediately, eager to profit from Munro weakness. Men like Calder thrived in such chaos.

Gavan’s jaw tightened as understanding settled colder and heavier inside him.

William had never been the true architect. He had merely been useful. Angry enough to manipulate. Proud enough to believe he was acting of his own accord. Desperate enough not to recognise when someone else quietly steered the damage towards larger purposes.

And Calder had remained carefully distant from all of it.

Safe. Respectable. Untouched.

For now.

“I will speak fully in court,” William said suddenly, lifting his gaze again. “Not here. Not whispered through bars where words vanish once spoken.” Resolve hardened his exhausted expression. “If I hang, then the truth hangs beside me in open daylight.”

Gavan studied him for a long moment before nodding once. Strange as it was, he respected that answer more than frightened denials would have deserved.

Beside him, Sorcha released a slow breath that sounded almost painful. The meeting ended soon after. Sorcha lingered near the bars a moment longer, her eyes fixed upon her brother as though trying to memorise him while she still could.

Gavan finally touched her elbow lightly. “We need to go.”

She looked at him sharply, hurt flickering across her face, but she did not argue. The longer they remained, the greater the risk became. Too many ears already listened within Dingwall. Servants carried gossip. Merchants traded rumours as easily as wool and grain. If Calder learned Sorcha had spoken privately with William before the trial, questions would follow quickly. And perhaps worse than questions.

After leaving the courthouse, they mounted their horses and rode out from Dingwall. The feeling of unease returned almost immediately. Not pursuit, exactly. Something subtler. A prickle along the back of Gavan’s neck. Riders glimpsed too briefly in the distance. A stillness in the woods that felt too watchful.

Waiting.

Gavan lifted two fingers slightly, signalling his men without turning in the saddle. Instantly the formation around Sorcha tightened.

Beside him, she sat straight-backed despite fatigue, gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, unaware perhaps of how vulnerable she appeared against the grey winter landscape.