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For one brief instant, his expression remained unguarded beneath the grey light filtering through the branches. She saw fatigue there. Frustration. And beneath both, something steadier she did not yet know how to name.

“You believe I was used,” she said softly.

“I believe your brother was manipulated by men far more practised at this than he understood.” Gavan’s gaze held hers briefly before shifting back towards the woods. “And I believe you were caught in the path of it.”

Her throat tightened painfully. She thought again of William in the cell, refusing to fully meet her eyes when he admitted forging the letters. He had once believed himself righteous. Certain. Now he looked like a man only beginning to understand the ruin surrounding him.

“You should not concern yourself with me,” she whispered. “I have done nothing to deserve protection.”

Gavan’s jaw tightened faintly. “That is not how honour works.”

The simplicity of the answer stole her breath.

They rode in silence after that, deeper into the darkening forest. Yet Sorcha remained acutely aware of him beside her. Of the watchfulness in the guards now hemming her more securely within their centre. Of the way Gavan’s attention never rested fully in one place for long.

He was expecting something.

A chill crept slowly down her spine. Sorcha straightened in the saddle, forcing herself not to search the woods too openly. Fear had already ruled too many of her choices. She would not surrender to it again.

Instead, she thought of William—alive still, stubborn still, awaiting trial rather than immediate execution. And for the first time in many days, something steadied quietly inside her.

Not hope, exactly. But perhaps the refusal to surrender entirely to despair. The woodland shadows shifted like watchful eyes. Somewhere behind them, a rider adjusted position, steel whispering against leather. The world felt too narrow, too intimate.

She became acutely aware of the space between their knees, the warmth radiating from him through layers of wool and leather. She had stood close to men before, danced beside them, even shared a marriage bed once, but nothing had ever felt like this fine line stretched between caution and something perilously close to longing.

“You looked relieved,” he said suddenly. “When you saw him.”

“My brother?” Her voice softened despite herself. “I did not realise how much I feared losing him until I saw him standing there.”

Gavan’s expression shifted, something thoughtful flickering through his eyes. “Then you know what it is to carry another’s life like your own.”

The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been. She wondered if he spoke of Cameron. Of clan. Of burdens she could only begin to understand.

“And you?” she asked before she could stop herself. “What do you carry, Gavan Munro?”

For a heartbeat, he did not answer. “More than I wish,” he said at last. “And less than I once had.”

His injured shoulder.

Without thinking, she reached out. Her gloved fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, barely a touch, questioning, hesitant, almost reverent. The contact sent a sharp awareness racing up her arm. He stilled, not pulling his horse away, not moving closer.

Just watching her.

“I never meant—” she began, the old apology rising like a prayer she had spoken too many times in her own mind.

“I know,” he said quietly.

The interruption gentled the words before they could wound either of them further.

For a long moment, neither moved. The world narrowed to the faint creak of saddle leather, the warmth of his arm beneath her hand, the unspoken understanding threading through the silence.

Then a shout came from the rear guard.

The spell shattered.

Gavan straightened instantly, every line of him sharpening back into the warrior she had first known. “Stay close,” he murmured, low and fierce.

She withdrew her hand, but the absence of him felt colder than the wind.