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“I thought I hated you,” she admitted softly, the truth startling even herself. “For what you saw when you looked at me. For judging me before you knew my heart.”

Pain flickered briefly through his expression. “And now?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard. “Now I fear I care far too much what you think of me.” The honesty of it left her exposed in ways battle never had.

His gaze darkened slowly, something unguarded rising fully to the surface at last. For one suspended moment, she thought he might finally close the distance between them, despite the wounded around them, despite the danger still lingering in the trees, despite everything standing between them.

His breath brushed her cheek. “If I shift closer,” he said, voice roughened by restraint, “I may forget every reason I have to hold back.”

Her heart pounded. “Then perhaps,” she whispered, “you should forget for a moment.” The words had barely left her lips before he closed the distance.

The kiss was not fierce. Not claiming. It was tentative, almost questioning, a meeting of breath and warmth that felt both impossibly new and strangely inevitable. His hand slid to the curve of her jaw, careful, as though she might vanish if he held too tightly.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world stilled. Relief, regret, longing all threaded through his touch. She answered him softly, leaning into the warmth she had hoped for but had denied herself for so long.

Then reality returned. A rider approached, boots crunching over leaves. Gavan broke the kiss first, breath unsteady, forehead resting briefly against hers as if gathering strength.

“Laird,” the guard called gently, halting at a respectful distance. “The men are ready to move.”

Gavan drew back slowly, though his hand lingered at her cheek a moment longer than propriety allowed. When he rose, the warrior’s composure returned, but something in his eyes had changed.

Something she felt mirrored in her own heart. As she stood beside him, Sorcha realised the battle had not only shifted the path ahead. It had shifted them, and there would be no returning to what they had been before.

The ride to Lemlair passed in silence. Sorcha kept her gaze fixed on the road, though she was acutely aware of Gavan beside her. Every small movement seemed louder now. The creak of leather, the brush of his sleeve when the trail narrowed, the way his breath slowed whenever their horses drew too close.

They had kissed. The knowledge settled in her chest like a small, flickering flame. She did not know what to say, how to meet his eyes without remembering the warmth of his mouth against hers. So she said nothing at all, and from the corner of her vision she saw that he did the same.

Once, as the road dipped towards the low fields surrounding Lemlair House, their gazes met by accident. He looked away first. It was such an uncharacteristically shy gesture that it brought a quiet smile to her lips before she could stop it.

By the time they reached the courtyard, the evening light had turned the stone walls gold. Servants moved quickly to take reins and help the riders dismount. Sorcha slipped down from her horse, intending to step aside and make herself small enough to pass unnoticed.

“Lady Sorcha.” Gavan’s voice stopped her.

Her breath caught. Not Sorcha. Not Sutherland. Lady. She turned slowly.

The men nearby paused, sensing something in the air, though none dared stare openly.

Gavan crossed the distance between them, posture composed, expression carefully neutral, but she saw the hesitation beneath it. “We will speak inside,” he said.

Her heart fluttered, uncertain.

He led her through the hall and into a quieter corridor away from the bustle of returning warriors. Lemlair felt different tonight, warmer somehow with all the Yule green branches, less like a place she merely endured and more like a space that watched her with curious expectation. When they reached the small alcove overlooking the gardens, he stopped.

For a bit of time, neither spoke. The memory of the kiss hovered between them, unspoken but unmistakable.

“You should not return to that chamber,” he said at last.

She blinked, unsure she had heard correctly. “My chamber?”

“The small room near the kitchens,” he clarified, voice gentler than she had ever heard it. “It was never meant for you. I allowed it because . . . never mind that.” He released his breath in a rush.

“And now?” she asked softly.

His gaze lifted to hers, steady despite the faint flush at the edge of his collar. “Now you will remain at Lemlair as my guest, not as a maid hidden among servants.”

The words sent a ripple of emotion through her—relief, disbelief, something dangerously close to belonging.

“There is a guest room prepared in the east wing,” he continued. “It has light in the mornings, and a hearth that actually holds heat.”