Page 51

She tried to answer lightly, to deflect the weight of what he offered. “You speak as though you have inspected every detail yourself.”

“I have,” he admitted.

The quiet honesty of his words surprised her.

“I would ask something more,” he said, hesitating just long enough that she felt the gravity of what followed. “You will dine in the hall from now on. With me. You will not eat with the servants again.”

The world tilted. “That will cause talk,” she murmured.

“It already has,” he replied. “Let it be talk of honour rather than doubt.”

She searched his face, trying to understand what had changed him so completely. Perhaps it had been the battle. Perhaps the kiss. Perhaps something else entirely.

*

The dining room at Lemlair felt strangely unfamiliar. Sorcha paused at the threshold, one hand resting lightly against the polished wood of the doorframe. She had passed this room countless times since arriving at the house, carrying trays or slipping past unseen while others dined within. Tonight, the candles were already lit, their warm glow softening the carved chairs and the long table laid with quiet care.

Only two places had been set beside each other. Her breath faltered.

Gavan waited just inside, as though he had anticipated her hesitation. He did not stand at the head of the table as a laird might in a crowded hall. Instead, he rested one hand against the back of a chair halfway down, leaving the seat beside it open.

“For you,” he said simply.

She stepped forward slowly, acutely aware of movement along the walls. Mrs Jacoby, the cook, lingered near the sideboard, pretending to adjust a platter that required no adjustment at all. Elsie stood near the door with folded hands, her eyes flicking over Sorcha with poorly disguised surprise.

Only two days ago, Elsie had made certain Sorcha ate last and alone. Now she watched as Sorcha crossed the room as though trying to decide whether this was real.

Gavan pulled out the chair beside him.

She sat. The scrape of the chair seemed louder than it should have been in the small room. A faint rustle came from the sideboard, where Mrs Jacoby pretended not to stare. Elsie’s lips pressed together, and for a fleeting moment, Sorcha saw calculation replace the old disdain.

Servants moved forward to pour wine and place dishes before them. Sorcha’s instinct was to rise, to help, to reach for the platters, but Gavan’s hand brushed lightly against her wrist beneath the table.

“Stay,” he said softly.

The word was not a command. It was reassurance.

She folded her hands in her lap, unsure what to do with the sudden stillness. The silence between them felt altered now, no longer strained, but shy. Tentative. Alive with the memory of a kiss neither had acknowledged since returning to the house.

“You look as though you expect someone to send you away,” he said quietly.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I have grown accustomed to disappearing.”

Something shifted in his expression; less command, more confession.

“You do not need to disappear here,” he said.

And this time it did not sound like reassurance. It sounded like decision.

A servant placed a loaf between them. Without hesitation, Gavan broke the bread and set a piece upon her plate before serving himself. The gesture was simple. Intimate.

Mrs Jacoby noticed. Elsie noticed. The air at the table tightened.

“You should not do that,” Sorcha whispered.

“Why?” His gaze did not waver.

“Because they will talk.”