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“They already do.” His voice lowered. “Let them see what is true.”

Her breath faltered. And what, precisely, was true?

Dinner unfolded in a quiet rhythm. Candlelight softened the room, throwing warm gold across stone and shadow. The absence of a crowded chamber made everything feel closer, every shift of breath and every glance that lingered too long between them.

When she reached for the salt, his hand moved at the same moment. Their fingers brushed. The contact lasted only an instant, yet neither withdrew at once. Heat flickered beneath her skin where he touched her, and memory rose, unbidden—the forest, the attackers, his mouth against hers, the desperate situation they had found themselves in, and yet they had prevailed.

Gavan drew back first, but not quickly.

His thumb lingered a fraction longer than necessary before retreating. “You should have something warm after the ride,” he said, his voice roughened slightly. “Would you care for brandy?”

She nodded, pulse unsteady. “And you?”

A faint, almost self-conscious curve touched his mouth. “It will serve more as pain relief than comfort.”

Her gaze dropped instinctively towards his shoulder. The memory of blood soaking through his clothing during the attack twisted painfully inside her chest. “How badly were the others hurt?” she asked quietly.

Gavan leaned back slightly in his chair. “Not as badly as it might have been.”

Relief loosened something tight inside her. “Do you truly believe they came for me?”

“I believe you were the purpose of the attack.” There was no hesitation in his answer now. “The riders barely engaged the others until they realised they could not reach you directly.”

She lowered her gaze briefly. “Then more men have suffered because of me.”

Gavan’s jaw tightened faintly. “Do not do that.”

Her eyes lifted again. “Do what?”

“Take blame for the cruelty of other men.” The words came low and firm. “You did not summon those riders from the trees.”

Sorcha looked down at her untouched food. “Yet they came all the same.”

Silence settled briefly between them. Not empty. Heavy.

Then Gavan said quietly, “Colin believes the surviving attackers fled south rather than back towards the hills.”

She frowned slightly. “Towards Dingwall?”

“Aye.” His fingers rested lightly against the table, though she noticed the slight stiffness in the movement. “Which suggests organisation rather than common brigands. Men with horses waiting. Supplies. A place to disappear afterward.” His gaze darkened slightly. “That concerns me.”

The thought settled uneasily through her. “Hugh Calder,” she whispered.

Gavan did not answer immediately, but she saw the tension shift across his face. Confirmation enough.

Mrs Jacoby crossed quietly with two glasses, placing them between them without comment. But Sorcha felt the woman’s awareness; the quiet approval in it. She was not being hidden away or merely tolerated beneath this roof. She was being acknowledged.

The realisation warmed her almost as much as the brandy itself.

Halfway through the meal, Sorcha found herself studying Gavan openly. Candlelight caught in his dark hair, tracing the line of his cheek, softening the severity she had once feared. In this quiet intimacy of the room, he seemed less laird, more simply a man carrying exhaustion, responsibility, and restraint far too tightly beneath his skin.

“You are staring,” he said, though there was no rebuke in his words. Only a low warmth beneath them.

“Nay,” she replied too quickly. “It is only that . . .” She hesitated, searching for honesty brave enough to survive being spoken aloud. “You have changed.”

He held her gaze. “Nay,” he said quietly after a moment. “I have only stopped pretending that I wished you gone.” The words landed between them like a spark to tinder.

Heat rose beneath her skin.