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It was not protest. It was an invitation.

He lowered his head, and his mouth found hers with quiet certainty, warm, searching, no longer uncertain of welcome. Her hands rose to his chest, gripping lightly as though to anchor herself.

He deepened the kiss just enough to feel her answer. And as she responded, the world narrowed to the steady thud of his heart beneath her palms. For a suspended moment, they forgot everything. Her brother. Calder. Past injuries.

Then he pulled back, yet not fully, as his forehead rested briefly against hers and he drew in a steadying breath. “If I continue,” he said, voice roughened, “I will forget why I must remain clear-headed tomorrow.”

Her lips were still warm. “And would that be so terrible?”

“Aye,” he said softly. “Because when I cross that line fully, I will not step back from it.”

He drew away, not far, but enough to reclaim himself.

His hand slid from her waist reluctantly. “You deserve a man who does not choose you in shadow,” he said quietly. “And I will not take more tonight than I can honour in daylight.”

The promise in that made her pulse race more than the kiss had.

He lifted her hand, pressing a restrained kiss to her knuckles. “Good night, Sorcha.”

Chapter Thirteen

Sorcha slept soundly in her new chamber. When she woke, she immediately knew something was different. An odd, luminous glow filtered through the shutters. When she slipped from her bed and pushed them open, she found the first true snow of winter had come in the night.

The world beyond had transformed into white hush and silver light. The courtyard lay softened. The stone walls gentled. Even the sky seemed quieter, as though holding its breath. A fitting morning for Yule preparations.

She dressed quickly in her blue-grey gown, fingers moving faster than usual. She could not say why her pulse felt lighter this morning, only that it did. And when she thought of the previous night, warmth crept into her cheeks.

The memory of Gavan’s mouth on hers came to her. She recalled the way he had stopped himself from anything more. There was a certain promise in that restraint.

Sorcha descended to the dining hall. A breakfast of porridge and dried fruit had been laid out along the sideboard. She served herself and turned, hesitating. Gavan was already in the chamber, speaking in low tones to his estate manager about grain stores and winter fodder. His voice carried quiet authority. The man leaned in instinctively.

But when she approached, Gavan looked up. And something changed. His gaze lingered a fraction too long before steadying. There was awareness there now. Not guarded. Not distant.

“You rise early,” he said.

“I always have,” she replied lightly. “The light reflecting off snow makes it difficult to remain abed.”

His mouth curved faintly. Not the polite half smile he wore before others. The one she had seen last night. He dismissed his manager with a nod, and when the man departed, the room felt smaller somehow. More private. He gestured to the seat beside him. As she sat, their shoulders nearly touched.

For a few breaths, they ate in silence. But it was not the careful quiet of before. It thrummed. Beneath the scrape of spoon against bowl, beneath the crackle of the fire, there was memory.

His knee again brushed hers under the table. “Ride with me this morning,” he said, setting down his cup.

Her eyes lifted fully to his in question.

“I want to find a Yule log.”

“You want to celebrate Yule?” she asked, though her voice was softer now.

He nodded. “You began the preparations. I would like to continue. Is that not one of the traditions?”

“Aye,” she said carefully. “Among other activities.”

A flicker of heat passed through his gaze at her choice of words. “We will do them all,” he said.

The warmth that spread through her had nothing to do with the fire. It had everything to do with the memory of his hands at her waist.

“I would be honoured to ride with you,” she answered.