Page 55

They finished their meal and rose together. At the cloak rack, their hands brushed as they reached for wool and leather. The contact was brief, but he did not move away at once. His gloved fingers closed lightly over hers, just long enough to remind her of last night.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low enough that no servant would hear. “You look at me as though you intend mischief.”

“And if I do?” she asked softly.

His jaw tightened slightly, but his eyes darkened. “Then I am glad we are riding where no one will witness it.”

Her breath caught as they stepped outside. The world was bright with new snow. Their breath curled in the cold air as they waited for the horses.

“Do you ride often at home?” he asked, though his gaze had not yet fully left her.

“As often as I can,” she replied. “On horseback, I feel fewer constraints. It is simply me and the horse against nature.”

“And today?” he asked quietly.

She met his eyes.

“Today,” she said, “I suspect there will be more than nature to contend with.”

Something unspoken passed between them.

The horses were brought, already saddled and waiting beneath the pale winter sky. Several Munro guards mounted as well, though at a quiet word from Gavan, they fell back once the party entered the forest trail, giving him and Sorcha space while still keeping close enough to protect them should danger emerge again.

The path narrowed quickly between the trees, forcing Sorcha’s horse beside Gavan’s. Snow crunched softly beneath the horses’ hooves while frost silvered the bare branches overhead.

Behind them, the guards rode far enough back to grant privacy, yet near enough that the steady rhythm of hooves remained a quiet reassurance through the trees.

For a time, neither spoke. The silence was not strained. It was charged.

He rode slightly nearer than was necessary. Close enough that his thigh brushed hers when the path narrowed. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, even through layers of wool.

“You need not do this for my sake,” she said at last.

“Do what?” he asked, though he knew.

“Reclaim traditions that were not yours.”

“I am not reclaiming Sutherland customs,” he replied mildly. “I am reclaiming Highland ones.”

She considered him. The firm line of his jaw. The way his hand flexed around the reins, as though holding himself steady in more ways than one.

“You are provost now,” she said. “Some might say you should look forward, not backward.”

“Forward without roots leaves a man unsteady.”

The admission surprised her. “You are not unsteady,” she said.

His breath fogged between them. “Nay?” he asked quietly.

She held his gaze. “Nay.”

For a heartbeat, vulnerability flickered across his features. Then something else followed it. Desire.

He looked away first. Snow drifted lightly from the branches above. For a few hours, they would forget Calder, forget courts and accusations. But beneath the white hush of morning, beneath the stillness of winter, something far warmer moved between them. And today, with no walls and no witnesses, it would be far harder for either of them to pretend they did not feel the tension between them, pulling them ever closer.

They reached the grove as sunlight broke weakly over the hills, gilding the snow in pale gold. Gavan dismounted first, boots sinking an inch into white. He walked among the trees slowly, studying trunks and testing bark with his gloved hand.

Sorcha followed, not speaking, letting him decide.