Page 67

The fire had burned low, casting a steady glow across the room. Rugs softened the stone beneath their feet, and the shutters rattled faintly as snow tapped against them. He shut the door against the cold, suddenly aware that the space felt smaller with her in it.

His gaze flicked, unbidden, to the mantel. Evergreen boughs and holly branches. He had not put them there.

Mrs Jacoby, then, when she came yesterday to prepare his quarters with clean linens and food. Perhaps she was trying to model what Sorcha had done at Lemlair, quietly attempting to mark the season. Yuletide. He had not meant to notice, yet now he could not quite ignore it, not with Sorcha standing amid it, the green a soft contrast to the strain he knew she carried.

He glanced at her, then away again too quickly. “This is where I work,” he said, as though that explained anything at all.

The words sounded thin, even to his own ears.

Outside, the snow tapped steadily at the shutters. Inside, the fire shifted, sending a low crackle through the quiet.

He crossed the room, more to give himself purpose than from need, then stopped, turning back to her. His gaze held this time, searching her face—measuring, perhaps, or simply unwilling to look away.

“Hugh Calder has already shown he is willing to strike at anyone who threatens to bring the truth into the open.” Gavan released a slow breath, tension lingering visibly beneath his control. “But you will be safe here,” he said at last, the promise roughened by something deeper than duty alone.

Standing there with her so near, with winter pressing against the windows and Yuletide preparations lingering quietly through the house, despite everything that had happened, Gavan became suddenly aware of how much the chamber had changed. What had once felt merely functional—stone, firelight, shelter from the cold—now carried a warmth he had not permitted himself to notice before.

Or perhaps it was not the room that had changed. He forced the thought aside before it settled too deeply.

Sorcha held his gaze for a long moment before asking softly, “And my brother? Will he be safe?”

Gavan nodded once. “I doubled the guard outside his cell after court adjourned. Colin and two of my men have taken rooms along the corridor below.” His expression hardened slightly. “If anyone attempts to reach William before tomorrow, they will not do so unnoticed.”

He watched Sorcha move nervously towards the hearth, removing her gloves slowly, fingers lingering near the flames. “Your in-town residence is much smaller than Lemlair,” she said softly.

“It is comfortable.” The candlelight traced the line of her throat as she unwound her cloak, revealing the blue-grey dress beneath, snowmelt darkening the edges of her hem and sleeves. He fought to steady himself, having nearly lost control twice already that day. “You should rest,” he said, though he made no move to leave.

She turned towards him. “And you?”

“I do not sleep easily before a reckoning.” His gaze shifted, distant for a moment. “Not after what was laid before the court.”

She stepped closer. “You are not alone in all of this.”

There it was again. That wordless promise.

His jaw tightened. If she stood any nearer, he would have to choose restraint again.

She did not retreat. “Gavan,” she said quietly, “you did not look at me once in court. Why?”

“Because if I had,” he said carefully, “I would have seen you when William spoke, when he admitted to forging those letters. When he claimed the Munros were used as bait in another man’s design.” His voice lowered. “And I could not afford to forget what was at stake.”

Her breath caught.

Gavan swallowed roughly. He had no right to say things like that, and yet he could not seem to stop himself.

She reached for him first this time. Her hand found his chest.

He stilled.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was not a tentative kiss. It was a warmth that was filled with both relief and fear of tomorrow wrapped together.

He answered immediately. His hands came to her waist, then higher, drawing her firmly against him. The kiss deepened, not gentle this time, not measured. Possessive. Hungry.

His control frayed. He backed her slowly towards the hearth wall, one hand sliding into her hair. The sound she made against his mouth stripped him raw. He had imagined this too often for his own sanity.

Her hands slid upward, fingers curling into his shoulders, pulling him closer still.

He felt the heat of her through wool and linen. Felt how easily he could carry her the remaining steps to the bedchamber door. At the thought, he broke the kiss only to draw breath, and found her lips at his jaw, then his throat.