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He watched her then; not the ritual, but her. The curve of her shoulders as she bent forward. The way the firelight traced the line of her throat. The stillness in her held a quiet strength.

She reached for a small sprig of holly and held it out to him. “Will you join me in decorating?”

He took the holly, and as he did, his fingers brushed hers. The contact was brief, but it struck deeper than it should have. Heat followed in its wake, settling low and unwelcome, and impossible to ignore.

She did not pull away at once. Neither did he. For a heartbeat, they remained caught in that shared space, the distance between them narrowing as it had before supper. Then together they knelt before the already-burning fire.

He tucked the holly into the greens she had already set.

Sorcha smiled and bowed her head. “May this fire warm those who enter,” she murmured, her voice soft, steady. “May it guard this house from bitterness. May it remind us that light returns, even when we forget to welcome it.”

Gavan did not close his eyes. He watched the flames instead. Watched how they moved. How they deepened. How the light shifted across her face as she spoke. He watched her.

They stood there in that shared warmth, neither speaking, neither moving away, the space between them no longer empty but filled with something unspoken and growing. Beyond the walls, the world still demanded, still threatened, still turned towards conflict and consequence.

But here, in the silence of the night, was the dawning realisation that something between them had shifted, whether either of them meant it to or not.

Chapter Seventeen

The fire had burned low to embers by the time Gavan woke, its warmth lingering in the room, even as grey winter light filtered thinly through the shutters. For a bit of time, he lay still, disoriented, the unfamiliar ceiling above him offering no immediate answer until he became aware of the warmth beside him.

Sorcha lay half curled against him, still dressed in the gown she had worn the night before, her hair unbound and spilling like copper silk across his arm. He went utterly still, careful not to disturb her, as the quiet reality of it settled over him.

In the pale morning light, she looked almost unreal—too soft, too unguarded for the world waiting beyond those shuttered walls. An angel in his arms, his mind supplied, absurd and inconvenient, and yet no other words came close.

He had not meant for them to sleep here. He had intended to carry her back to the chair by the hearth to preserve distance, to maintain the careful control he had held so tightly since her arrival. Instead, exhaustion had claimed them both, and sometime in the night, she had shifted closer, her breath warm against his collarbone, and he had not moved away.

Now, watching her, he saw the faint crease between her brows even in sleep, as though some part of her still braced for dismissal, and something in him tightened sharply in response. He hated that even here, even now, she could not fully rest without expectation of loss.

Carefully, he lifted his hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. She did not wake, only sighed softly and leaned nearer, the movement instinctive, unguarded. The simple trust of it struck deeper than it should have, tightening something in his chest he did not wish to examine too closely.

His gaze shifted towards the hearth and the festive greens she had placed there, its faint scent still lingering in the air.

Yule.

She had brought the season back into his life, along with many more things he was not yet ready to name. He had gained so much from her presence in his life, even in such a short period of time.

Did she feel the same? Or did she feel only loss? She had lost everything, even her dignity, mostly because of him and his demands that she clean the place from top to bottom when she had first arrived at Lemlair. But she had lost more than that. She had lost her parents. Her husband. Her necklace, and the connection it had created to her mother.

He remembered the look on her face when she had spoken of her necklace being stolen by the thieves. She had not spoken with greed or even regret in the way others might have felt it, but something deeper. Loss, aye, but not of value; of meaning, identity, and belonging.

If MacLeish could be pressed far enough, if the guild accounts were opened, if the right pressure was applied in the right place, there might be a way to trace her mother’s jewel and recover it.

To return it, not as repayment or as an apology, but as acknowledgment. His gaze returned to her face, then to her whole being. The grey-blue gown she wore was rumpled from sleep, the fabric worn thin in places and carefully mended along the seams by the previous owner. It struck him then, with quiet force, that she had worn the same dress every day since arriving in Dingwall because she had also lost all her other garments. And he had only thought to secure one outfit for her upon her arrival.

A flicker of irritation stirred in him at the circumstances that had reduced her to this. She had stood in that courtroom with a composure that had impressed merchants, townspeople, and even him, and yet she had done so in a single worn gown.

And would she blame him if William was convicted? The question flared in Gavan’s mind before he could stop it. A tightness came to his chest. Would she walk away from him and whatever this was growing between them?

She stirred then, her lashes fluttering as she woke. Confusion flickered briefly across her face before recognition settled in, and with it, something softer. “Have you been watching me sleep?” she murmured, her voice still heavy.

“Aye.”

A faint smile touched her lips as she shifted, her hand coming to rest lightly against his chest. The contact was unthinking, natural, and far too easy to become accustomed to.

“You look troubled,” she said.

“I am thinking.”