Page 8

Inside, servants looked up, eyes widening at the sight of Sorcha’s condition.

Destiny flicked them a look that brooked no questions. “Not a word,” she warned, and her voice held steel now, mistress of Foulis in more than name.

Sorcha’s knees wobbled as the heat began to thaw her too fast, and pain surfaced like an old bruise touched.

Destiny drew her towards the solar and closed the door behind them, giving them privacy.

Firelight filled the room, its warmth softened further by woven rush rugs and hand-painted canvas floorcloths that brought colour to the stone beneath her feet. Evergreen garlands draped the mantle and doorframe, threaded with dried berries and small twists of ribbon, while sprigs of pine and holly tucked beside the candles filled the air with the clean scent of winter. Beeswax and herbs lingered beneath it all, mingling with the faint sweetness of spiced wine warming near the hearth. A carved bench sat close to the fire, and above it, candlelight flickered gently against the walls like gold caught in motion.

It was so different from the cold mud and darkness of the forest that it made Sorcha dizzy.

Destiny guided her down into the chair and immediately knelt in front of her, pulling Sorcha’s hands into hers as she had many times while they were growing up. That was what best friends did for each other; they supported one another in the bad times.

Sorcha stared down at their clasped fingers, Destiny’s clean hands against Sorcha’s mud-stained ones, and shame surged hot and sudden. “I am filthy,” Sorcha whispered, trying to pull away.

Destiny tightened her grip. “The mud is easy enough to rid ourselves of.”

If only my shame were so easily washed away. Sorcha swallowed hard. Her eyes burned.

A serving woman opened the door quietly and brought a steaming bowl of water and towels to the table beside Destiny, before leaving as quietly as she had come. Destiny’s gaze travelled from the redness around Sorcha’s neck to the scrape on her cheek to the bruise on her shoulder. Destiny reached for a cloth on the table and dipped it in steaming water.

She dabbed Sorcha’s cheek gently. “Does it hurt?”

Sorcha didn’t answer at first. The truth was that everything hurt. Not only her shoulder but also her ribs and her frozen feet. Something inside her had been aching for weeks, as if her very spirit had been crushed.

“Aye,” she whispered at last.

Destiny’s eyes softened, but her mouth tightened. “Who attacked you?”

“Men,” Sorcha said. “In the forest.”

Destiny went still. Not with fear, but with anger. Sorcha saw it settle across her face, cold and deliberate.

“They robbed you?”

Sorcha gave the smallest nod. “What little I carried.”

Destiny’s jaw tightened. “On Munro land.” The words came low, edged with something dangerous. “Cameron will want their names if any can be found. No laird allows thieves to prey upon travellers beneath his protection.”

Protection. The word pierced more sharply than the memory of rough hands dragging at her cloak.

“And no one was with you?” Destiny asked after a moment, her voice gentler now, though no less troubled.

Sorcha closed her eyes. “Nay.”

Silence stretched between them. Sorcha felt it pressing at her ribs, heavy with everything Destiny was beginning to understand. A woman of her station should not have been walking alone through winter woods. Not without escort. Not without clan.

Destiny’s hands stilled as she seemed to read something in Sorcha’s silence, because her voice gentled. “Sorcha, why are you here?”

Her breath caught. The question was quiet, but it split Sorcha open.

She opened her eyes and stared at the fire, because she could not bear to look Destiny in the face while speaking the truth. “My brother,” she whispered.

Destiny’s face crumpled. “I heard William was imprisoned. In Dingwall.” A shadow crossed her expression. “I nearly sent for you more than once, but after everything that happened with your clan and the accusations surrounding William, I did not know who could safely carry a message. Too many people were listening for Munro business, and I feared any word from me might worsen matters for you.” She looked down briefly, shame tightening her voice. “And truthfully, I thought if you wished to come to me, you would have arrived before now.”

Sorcha swallowed hard.

“I did not understand then,” Destiny whispered, “that you may not have been free to choose.”