MacAlasdair Keep, Glenbrae — Two Years Later · Sorcha MacAlasdair, Age Six and Ten

Sorcha had never worn blue silk before. The colour suited her, at least according to her brother’s new bride, who stood behind her now, fastening the final row of pearl buttons down the back of her gown.

“There,” Mairead murmured, smoothing a gentle hand over Sorcha’s shoulders. “Strathloch willna ken what’s struck them.”

Sorcha smiled faintly at the mirror, though she barely recognised the girl staring back. Her freckles had faded since summer, her face leaner now from years of responsibility rather than youth. She looked proper. Perhaps even hopeful. But this was no love match. She kenned that well enough.

And yet, as she climbed into the carriage waiting in the courtyard—horses stamping in the misty Highland morning—Sorcha allowed herself one reckless, dangerous thought. Perhaps Strathloch would be where she truly belonged.