Since her mother’s passing, she had done all that was asked of her. She had kept her father’s household, tended the sick when no one else would, soothed tempers, remembered feast days, seen that things simply ran. It had earned her respect, but not affection, not a place—only duty and a borrowed title she wore until it passed to another.

The moment her brother wed, his new wife stepped into the role of lady of the keep as if it had always been hers. And though Sorcha knew this was how it should be, she could not help the feeling that, now that she had served her purpose, she was being dressed like an offering and sent away. To Strathloch. To her future. To acquaint herself with the man she knew she would one day wed.

When her carriage arrived, she was shown to the laird’s solar. The door stood open. Firelight flickered across the stone floor, casting long shadows on old timber and dark iron sconces. A man stood at the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, one hand braced on the mantle. He turned as she entered.

Calum MacRae. Her betrothed.

He looked as cold as the stones the hearth was built from. Dark-haired and clean-shaven, his face was sharp and strong, not unhandsome, but grim. Tired, perhaps. His plaid hung from one shoulder, belted over a plain linen shirt. A sword rested at his hip, the scabbard worn. This was no court-dressed nobleman. This was a Highland laird’s son who bled when he fought.