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When they finished eating, Davina helped Amice wash the bowls, her fingers tingling with lingering warmth from the hearty stew. The old woman led her around to the front of the wagon, where sunlight caught the vibrant colors painted across its panels.

“Help me with these, s’il te pla?t ,” Amice instructed. Together, they wrestled open a cleverly hidden cabinet. Davina gasped softly as she and Amice drew out four life-size portraits, each rendered in striking detail. Names were delicately carved into polished wooden plaques beneath each frame.

The resemblance was unmistakable. “Broderick’s family,” Davina breathed, her heart twisting.

“ Oui ,” Amice confirmed, her eyes dimming with sorrow. “All murdered by his rival clan, the Campbells.”

A chill ran through Davina at the name, dread settling in her chest like a stone. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, her gaze lingering on the painted faces, their expressions frozen in a moment of life now forever lost.

“The betrayal of his wife led to their deaths.”

Oh my God. This revelation cleaved through Davina, striking deeper than she cared to admit.

It cast a stark light on how much she didn’t know about Broderick—how many shadows lingered in his past, and maybe some insight into the carefree rogue he’d become.

But where was he from? Such brutal clan wars were not so common these days, especially in this part of the country.

The Crown had long since declared private battles unlawful, leaving justice to the king’s courts.

“His mother,” Amice said, pointing to one portrait. “His father, and these were his younger brothers.”

Davina’s gaze lingered on the first painting.

Moira MacDougal stood proud, her fierce gaze burning from the canvas with undeniable intensity.

Her eyes, golden brown rather than Broderick’s emerald green, held the same unyielding fire.

Ebony hair tumbled over her right shoulder, contrasting against the vivid red, green, and pale blue plaid of Clan MacDougal.

Davina took in the masculine cut of Moira’s garments—a bold, defiant choice.

Courage radiated from her, an untamed force captured in paint.

Davina imagined the scoffs this woman must have endured, knowing full well how men scorned such brazen strength in a woman.

And yet, Moira stood undaunted, daring the world to challenge her.

Davina felt a flicker of admiration—and understanding.

Perhaps this explained why Broderick seemed unbothered by her own spirit.

He had been raised by a woman unafraid to wield her fire.

Her eyes shifted to the next portrait. Hamish MacDougal’s fiery russet hair blazed like a beacon, matching the proud set of his broad shoulders.

The emerald of his eyes mirrored Broderick’s with uncanny precision, as did the angles of his face.

He exuded authority, a man accustomed to having his will obeyed without question.

Davina couldn’t stop a wry snort. Like father, like son.

She stepped closer to the third painting, labeled Maxwell MacDougal .

Midnight-black hair swept down to Maxwell’s shoulders, framing his cut features.

His brown eyes twinkled with a playful glint, one dark brow arched in subtle humor—an expression Davina recognized all too well.

Maxwell must have inherited that devilish smirk from his brother.

His hands rested upon the pommel of his sword, the blade’s tip planted firmly between his feet.

Confidence radiated from him, a man ready to meet life’s challenges head-on.

Finally, her gaze fell upon Donnell MacDougal .

His features were gentler, favoring Moira’s, with soft waves of golden-red hair brushing past his ears in a style that seemed outdated.

His sea-green eyes held a quiet solemnity, lips pressed in a thoughtful line.

He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, sword sheathed at his hip.

There was a dignity to his bearing that tugged at Davina’s heart.

As she studied their clothing—tunics and plaids that looked at least two or three decades out of date, perhaps more—a gnawing curiosity coiled in her chest. Davina narrowed her eyes, her gaze flitting from their garments back to their faces, her mind piecing together a puzzle that felt older than she’d expected.

“Broderick painted these,” Amice said with pride.

Davina stood in awe, staring at the details and emotions brought to life in the figures before her.

She almost expected them to step off the canvas and greet her.

The sheer realism left her speechless. It reminded her of the art she’d seen displayed at court in her youth—vivid, masterful, alive with feeling.

So unlike the stiff, lifeless figures in the holy panels that adorned most churches.

These were not symbols to be worshipped. These were people.

“Broderick has lost everyone important in his life, chérie . Because he opened his heart, he is afraid to love again, afraid to trust. ”

And there it was. That was his armor. While he wore charm and indifference like a shield, she wore her independence like a fortress. They both shared the same hollow ache of lost family, and this common wound forged an invisible link between them. They were more alike than she had ever realized.

“From the first moment I met him,” Davina began softly, “I’ve been unable to get him out of my mind.”

She stepped forward, tracing the eyes of Hamish with her finger, noting how Broderick’s were a far more vivid green. Her fingertips drifted to Maxwell’s handsome mouth, so like Broderick’s roguish grin. She touched her own lips, frowning in thought. “Where is he, Amice?”

Amice took Davina’s hand gently and turned her palm up, studying the lines carved into her skin.

“Broderick told me of my troubled life,” Davina confessed, remembering their first fateful encounter in Aberdeen. “He was right. My husband was a very cruel man, and I’m not sad he’s dead.”

Amice’s brow furrowed, and with tender concern, she cupped Davina’s cheek. “Oh, chérie , you even lost a little one, oui ?”

Davina’s eyes stung as she fought the rising lump in her throat. Her miscarriage. “Aye,” she managed, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You can see such things in my palm?”

Amice nodded solemnly.

“What else do you see, Amice?”

The old woman hesitated, her gaze distant as though peering into depths unseen. After a moment, she lifted her eyes to meet Davina’s. “Broderick is not here right now. But when he returns upon nightfall, I will tell him you were looking for him.”

Amice gently folded Davina’s fingers into her palm and turned away, shuffling toward the steps of her vardo and disappeared inside, leaving Davina with more questions than she’d brought with her. Wherever Broderick was during the day, she would have to wait to find out.

Rosselyn spoke with a Romani woman by a campfire in the distance. As Davina headed toward her, Rosselyn nodded to the woman and frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Davina asked when she reached Rosselyn’s side.

“Nicabar. I can’t find him. He isn’t in his vardo, but he might be off getting wood.” She lifted her eyebrows when she faced Davina. “What did Amice say?”

“That Broderick would return at nightfall.” Davina pursed her lips and folded her arms over her chest. “With no explanation. She said she’d let him know I was looking for him.”

Rosselyn frowned. “Alright. I’ll see if I can find Nicabar and get an answer.” She kissed Davina’s cheek. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”

With a sigh and a nod, Davina made her way back toward the castle, clutching her cloak tighter against the creeping chill of the late morning air.

∞∞∞

Veronique pounded her fist against Nicabar’s caravan door, squinting at the morning sun. She paused only a moment before she continued pounding.

“It is a good thing I am not in there having a nap,” he said from behind her.

Veronique jumped so high, she almost fell off the makeshift wooden steps. “Well, I am glad to see you are alone…for once!”

Nicabar shook his head and ambled toward his vardo. “No one in your kingdom has anything else to do but come to your beckoning call, eh?” He shoved past her and stepped into his dwelling. “Now if you will—”

Veronique followed him into the small wagon, slammed the door, and sat upon his bed, her fingers fumbling to unlace her bodice.

“Veronique—”

“Tell me, Nicabar!” she snapped. “Tell me everything I want to know about Davina! You will get what you asked for!”

Rosselyn stood frozen, her mouth agape as Veronique clambered eagerly into Nicabar’s caravan. The door slammed, and the wagon rocked with the motion. Heat flushed her cheeks despite the chill in the air, a searing contrast to the icy knot tightening in her chest.

For nearly a fortnight, she and Nicabar had shared quiet moments—moments she had dared to hope meant something more. Yet he had made no promises, spoken no tender vows of future plans, not even hinted at love. Still, her heart clenched so painfully she feared it might splinter.

Breath unsteady, Rosselyn tried to quiet the storm raging inside her. He is a free man, she reminded herself. He owes me nothing. He could bed whomever he pleased. But if he chose Veronique—then he would never choose Rosselyn again.

Resolve stiffened her spine. Jaw tight, she crossed the camp with determined steps, each one pounding out the rhythm of her breaking heart. Reaching the wagon, she drew a breath to steel herself, then yanked the door open .