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CHAPTER TWELVE

B y the time they found a spot to make camp, night had settled in fully and the sky was studded with stars. There was no more gold left in the sky, no final brush of daylight and the trail behind them had vanished into shadow, swallowed by the forest’s hush.

Agnes dismounted with a muttered curse, her boots hitting the earth harder than intended. Her thighs ached from the saddle, and her lower back throbbed like it had been beaten with a mallet. She stretched once, hands on her hips, then winced as her joints popped in protest.

Tav landed beside her with the sort of quiet grace that made her jaw drop in awe. He barely made a sound. Just swung down, reins already looped and tucked, his eyes scanning the clearing with that ever-watchful look he wore like second skin.

“I’m fairly certain I’ve bruises in places I cannae name,” she muttered, brushing her hands off on her skirts.

Tav gave a quiet grunt, his version of sympathy. “This spot will dae. There’s a stream just past those birches. We’ll stay the night.”

She was too aware of the dull ache pulsing behind her knees, to even consider arguing.

The place seemed appropriate. While she began to remove the saddlebags from her horse, Tav knelt near a patch of cleared earth and began gathering kindling from the nearby brush, striking flint before she’d even gotten her blanket unfurled.

Within minutes, flames cracked to life between them, casting flickering light across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and the deep line between his brows as he coaxed the fire higher.

Agnes knelt beside her own pack, rummaging through their modest provisions. “If I have tae eat another mouthful o’ jerky, I might start cryin’,” she said, more to herself than him.

He didn’t look up, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “We’ve still got some smoked fish. Bit o’ bread. Apple if it hasn’t turned.”

“Gourmet,” she muttered.

Tav rose and dusted off his hands. Without a word, he moved to unroll their bedding, placing his by the outer edge of the clearing, hers closer to the fire. She watched him work, how efficiently he moved, how he always seemed to know what needed doing without asking.

He returned a moment later, holding out a small cloth-wrapped bundle.

Agnes raised a brow. “Am I meant tae swoon?”

“It’s food,” he replied, deadpan. “Nae a bloody poem.”

Still, she took it from his hand, fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary.

Inside was the usual dinner they’d had since they started the journey, consisting of salted fish, half a heel of bread, and a thin slice of dried apple that looked more like old leather than fruit.

But it was warm by the fire, and the ache in her body softened as she tore the bread in two and handed him a piece.

It wasn’t much, but her stomach welcomed it anyway.

Agnes glanced up to thank him, but Tav didn’t go back to his own space. Instead, he crouched down directly behind her, close enough she could feel the warmth of him at her back.

Her breath caught. “What are ye daein’?”

“Ye said ye could use help with yer hair.”

Her fingers froze around the piece of bread in her hand. “Aye, I did. I didnae think—well, I figured ye’d maybe just hand me a brush.”

“Dinnae own one,” he said dryly, already reaching toward the tangle of her braid. “And it’s easier if I can see it.”

She felt his fingers graze the nape of her neck, warm and deliberate. Slowly, he began to undo the braid, working his way down with careful precision.

Agnes couldn’t move. The sound of the forest fell away. All she could feel was the faint tug of his fingers, the occasional catch of a tiny twig being plucked free, the brush of his knuckles as they passed over her skin.

It was—well, it wasn’t what she expected. It should’ve been awkward. But it was soft and strangely intimate.

Tav worked slowly, methodically, unbraiding her hair until it lay loose down her back in a mess of dark auburn waves, leaves and moss scattered like confetti through it.

“There’s half a forest in here,” he muttered.

Agnes rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “Aye, well. Some o’ us weren’t born wi’ bark fer skin and eyes that glow in the dark.”

He made a soft sound, almost a chuckle, but didn’t rise to the bait.

His fingers moved more gently now, finding the smaller bits, the ones caught close to her scalp.

With each slow pass, she felt her shoulders loosen, the tension bleed away.

It was dangerous, the way this felt. Like something real.

Like something that could last. Even though she knew it couldn’t.

Still, she found herself speaking. “Where’d ye learn tae dae this?”

There was a pause. Then, softly, “Fia.”

Agnes blinked. “Really?”

“Aye. When she first came tae live with us, she’d fall ill. Often. And I—” He hesitated, fingers pausing mid-motion. “Figured I should learn. In case she needed me.”

Agnes turned her head slightly, just enough to see him over her shoulder. “Ye? Braiding hair?”

Tav met her eyes, one corner of his mouth quirking. “Nae well. Took me half a year tae make it look like somethin’ other than a bird’s nest. But I learned.”

Agnes didn’t know what stunned her more—the image of him as a younger man, clumsy fingers learning to twist hair for a sick girl who wasn’t even blood or the fact that he’d shared this with her at all.

Because Tav didn’t talk like that. Tav guarded his words like weapons. And this was raw and quiet softness.

“I didnae think ye had it in ye,” she said, the words escaping before she could temper them.

He didn’t take offense. Just returned his focus to her hair, brushing through a final tangle with his fingers. “Most folk dinnae.”

“That’s because ye go around lookin’ like a man ready tae murder any soul who asks if ye want sugar in yer tea.”

At that, he did laugh. Not loud, but real.

Agnes felt it in her chest. He shifted slightly, and she felt his hands gather the loose waves again.

She held still as he began braiding. His hands were slower this time, more careful.

She could feel each movement, the gentle tug, the precision of his fingers.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was... thoughtful.

His hands brushed the back of her neck again and her entire skin prickled.

“Ye’re full o’ surprises,” she murmured, not daring to look back at him.

“And ye’re full o’ complaints.”

She smiled, small but unguarded. “Aye, but I’m keepin’ most of ‘em tae meself taenight.”

“Grateful fer the mercy.”

His voice was low now, close to her ear. She could feel the heat of him at her back, steady and quiet and undeniably real.

Agnes swallowed. “Tav…”

He paused. Just a beat. Then resumed the braid without a word. And she let him, because if she said one more word or if she turned to look at him now, with the firelight soft against his face and his fingers in her hair, she wouldn’t trust herself to stop.

The way he crouched there, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the hairs at her nape, made her chest ache with something dangerously like hope.

It was not mere duty. It was something that burned deeper, that made her palms itch to turn and frame his face, to demand the truth from those guarded eyes.

But she remained still. What if she’d spun this entire fantasy from stray glances and silences?

What if, in her longing, she’d mistaken pity for passion?

The risk of being wrong lodged in her throat like a stone.

She stayed very still. And yet her mind raced with everything she couldn’t say.

That this felt like something it shouldn’t.

That this small thing—her sitting between his knees, the heat of his thighs bracketing her hips—made her feel more seen than she’d ever been except by her father.

He stirred sensations in her that had no name, the kind that only bloomed under the weight of true affection.

Yet doubt curled like morning mist through her chest. Perhaps she’d simply willed the meaning into existence, mistaking ordinary kindness for something far more dangerous.

There was a quiet reverence to it. His callused fingers ghosted over her scalp with surprising care, catching on the occasional knot but never pulling too hard.

When he reached the bottom, he didn’t tie it straight away.

Just held it there, twisting the final strands slowly between his fingers.

She imagined his hand, tangled in her hair, tugging her head back just enough to claim her mouth with that same rough intensity he did everything else.

Her breath hitched at the imagined scrape of his beard, the heat that would follow?—

“When I used tae practice on Fia,” he murmured, unprompted. “I made such a mess o’ her hair once, I thought she’d kill me wi’ a spoon.”

Agnes let out a quiet laugh. “She sounds like a smart lass.”

“She is.” He tied the braid off at last, the twine knotting with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Agnes turned slowly, her braid falling over her shoulder. “And here I thought ye had nay skill outside swingin’ a sword and scowling.”

“I’ve layers,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh aye? Like an onion?”

“Like a well-armored cake.”

She laughed again, truly this time. And it felt like something clean cracking open in her chest. “I mean it, Tav,” she said, softer now. “Thank ye.”

He nodded. “Dinnae get used tae this. It’s nae what I was made fer.” He paused, voice lower now. “I was built tae fight. Tae kill. That’s what I ken.”

That daesnae make sense.

He was a fighter. That much was undeniable.

His hands bore the scars of a hundred battles, his body a map of ink, old wounds and hard-won victories.

There was a roughness to him, a sharp-edged strength that could make lesser men flinch.

Yet, beneath the calloused exterior, he carried a tenderness that took her breath away.

He could be sweet and caring when it mattered most.