Page 16

And the strangest part? It suited him, as much a part of him as the steel in his spine. That duality made him unlike anyone she had ever known.

She adored the way he could be lethal one moment and achingly gentle the next.

The way his hands, capable of breaking bones, could untangle her hair with reverence.

The way his voice, so often a growl, could soften into something warm, something almost hers .

She had never met a man who could wield both violence and tenderness with such ease. And she doubted she ever would again.

Because the truth was tenderness did suit him. Not in spite of his strength, but because of it. Was this tenderness hers alone to witness? She chewed her bottom lip, debating on what to say to him. Then she raised her eyes to his and spoke.

“I dinnae believe ye,” she said flatly.

Tav didn’t look up. “About what?”

“That tenderness dinnae suit ye.”

The words brought him up short. His shoulders hunched, tension coiling tight across his back, and yet still, he refused to look at her.

After a beat of silence he sighed, low and exasperated. “Agnes.”

“Nae, listen.” She shifted, pulling a blanket tight around her shoulders, her voice softening but her tone still edged with defiance.

“Ye act like softness is some kind of weakness. Or that ye’re pretendin’, somehow.

But I’ve seen it. When it’s just the two of us.

” She gestured lazily with her hand. “Like when ye taught me how tae hold a blade without cuttin’ off me own fingers.

Or when ye shielded me from those scouts without thinkin’ twice.

And now, this—” She lifted the end of her braid pointedly. “Ye didnae have tae dae this.”

He set the dagger down at last, carefully, the blade glinting once before he folded his hands in his lap.

“Agnes,” he said again, slower this time.

She raised a brow. “What? Too close tae the mark?”

“Too close tae what should be left alone. Ye shouldnae be thinking about this.”

She blinked, startled. “That’s convenient, isnae it?”

“I’m bein’ serious.”

“Ye think I’m jesting then?” she shot back, the heat rising in her chest. “Ye can act like ye’re naethin’ but duty and blade, but I ken better.

Ye’ve got more heart than ye like tae show, and if ye didnae want me tae see it, ye should’ve been less good at hidin’ me behind trees and fixin’ me damn hair. ”

His jaw flexed, but his voice was calm. “This—whatever ye think this is—it's just part o’ gettin’ ye tae Laird Caithness. Safely. That’s all.”

She stared at him, eyes narrowing. “Ye expect me tae believe that?”

“I expect ye tae sleep,” he replied, already reaching for the flask at his side. “It’s late. We’ll ride early.”

“Tav—”

“Nay,” he said, and this time his tone left no room for anything else. “Ye need rest. I’ll take first watch.”

Agnes clamped her mouth shut. She knew that tone. It was the one he used when he was drawing a line too sharp for argument. And though she wanted to snap something back, she didn’t. She just let the words die on her tongue.

Instead, she pulled her blanket up and flopped onto her side with far more noise than necessary. “Fine,” she muttered into the folds of wool. “Act like a stone wall. That’ll keep ye warm.”

Tav didn’t answer. But she heard him shift, settling against a tree a few paces from the fire. She heard the rhythmic sound of his knife rasping against a whetstone, low and steady. Agnes sighed.

She lay still for a moment, eyes fixed on the flames, her braid coiled beside her like a sleeping snake. The night was crisp but not bitter, the fire’s warmth enough to keep the worst of the chill away. Overhead, stars glittered like scattered pins in a bolt of velvet.

She shouldn’t have pushed him. And yet... she hadn’t said anything untrue. She closed her eyes and, after a while, with no other sound but Tav’s careful sharpening and the quiet hush of wind in the trees, Agnes began to hum.

It wasn’t loud. Just a gentle thread of melody, soft as breath. An old lullaby, one her wet nurse used to sing to her when she was a child. She hadn’t thought of it in years, but now the tune floated out of her without thinking.

“Tae sleep, lass, and close yer weary eyes,” she murmured, barely louder than the fire. “The wind will sing, the stars will rise…”

The rasping of Tav’s blade stopped. Agnes kept humming. Then, to her astonishment, another voice joined hers. Low. Rougher. Slightly off-key in parts, but unmistakably him.

“The hills will watch ye through the night, and keep ye safe 'til morning light…”

Her breath hitched. She didn’t move. She just let the lullaby continue, both their voices mingling in the stillness, a fragile little song held between them like a secret.

When the last note faded, Tav spoke again, quietly, “Me ma used tae sing that.”

Agnes turned her head slightly toward him, her cheek pressed against her blanket. “Me wet nurse sang it tae me, too.”

He nodded once, almost invisible in the dark. “She always said the hills were sacred. That they kent things we didnae.”

Agnes let out a slow breath, her chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire. “Maybe they dae.”

She watched him for another long moment, his face caught in the flicker of flame. He looked tired. Not just from travel. But from years of duty. From all the things he carried and never set down.

“Goodnight, Tav,” she whispered.

His gaze didn’t leave her. But he smiled, “Sleep well, lass.”

Agnes curled closer into her blanket, the firelight dancing behind her closed eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the ache in her chest quieted.

She didn’t know what waited at the end of this journey. But right then, she didn’t feel quite so alone.