Page 22

Around him, the clearing was a blur of movement and sound. Screams, steel, snarling horses. One of Caithness’s men fell beside him, his axe sliding from his limp fingers. Another mercenary was charging straight at Tav now, face twisted in fury.

Tav let out a hoarse shout and rammed his shoulder into the man's chest, knocking him off his horse. He turned—but the world tilted.

White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen. His vision darkened at the edges.

A blade came at him from the left. He ducked low in the saddle, narrowly avoiding the strike, and lashed out with his own sword. The clang of metal on metal vibrated through his bones. A grunt escaped him as his side protested, but he gritted his teeth and shoved forward.

A Caithness soldier to his right cried out—Tav turned just in time to see him fall from his mount, a gash across his thigh.

Tav spurred his horse forward, putting himself between the man and the oncoming mercenary, parrying two quick strikes before slashing the attacker across the shoulder. The man howled and fell back.

The world narrowed. He didn’t know where his strength came from, only that it hadn’t failed him yet. But his vision was blurry at the edges, and his sword arm trembled when he blocked another vicious blow.

A voice rang out—Caithness’s captain calling for a flank. Tav obeyed, urging his horse into a tight turn and charging toward the thickest knot of attackers. He collided with one head-on, both of them tumbling from their saddles.

The fall knocked the air clean from his lungs, as he hit the ground hard, his sword sliding from his grip as he rolled onto his side, gasping.

Pain flared sharp and white-hot through his wound.

He heard footsteps approaching. A shadow loomed over him, and he barely managed to raise his arms in time to catch the next strike.

The weight of the blade hammered down against his own, jarring every bone in his body.

Tav snarled and shoved up with the last of his strength, unbalancing the man and bringing them both to the ground.

He grappled in the dirt, fumbling for his dagger with numb fingers, finding the hilt just as the mercenary drew a knife from his belt.

Tav drove the dagger up under the man’s ribs.

The man’s eyes went wide. He slumped over Tav’s chest.

Tav rolled him off with a groan and forced himself to sit. Everything ached. Everything throbbed. His vision was pulsing in time with the blood pounding in his ears. He looked down. His tunic was soaked through with red. The linen wrap beneath had split wide.

"Damn," he rasped.

Somewhere to his right, he heard shouting, then the clatter of a sword being dropped. One of the Caithness soldiers had disarmed the last attacker. Another mercenary was already on the ground, groaning. The rest lay still.

It was over.

A pair of boots appeared in Tav’s vision, and a gruff voice barked something he didn’t quite catch. He was distantly aware of hands grabbing him under the arms, dragging him up.

"We’ve got the leader alive," someone else said. “He was givin’ orders. We’ll bring him in fer questioning.”

Tav tried to speak—tried to say something about Agnes, about the trail, about getting her safe inside the castle walls. But the words tangled in his throat. His knees buckled. Hands caught him.

“Easy, man. Hold him up.”

The world was spinning. His ears rang like bells. A soldier slung one of Tav’s arms around his shoulders. Another gripped his other side. Together, they half-carried him toward the castle gates.

The trail darkened under his boots. Blood dripped steadily down his side, soaking through the soldier’s cloak. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one harder than the last.

“Keep him awake!” someone shouted.

“I’m tryin’!”

But Tav’s vision was almost gone. Each step sent fresh lightning bolts of pain through his ribs. He clenched his jaw, willing his legs to move, willing his lungs to keep pulling in air.

He stumbled. One of the men swore.

“Almost there,” someone murmured. “Almost inside.”

The castle gates loomed ahead. He saw the stone archways blur past. The dark shapes of guards. The glint of steel in the sunlight.

And through it all—he felt her.

Agnes.

He remembered her hair catching the wind like fire. Her face pale and worried. Her lips parted, calling his name though he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t reach her.

He wanted to say her name. Just once more. But the pain surged like a wave and everything went black. His last thought before the dark took him was of her. Agnes.

Always her.

The guards didn’t speak as they guided Agnes across the drawbridge. A horn sounded once from the tower above. Doors opened, footsteps gathered. Agnes sat a little straighter, trying to school her expression into something that wasn’t sheer worry or wild confusion.

They passed under the portcullis. The courtyard was wide and clean, cobbled in dark stone, but everything was a blur to her. Servants bustled forward, a few stable boys rushing toward the horses. And then he was there.

Laird Malcolm Caithness.

He descended the steps at the far end of the courtyard with the confidence of a man who had never once been out of place.

Broad-shouldered, towering. His dark hair was tied back, streaked with pale grey at the temples, not unhandsome but severe in its precision.

His eyes were a striking shade of silver-blue.

They met hers immediately and did not waver.

“Lady Agnes Kerr,” he said, voice deep and smooth as polished steel. “At last.”

She dismounted before they could help her, though her knees buckled slightly when her feet hit the ground.

The ride had left her sore and shaken, and her hair was still damp from the river, half-wild around her face.

She probably looked like a madwoman. A madwoman with road mud on her shift and blood beneath her nails.

Still, she curtsied. “Me laird.”

Laird Caithness’s eyes narrowed, as if appraising her. “Ye’ve arrived a bit earlier than expected.”

“We... we were pursued,” she said, glancing over her shoulder before she could stop herself. There was no sign of Tav. No sound of returning riders. Just guards moving in and out of formation, stable hands murmuring to each other in low voices. Her heartbeat thundered.

Caithness nodded once. “I was informed. Yer escort made contact with our forward riders.” His gaze flicked past her, toward the gates. “They’ve engaged the threat.”

The threat. That’s all it was to him. A skirmish at his doorstep.

He didn’t see the man who had thrown himself between Agnes and every danger since they’d left home.

Didn’t see the way her whole body was wound tight with the fear of what might be happening out there, just beyond the reach of these damned stone walls.

“I’d like tae wait fer him,” she said, surprising herself with the urgency in her voice. “The man who brought me—Tav. He—he fought tae keep me safe.”

Laird Caithness’s expression barely shifted. “And he will be honored fer it,” he said evenly. “But ye’re needed inside. There are expectations tae attend. Ye’ll be seen tae.”

“I simply?—”

“Come,” he interrupted, not unkind but firm. “Ye’ve ridden far. We’ll speak after ye’ve had time tae rest.”

He turned without waiting for her to follow.

Agnes stood frozen for a heartbeat, heart still thudding, eyes dragging toward the gates once more. Still no sign of Tav. She inhaled through her nose, clenched her jaw, and followed Caithness into the castle.

Stone swallowed her. The air turned cool and still, the walls echoing with footsteps and formality. She didn’t feel like she was entering her future. She felt like she was leaving something behind. Something she wasn’t ready to lose.