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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“ I ’m Paisley, me lady,” she said softly. “Laird Caithness asked me tae see tae yer needs. If ye’ll follow me, I’ll take ye tae yer chambers.”

The maid waited quietly by the stairs, hands folded, her expression soft and expectant. She looked young, maybe not much older than Agnes herself, with a crown of brown curls tucked under her cap and wide hazel eyes that didn’t flinch from Agnes’s.

Agnes nodded, her limbs leaden and aching with exhaustion.

She followed the girl down a corridor that curved into the west wing.

The castle was unfamiliar and grand, in a way that did not comfort her.

Its long halls echoed strangely, too quiet, too hollow.

Every sound reminded her she did not belong there. And Tav… Tav was not at her side.

They reached a set of oaken double doors carved with a crest she did not recognize, and Paisley opened them to reveal a chamber lit with candlelight. It was beautiful, Agnes supposed. A large bed covered in thick woolen blankets, a roaring hearth, and an ornate tub already steaming in the corner.

“Would ye like help with yer dress, me lady?” Paisley asked, soft and careful.

Agnes hesitated for a bit, then nodded. The maid’s hands were gentle as she helped her undress, then into the bath and finally poured warm water over her hair, the scent of lavender rising around them.

“Ye must be worn through,” Paisley murmured. “The road’s been cruel tae ye.”

Agnes made no reply, afraid of what might come out if she opened her mouth.

Her throat burned with unshed grief, and her lips trembled with the effort to keep herself contained.

If she spoke, even a single word, she feared she might unravel completely.

Her arms curled tightly around herself as she sat in the tub, the heat of the water doing little to thaw the chill that had settled deep in her bones.

She stared down at the surface of the bathwater. It had turned cloudy, swirling faintly with soot and grime from the road, and something about seeing herself faded and distorted in its reflection made her chest tighten painfully. She had never felt so alone. So uncertain.

She blinked hard, willing the tears away as Paisley returned with a soft towel, wrapping it gently around her shoulders. The maid didn’t speak again, but her hands were careful and kind, as if she understood something Agnes couldn’t bring herself to say aloud.

Once dry, Paisley helped her get into a plain blue gown hanging near the hearth.

“Thank ye,” Agnes managed to say, as she moved to the doorway on unsteady legs, refusing the offered tray of food. Her mouth was too dry. Her thoughts too loud.

“Me lady,” Paisley started, “would ye like tae get some rest? Perhaps I could prepare yer bed?”

“Nay,” Agnes shook her head as she headed toward the hall. “I’d like tae wait fer me guard in the hall.”

“Of course, me lady,” the maid said as she bowed her head. “As ye wish.”

She was already moving again when the shouting came from the outer court. She rushed toward the hall.

The castle gates yawned like a beast’s maw, torchlight licking hungrily at the stones as the guards dragged Tav inside.

Agnes stood frozen in the archway, her fingers digging into the damp mortar behind her.

There was only the frantic drumbeat of her heart and the coppery tang of blood thick in the air.

Tav slumped between two guards, his boots scraping trails through the rushes. His head lolled forward, dark hair clinging to his brow, eyelids fluttering as if he were drowning in the very air. The torchlight painted his tunic black where the blood hadn’t already.

"Take him tae the healer! Hurry!" she cried, but the guards were already moving, already rushing Tav toward a door near the great hall. She tried to follow.

The guards hauled Tav down the narrow passageway, his boots dragging twin trails of mud and blood across the flagstones. Agnes followed like a shadow, close enough to hear the wet rasp of his breathing, yet powerless to reach through the wall of armored shoulders separating them.

The healer's door loomed ahead, oak banded with iron. It swung open with a groan of hinges, swallowing Tav whole before slamming shut with a sound like a coffin lid.

Her palm hit the wood before she could stop herself. "Let me in!"

The plea echoed down the empty corridor, unanswered. Somewhere within, a container clattered to the floor. Water sloshed. Then came the first muffled cry of pain. Tav's voice was raw, unrecognizable, and Agnes realized she'd been holding her breath since the door had closed.

She knocked, once, then again.

"Please, let me in!" a cry tore from her throat.

The door opened only slightly. The healer, an older man with white hair tied back in a leather thong and blood already staining his sleeves, peeked through. "Nay."

"Please," she whispered, voice trembling now. "Please, I have tae see him."

"Me lady,” the healer bit out, wiping bloodied hands on his apron, “if ye want me tae save his life, ye’ll let me work. He is burning with fever. He is barely conscious. He needs stillness,” he gave a pointed glare at her white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. “Nae yer fretting."

Another plea burned her tongue, a desperate litany of please and I’ll dae anything .

Her fists clenched at her sides, nails biting half-moons into her palms as if physical pain could eclipse the terror clawing up her throat.

But the healer’s gaze held no cruelty, only the unflinching certainty of a man who’d seen death’s ledger and knew its accounts.

Her hands curled into fists. "Then I’ll stay here."

He raised a brow. "It could take all night."

"Then I’ll stay all night."

“Dae as ye please,” he sighed, then shut the door without another word.

She sank to the floor, pressing her back to the stone wall. Her gown twisted uncomfortably around her legs, and the chill from the ground seeped into her bones, but she didn’t move.

Agnes had never felt so powerless.

Eyes squeezed shut, she focused on the rough texture digging into her scalp, anything to anchor herself against the memory of Tav's limp body dragged through the castle. Her limbs trembled, not from exhaustion but from the sickening realization that she had almost lost him. Might still lose him.

He could die. The thought broke something loose inside her. Her chest ached with it. Minutes passed. Hours. Time became a slow, dragging thing. Servants passed by and tried not to look at her. A few offered her water or bread. She refused it all.

The door finally opened. The healer stepped out, pulling off his bloodied gloves.

She rose to her feet so fast her legs nearly gave out. "Is he?—?"

The healer looked weary. "He lives. Fer now."

She gripped the edge of the doorway. "Is it bad?"

"It is worse than I hoped. There is an older wound—nae healed properly. It has festered. The ride reopened it. I have done what I can. Cleaned it, stitched it, applied salve. But the fever remains. And if it worsens..."

He didn’t finish.

"I have tae see him," she whispered.

He shook his head. "There is risk o’ infection. I will nae let ye in. Fer his sake."

"But ye said he might die. If he’s dying, I want tae be with him."

"He is nae dying. Nae yet. But the line is thin." his voice softened as he spoke the next words. "I will dae everything I can tae bring him back. But ye must go. Rest. If he wakes, I will send fer ye."

Agnes didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Her throat was tight and her heart thundered so loud she thought it might burst through her chest. But she gave a small nod, and let herself be steered away from the heavy door, even as every instinct screamed to turn back .

The hall outside was deserted, quiet but for the low moan of wind threading through the high windows. She dropped to the floor and sat there, not sure whether she was more worried or more relieved that he was alive. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she momentarily closed her eyes.

Or so she thought. She suddenly awoke and looked around. She must have drifted off for a while. As the healer had not come out, she got up and walked swiftly, her bare feet making soft taps on the stone as she descended back toward her chambers.

But as she turned the corner, a shadow moved in front of her.

“Lady Agnes,” came a smooth, pleasant voice.

She startled, stepping back. Laird Caithness stood in the middle of the corridor, dressed not for sleep but still in fine wool with a cloak thrown over his shoulders.

“Me apologies,” she said quickly, her voice hoarse.

His gaze moved over her, curious, perhaps, though not unkind. “Is yer accommodation insufficient in some way?”

“What?” she blinked, startled. “Nay. Nae at all. Everything’s perfect. I… I thank ye, me laird. Truly. I’m very grateful. I just…” Her words caught, and something in her expression must have told him the rest.

“The man,” he said, head tilting slightly. “Yer guard.”

Agnes nodded, her jaw tight.

Caithness was quiet for a moment, then let out a slow sigh. “I understand. Ye care fer him.”

“I—” she hesitated, then looked away. “He’s been wi’ me from the beginning. On the road. He’s… he’s bled fer me.”

“That he has,” the laird murmured. “He’s brave. Loyal.”

“Aye.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

He studied her a moment longer, then extended a hand. “Come. Let’s see if Josiah will speak with us. Perhaps there’s news.”

Surprised, Agnes blinked up at him. “Ye would come wi’ me?”

“O’ course. I would nae have ye wandering these halls alone.”

She followed him without question, heart thudding anew as they walked side by side through the corridors.

The castle no longer felt quite so foreign with company, but her unease had not abated.

She glanced at Caithness once, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the quiet authority in his stride. He was not what she had expected.

When they reached the healer’s door, he knocked softly.