Page 24

Josiah answered, looking weary, his apron stained with something dark. His eyes fell to Agnes at once, and his face softened.

“How is he?” she asked before anyone could speak.

The healer stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him.

“He still sleeps,” he said. “The fever’s strong. But I’ve drained the wound and applied poultices. Now we wait.”

“Can I see him?”

Josiah hesitated, then shook his head. “Nae yet, me lady. Not while the fever runs so hot. If he were tae awake now, he wouldnae ken where he is.”

Agnes’s heart clenched. “But he’s… alive?”

“Fer now,” the healer said gently. “And I’ll fight tae keep him that way.”

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, biting back a sob. Caithness placed a hand on her back, not ungentle.

"Josiah," the laird’s calm voice cut through the healer’s protests. "Would ye deny a man the one face that might pull him back from the dark? She is the reason he’s in there—that might help him. Her…appreciation."

A beat of silence. The healer’s jaw worked, his gaze flicking between the Laird’s steady calm and Agnes’s white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. Finally, with a grunt, he stepped aside.

"Five minutes," Josiah warned. "And if he stirs, ye call me at once."

Agnes didn’t move. The door stood ajar now, revealing a sliver of shadowed room—the flicker of candlelight on damp stone, the scent of vinegar and crushed herbs, the low, ragged sound of Tav’s breathing.

The laird’s hand brushed her shoulder, just once.

"Go on, lass." Tav lay in the center of the room, swathed in blood-stained bandages and half-tangled linens.

His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, like a drowning man clawing for breath beneath invisible waves.

His skin looked pale as bone in the firelight, slicked with sweat that gleamed across the bruised ridges of his torso.

Agnes faltered, just for a moment.

Her hand clutched the edge of the doorway tae hold her upright. She had wept before. Outside the healer’s door, when the worst had seemed inevitable. But this was the kind of pain that bloomed in the unbearable knowledge that she could do nothing but watch him slip further away.

“Go on,” Caithness said quietly behind her.

“Thank ye,” she whispered. “Fer lettin’ me see him.”

The laird gave a small, respectful nod. “He’d want ye near.”

Then he turned and left, pulling the door gently shut behind him.

Her feet were soundless against the rushes as she approached the bed, every step careful, as if the wrong movement might wake some lurking spirit in the room. The air was thick with heat. All of her focus narrowed to the man lying motionless in the center of the bed.

She knelt beside him without thinking, as if her body was no longer waiting for her permission. Her skirts spilled around her knees like ink, pooling on the floor in soft, crushed folds.

Her gaze moved over him, registering the way his lips parted slightly with every strained breath, like he was tasting the air for something that had already slipped away. Sweat glistened across his brow and hairline, darkening the strands until they stuck in damp curls.

The sob came up too fast to stop. Agnes clapped a hand to her mouth, but the sound escaped anyway, muffled but raw. Her shoulders shook as the tears pushed free, slipping down her cheeks in quiet streams.

“Tav,” she breathed, voice breaking around the name. “Ye daft, brave fool...”

She bowed her head. The sobs came harder then, wracking her chest, shaking her ribs until it felt like her body might split from the ache.

All the fear she had buried during the ride, all the horror she’d shoved down while waiting for him to come back, all the love she hadn’t dared name poured out of her in great, shuddering gasps.

She cried until the fire blurred through her tears. Until her throat felt raw and hollow. Until she had nothing left but the sound of his breathing and the faint crackle of the hearth.

She closed her eyes. Let the silence fall heavy again.

“Agnes...”

Her eyes flew open. His voice was barely a breath, hoarse and slurred. But he still spoke her name.

“Agnes,” he murmured again, his brow twitching faintly, lips dry and cracked.

She surged forward, gripping his hand with both of hers. Her heart stuttered so hard it almost hurt.

“I’m here,” she said, leaning in close. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m here, Tav. Ye’re safe. Gods, ye’re safe. Ye’re alive.”

He groaned softly, head shifting on the pillow. His eyes didn’t open. Whatever dream he was trapped in, it held him fast. But his fingers twitched weakly in hers, like some part of him knew she was there.

“I’m right here,” she whispered again, pressing his hand to her cheek.

She glanced around the room for something that could help him. A basin sat beside the bed, filled with water gone cool. A clean, white cloth rested beside it. She reached for both with shaking hands, dipping the cloth and wringing it out until it dripped softly into the bucket.

Then she returned to his side and pressed it gently to his brow.

He twitched at the touch but didn’t pull away. She worked slowly, carefully, brushing sweat from his face, his temples, down the side of his neck. Each pass of the cloth felt like a prayer, a way to tether him here.

Tav muttered again, something unintelligible this time, but the sound broke her open all over again. She leaned down and kissed his knuckles.

“I willnae leave ye,” she said. “Even if ye never open yer eyes again. I’ll be right here.”