Page 26

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T he pain came first.

A dull, pulsing heat, like coals smoldering just beneath the skin.

Then came the sharp, stabbing ache in his side with every breath, the stiffness in his limbs, the dry, cloying taste of metal and moss on his tongue.

Tav drifted up from the depths like a man surfacing through thick ice, the light overhead faint and far away.

He didn’t know where he was.

For a moment, there was nothing but fragments.

The cold bite of wind. The clash of steel.

A boot striking his ribs. Someone shouting his name, distant and desperate.

Then—nothing. Just black. Now, something warm brushed against his skin.

A hand, maybe. The smell of lavender and firewood floated nearby.

He forced his eyes open. The light stabbed through his skull like a blade. A groan escaped from his chest. Movement stirred beside him. Then a voice, low and sharp with relief.

“Tav?”

Agnes.

His gaze was slow to focus, like trying to see through water, but he managed to turn his head slightly.

She was there, sitting in a chair drawn close to the bed, her fingers curled tightly in her lap.

Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were rimmed red.

But her face lit with something fierce and unguarded when she saw him blink.

“Ye’re awake,” she breathed, as if the words might scare him back into the dark.

He blinked again. Swallowed, though it felt like gravel in his throat. “What… happened?”

Agnes leaned forward, brushing a damp curl back from his forehead. “During the fight… the wound in yer ribs tore open. Ye were bleedin’ badly, Tav. We nearly lost ye.” Her voice caught, but she steadied it. “The healer says ye’re past the worst o’ it now. Ye’ve been unconscious fer a day.”

A day. Gods.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain flared through his side, hot and cruel. He hissed through clenched teeth.

Agnes reached out instinctively, one hand on his shoulder. “Easy,” she murmured. “The healer says ye need rest. But the medicine he gave ye is helping. He said ye’d be on yer feet soon enough.”

Tav let out a breath, head sinking back against the pillow. His ribs screamed, but the pain was distant compared to the whirlwind in his chest.

She was there. Safe .

“Have…” he rasped, eyes flicking toward her, “Have ye been here? The whole time?”

Agnes shifted. “I… I stayed a bit,” she said, looking away too quickly.

His brow rose slightly, though even that hurt. “A bit?”

She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, as a faint blush crept up her neck.

He watched her for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until her shoulders stiffened.

Then, slowly, gritting his teeth against the pull of pain in his side, he raised one trembling hand.

The motion felt like dragging lead through water, every inch a battle.

But he pushed through it, breath shallow, until his fingers touched the curve of her cheek.

She looked back, startled, but didn’t pull away.

“Thank ye,” he said softly. “Fer stayin’.”

Agnes swallowed. Her lips parted like she might say something, but the words didn’t come.

Tav didn’t need them. The way she leaned into his touch, the way her eyes shimmered was enough for him. Enough to let something unspoken and raw settle heavy in his chest. The feel of her beneath his hand steadied him more than the healer’s draught ever could.

A knock at the door broke the moment. Agnes drew back quickly, standing. The door opened, and the healer stepped in. A stout man with white hair and the no-nonsense air of someone who’d seen far too many close calls.

“Ah. Ye’re up,” Josiah said, nodding approvingly. “Good. Means the poultice helped.”

“I’ll give ye a moment,” Agnes said, smoothing her skirts. She gave Tav a small, lingering glance before slipping out the door, closing it behind her.

Josiah set a small wooden tray down beside the bed. It held a fresh bandage, a pot of salve, and something sharp-looking Tav chose not to examine too closely.

“How dae ye feel?” the healer asked.

“Like someone ran me through wi’ a spear,” Tav muttered.

Josiah gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. “Aye, well. It was a blade, nae a spear, but close enough. Let’s have a look.”

Tav braced himself as the healer peeled back the blanket and began to unwrap the bandage at his side. The moment the cloth pulled away, pain flared anew, making his breath hitch.

“Hold still,” Josiah said, his tone calm but firm. “It’s clean, which is a bloody miracle. Ye must be made o’ stone.”

Tav gritted his teeth. “More like stubborn.”

Josiah snorted. “That too.”

The salve stung when it touched raw flesh, but Tav didn’t cry out. He’d known worse. But this hurt in a different way. It reminded him of how close he’d come to losing everything. Of how, if the tide had turned a moment later, Agnes might have been standing over his grave instead of his bed.

“Ye fought like hell,” Josiah said after a while. “I heard it took six o’ them tae bring ye down. That true?”

Tav didn’t answer.

“Foolish,” Josiah muttered, applying a fresh wrap with more gentleness than Tav expected. “But brave. And lucky. Most men wouldnae have survived it. Ye were burning up when they dragged ye in. We thought we’d lose ye before nightfall.”

“But ye didnae,” Tav said, voice rough.

Josiah glanced at him, and for a moment, the stern lines of his face eased. “Nay. We didnae.”

Tav let his head fall back again, eyes on the wooden beams above. “Thank ye.”

Josiah nodded once, then finished tying the bandage. “Ye’re out o’ danger now. The wound will ache, and it’ll take time, but ye’ll heal. If ye rest.”

“Resting’s nae exactly me strong suit,” Tav muttered.

“Well, it’s about tae become it,” Josiah said, rising. “They’ll ready a chamber fer ye in the west wing—quiet, warm, and close enough fer me tae check in. Ye’ll rest there. A week, at least. More, if that fever returns. Dae ye understand me?”

Tav managed a wry smile. “Aye.”

“Good. Because I willnae chase ye through these halls if ye decide tae be a hero again. Next time, I’ll let the fever finish the job.”

Tav nodded, genuine this time. “I’m grateful.”

Josiah packed up his things, pausing at the door. “She sat with ye, ye know. All night. Wouldnae eat. Wouldnae sleep. Just watched over ye. Ye’ve been good tae her… it seems.”

Tav lay motionless in the bed, the silence pressing in like a second weight on his chest. Then the healer left, the door shutting with a soft click behind him. That last line lingered. It seems . As if Josiah hadn’t made up his mind about whether Tav deserved her care. And yet, she’d stayed.

Tav closed his eyes. Her touch still lingered on his cheek, feather-light and impossible to forget.

He hadn’t meant to reach for her. Hadn’t planned to say anything.

But the words had come from somewhere deep, somewhere beyond pain and reason.

And the way she’d looked at him with that unguarded sorrow.

That barely restrained fear had cracked something open inside of him.

He would heal. He always did. But the thing stirring in his chest… he didn’t know what to do with it.

He turned his head slowly, wincing as the motion tugged on something stitched deep in his side.

His breath hissed between his teeth. Gods, it felt like his ribs were being pulled apart and sewn back together with each inhale.

But still, he craned his neck enough to look at the chair she had been sitting in.

It was empty now. Just the faint impression of her weight in the cushion, and a folded blanket that had slipped to the floor when she’d stood. He could see her fingers in the way it had been tucked earlier—precise, gentle, as if even a blanket deserved to feel cared for.

A soft chime echoed from somewhere beyond the door, distant but clear. Tav guessed it was the healer summoning help, likely. His body still felt like it had been carved from stone and stitched back together with coarse thread. He barely had the strength to shift against the pillow, let alone rise.

Footsteps followed a moment later, quick but measured. A maid entered the room with the ease of someone used to moving through quiet places. She looked young, no older than Agnes, but her expression carried a sort of practiced calm.

She paused just inside the doorway, her hands clasped neatly before her. When her eyes met his, she dipped into a slight curtsy.

“Yer room’s been prepared, sir,” she said gently. Her voice was soft-edged and certain. “West wing. Warm and quiet. Laird Caithness asked it be close enough fer the healer tae reach ye easily. He said ye might need checking in on more than once a day.”

Tav raised an eyebrow, though the motion tugged unpleasantly at the muscles along his neck. “Aye? Did he now?”

The maid offered a brief smile. “He did. Said ye looked like the type who’d try tae drag yerself out the door before ye were half-healed.”

Tav let out a soft breath through his nose, close to a laugh, though it ended in a grimace. “He’s nae wrong.” He tried to shift his legs toward the edge of the bed, each movement sending sharp sparks of pain through his side. The wound throbbed beneath the bandages, stubborn and angry.

The maid stepped forward instinctively, one hand halfway outstretched, but she hesitated when he held up a palm.

“I can manage,” he muttered.

“Aye,” she said, not pressing further. “But ye’ll take it slow, or Josiah will have me cleanin’ chamber pots fer a month.”

Tav didn’t argue with that.

He planted his feet on the ground, every inch of his body protesting, and braced himself on the edge of the mattress.

Just sitting upright sent a fresh wave of sweat to his brow, and he clutched the bedpost until the room stopped its slow, lazy spin.

He had to grip the bedpost to keep from pitching over.

The maid moved toward him instinctively, but he shook his head. “I’m nae made o’ glass,” he muttered.

“Nay,” came a voice from the doorway, soft and firm at once. “But ye’re nae made o’ iron either.”

Agnes. She had been there… all that time. She stepped into view, her presence like a gust of warm air through a window left ajar. She wasn’t smiling, exactly, but her eyes were bright and searching. She looked like someone who hadn’t dared hope until this very moment.

“Ye’re walking?” she asked, voice breathy.

“Sort o’,” Tav grunted, trying to straighten his spine. It didn’t work. The pain wouldn’t let him. “More like shufflin’.”

Agnes moved to his side, slipping her arm beneath his without hesitation. “Let me help ye.”

He wanted to protest. He wanted to be strong. But strength wasn’t in his limbs right now. It was in not pushing her away.

They walked slowly, following the maid down the hall.

Tav hated how much he leaned on her. Hated the grimace that carved itself into his face with every second step.

The castle air was cool but sweat slicked his neck and gathered at the back of his knees.

His wound throbbed with every heartbeat, and more than once, he caught Agnes looking at him with worry she didn’t bother to hide.

They reached the room without speaking. The maid opened the door and stepped aside, revealing a modest chamber lit by soft afternoon light spilling through tall windows.

The bed looked almost too clean to touch.

The fire had already been lit, and a small armchair sat by the hearth.

Bookshelves lined one wall, their contents neat and unassuming.

Agnes helped him over the threshold. He paused there, catching his breath.

“Ye alright?” she asked softly.

He gave her a look. “Ye ken the answer.”

She smiled then, barely, and guided him the last few steps to the bed. He sat down hard, a sharp gasp escaping as his ribs protested.

The maid lingered only a moment longer at the door. “If ye need anything just ring the bell there on the table,” she said, nodding toward a small brass piece beside the hearth. “I’ll be close by.” Her voice was gentle, but firm enough to make it clear she expected him to use it if necessary.

Then she curtsied once more, gave a small, knowing smile to Agnes, and slipped out, pulling the door softly shut behind her.

Agnes hovered nearby. “Is it worse?”

“Nae worse than it’s been.”

“Ye’ve always been a poor liar.”

Tav didn’t argue. She looked around the room, then back at him. Her fingers were still laced together at her waist, as if unsure whether to stay or leave.

“I… wanted tae tell ye something,” she said at last.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to look calm despite the sweat beading at his temples.

“There’s goin’ tae be a ball.”

His stomach turned.

“A ball?”

“Aye. Laird Caithness is throwing it. Fer… the engagement.” She said it carefully, like she was testing the weight of the word in her mouth.

He kept his face still. It was harder than he’d expected.

“I see.”

“He invited ye, if ye feel up tae it.”

He looked away. “We’ll see.”

There was a pause.

“I thought ye might want tae ken,” she added, voice quieter now.

He nodded. “I appreciate it.”

Agnes stepped back toward the door but didn’t leave. Her eyes lingered on him. Something flickered there—uncertainty? Guilt? He couldn’t name it.

“I should get ready,” she said, voice low. “But I’ll come check on ye later. Make sure ye’re settled.”

“Alright.”

She gave a small nod, turned, and slipped through the door, closing it softly behind her.

Tav let his head fall back against the wall behind the bed, the pain in his ribs flaring again. He clenched his jaw, breathing through it. The room was quiet now, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, the scent of pine and smoke drifting on the air.

He should rest. He should be grateful to be alive.

And he was. But still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d said “engagement.” Not like someone in love.

Not like someone who was sure. And gods, he hated that he was thinking about it as if her liking the engagement or not would make much of a difference.

He shifted on the bed, groaning at the sharp bolt of pain in his side.

Pain he understood. Pain made sense. But not whatever had lodged itself in his chest when she had walked away. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t scar. And it wasn’t going anywhere.