Page 27

CHAPTER TWENTY

T he pain was still there, anchored deep in Tav’s side like a splinter of steel that refused to come loose. But he moved anyway. Walked, breathed, stood—not because he felt ready, but because he couldn’t stay in that room another moment, knowing Agnes was at a ball with another man.

He hadn’t planned to go. The healer had made it clear he needed rest, and every step still made his vision blur at the edges. But sometime in the afternoon, a knock had come at his door. A maid with kind eyes and a bundle of fine clothing in her arms.

"From the laird," she’d said simply. "He asked that ye be dressed properly."

Tav had nodded without answering. He didn’t ask whether Caithness meant it as a courtesy or an obligation. He didn’t want to know.

He’d dressed slowly, methodically, masking the trembling in his hands as best he could.

The jacket was tight across the bandages, the collar a little too stiff for comfort.

Everything smelled faintly of rose oil and fresh starch.

He wasn’t sure what made him angrier, the fact that they’d assumed he’d go, or that he’d done exactly as expected of him.

The hallway to the great hall was already buzzing with laughter and the clink of glass when he arrived.

His boots thudded too heavily on the polished stone, and more than once he had to brace a hand against the wall when the ache in his ribs surged.

But still he moved forward, jaw tight, rage and jealousy burning like coals in his gut.

They carried him more than his own will.

He stepped into the hall.

It was full, bright, too warm. Chatter rose above the strings of a fiddle and the soft trill of a flute. Noblemen with flushed faces raised goblets, ladies in embroidered gowns drifted across the floor like colorful smoke. Tav barely saw them.

Because there, at the center of it all, was Agnes.

Her gown was pale blue, like winter sky just before snowfall, and her auburn hair had been pinned up with silver combs that caught the firelight and scattered it across the room.

She stood beside Laird Caithness, who was taller than Tav expected, well-dressed in black and gold, as he spoke to a passing couple.

They were so close, their arms were touching.

Tav stopped walking. His jaw clenched so tight he thought something might snap. The pain in his side flared, but he barely felt it. His blood was moving too fast. His chest was too full. Caithness turned, caught sight of him, and smiled broadly.

"Graham!" he called, waving him over with the ease of a man already at home in his own victory. "There he is! The man who nearly died bringing me betrothed safely tae me. Gods, I owe ye a drink, at the very least."

Tav forced his feet forward. Each step felt like it echoed louder than the last. When he reached them, Caithness clasped his shoulder briefly in a friendly, grateful way which made his skin crawl. This only made it worse.

"I’m honored ye made it," the laird said. "Especially after what I’ve heard. They say it is nay small wound."

“Thank ye,” Tav inclined his head. "I’m fine."

"More than fine, by the sound o’ it. Six men, was it? Gods, Graham. Laird Kerr must be proud tae have had ye in his service."

The name landed like a blow to the stomach. Duty . That was all this had ever been. That was what Tav kept reminding himself. His eyes flicked to Agnes. She was already looking at him, but the moment their eyes met, she lowered hers, color rising in her cheeks.

That blush nearly undid him.

"Yer betrothed," Tav said, voice rough as he gave Caithness a curt nod, "is safe. That was the task I was given."

"And fulfilled beyond expectation," Caithness replied, all sincerity. "Ye’ll always be welcome in me hall, Graham. I hope taenight ye enjoy yerself. Truly."

Tav managed a nod. Then he shook the laird’s extended hand, his grip firm despite the ache in his ribs. He felt Agnes’ gaze again but didn’t meet it.

Caithness turned as someone called his name across the room, excusing himself politely. Agnes hesitated. For a moment, Tav thought she might say something. But instead she followed after the laird, steps slow and careful.

Tav stood there for a heartbeat longer, surrounded by noise and movement that felt far away. Then he turned and crossed the room, each stride deliberate, until he reached a shadowed chair in the far corner.

He sat. Pain flared in his side, sharp and immediate, but he welcomed it. It gave him something to focus on, except the torment he felt. His breath came in shallow pulls as he leaned back against the wall and looked out over the hall.

The room was full of color, silk, gold-threaded tunics, and gleaming jewels. Music danced through the air, and laughter echoed like a tide crashing against cliffs. Tav watched it all from his distant seat like a ghost at a feast.

Agnes stood at the center of it, glowing like something he couldn’t touch.

Laird Caithness leaned close to say something in her ear, and she laughed—softly, politely.

It wasn’t a real laugh. He knew the sound of her real laugh.

This one was for them. For the nobles and the crowd.

For the life she was supposed to step into.

Tav’s eyes darted away. He couldn’t bear to look at her like that.

His hands clenched on the arms of the chair.

The jacket itched at his throat, and the heat of the fire across the room felt too sharp, too close.

He wanted to tear the damn thing off, walk out, go back to the cold hallway and the quiet bed and forget this whole night existed.

He didn’t know who he was angrier at, Caithness for existing, Agnes for agreeing or himself, for caring. Someone passed by and offered him a drink, a silver goblet heavy with dark wine. Tav took it, nodded his thanks, and held it without drinking. His stomach was too knotted to manage a sip.

Across the room, Agnes smiled at something Caithness said.

Tav looked away again. He couldn’t stay in this chair much longer.

But the standing hurt. Moving hurt. And there was nothing beyond this room that didn’t feel emptier.

So, he stayed, watching her as he felt the fire consuming him from the inside.

He took his eyes away from the center of the room. Away from Agnes. Or at least, he tried.

The ballroom spun on around him, a swirl of laughter, velvet, music, and heat.

Tav sat motionless at the edge of it, one hand clenched around the goblet he hadn't touched.

His side ached in deep, pulsing waves, but he barely registered it anymore.

Rage had dulled the pain to something distant, a drumbeat in the background of something louder.

He heard her laugh again. It was softer now, relaxed. She was settling into the role. The thought turned his stomach. He was about to stand—or try, at least—when a voice beside him made him start.

"Ye're either very mysterious," the voice said, "or just very rude."

Tav blinked and turned slightly. A woman stood beside him.

She didn’t seem noble, and she was not dressed like the rest. Her gown was lovely but clearly a little out of place.

A bit too tight across the ribs, her shoulders set awkwardly, as if she wasn’t used to corsets or careful posture.

Her hair was pinned up loosely, and there was a single smudge of something dark on her glove.

She was smiling. "Forgive me," she added quickly. "I didn’t mean that to sound harsh. I just—well, you look like you’re scowling at the world. Or maybe brooding? Gods, I never know the difference."

Tav stared at her for a beat too long, then gave a slow blink. "I’m nae much o’ a dancer."

"Neither am I," she said brightly. "I think I nearly stepped on three people already, and I’ve only been on the floor once. And this dress was not made for sitting or breathing or moving like a real person."

She said it all in one breath, eyes wide and slightly panicked, then stopped and flushed. "Sorry. I ramble. I don’t usually get invited to things like this. First ball, actually."

Tav let out a sound, a huff that almost counted as a laugh. It startled him more than it did her.

She smiled wider. "Was that a laugh? I think that was a laugh." And without waiting for an invitation, she sank into the chair beside him, tugging at the bodice of her dress with a small, resigned huff.

“So,” she said, tilting her head toward him, “where are you from, then? I’ve never seen ye around before.”

Tav turned to look at her, one brow lifting. “Didnae ye say this was yer first ball?”

She blinked, then laughed, a short, surprised sound.

“Oh, well, first proper ball. I’ve been to tae before.

Dinners, dull things with too many forks.

Just not this sort of spectacle.” She grinned.

“Still, I’ve got a decent eye fer people.

And ye—” she gestured toward him with a gloved hand, “ye dinnae look like you were born to waltz through a ballroom.”

Tav allowed himself a faint smile. “That obvious, is it?”

She giggled, covering her mouth with one gloved hand. "Fair enough. I've never been to anything with string quartets and champagne towers."

Tav gave a faint smile.

"I’m Isla," she said, leaning forward in the chair, toward him. "Isla Moore. I’m originally from London, but I’ve been staying here since last year, And ye are... clearly hiding."

"Tav," he said. He hesitated, then added, "Tav Graham."

"A pleasure, Tav Graham." Her tone was theatrical, mock-formal, but there was warmth behind it.

She leaned back slightly, adjusting the bodice of her dress as subtly as she could manage. "So, where are you from?"

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes had drifted again, drawn by some terrible instinct, to the dancefloor. Agnes. She was dancing now. With Caithness.