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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A gnes had danced three times. Three full, careful, elegant dances in Laird Caithness’ arms, with her chin high and her smile painted on as though it had been stitched there by a seamstress.

She was tired. The kind of exhaustion that pressed into one’s chest like wet wool, suffocating and heavy.

Her cheeks still held the flush of forced laughter, and the skin just beneath her eyes ached from holding herself in place for too long.

She sat now on the edge of one of the cushioned benches that lined the far wall of the hall, a half-full goblet of wine cradled loosely in her hands.

Her fingers were chilled from the glass, but she barely noticed.

All she could think of was Tav.

He hadn’t returned. After seeing him across the ballroom, after watching him sit with that girl—her face clanged in Agnes’ mind like a dropped pan—he’d simply vanished.

She tilted the goblet toward her lips, then stopped, letting it rest just against her bottom lip instead of drinking. Her tongue tasted nothing.

She shifted in her seat and crossed her ankles, then uncrossed them a moment later. The fabric of her gown whispered with every movement, silk sliding against silk. She wanted to rip the sleeves off. To tear the combs from her hair and throw them into the fire. Nothing about tonight felt like her.

A shadow moved in her periphery, and she looked up. Caithness. He approached at a gentle pace, his expression unassuming, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His gaze flicked to her wine, then to her face.

"Ye look pale," he said, his tone low. "Is everything alright?"

Agnes summoned another smile. It barely reached her eyes. "I’m fine. Just tired. The journey was longer than expected."

He nodded, his brow furrowed faintly, but not with suspicion. With concern. He crouched slightly beside her seat so they were nearer in height.

"It must have taken more out o' ye than ye let on," he said. "And then this, taenight—it’s a lot. I ken that."

Agnes looked at him. Really looked. He was a good man. Sincere. He had done nothing wrong. And still, something inside her buckled.

"I think I may go tae me chambers soon," she said softly. “I would appreciate the rest.”

He nodded. "O’ course. Ye dinnae owe anyone yer whole night. Certainly nae after what ye’ve endured."

Relief bloomed in her chest so fast it felt like the first real breath she'd taken in hours.

She started to rise, and Caithness reached to take the goblet from her hands.

Their fingers brushed, and she flinched before she could stop herself.

He froze for a moment, then took the cup gently and placed it on the tray of a passing servant.

"Shall I escort ye?" he asked.

Agnes hesitated. "I think I’d prefer tae go alone. I wouldn’t want yer guests tae miss ye, me laird."

He paused, then gave a small, understanding smile. "All right."

She walked slowly. Each step was a small mercy.

Her limbs ached with exhaustion, her head heavy with too much noise and too little rest. The long corridor leading to her room stretched like a tunnel, lined with flickering sconces and silence.

She moved through it like a ghost, hands brushing lightly against the cold stone walls, her thoughts spinning like dead leaves in wind.

The doorknob turned easily in her hand. But the moment she stepped inside, she stopped.

Tav.

Standing in the center of her chamber, as if he’d been waiting for hours. His jacket was still on, though wrinkled and askew, and his stormy eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them. Wild. Ragged.

The man standing before her was a frayed rope moments from snapping.

Moonlight through the window slats painted stripes across Tav’s hunched shoulders, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the bedpost. Every breath he took looked like it cost him, his ribs expanding too fast beneath his thin linen shirt, his throat working as if swallowing knives.

Agnes froze, her hand still on the door latch. The click of it shutting echoed like a gunshot in the stillness.

"What are ye daeing here?" Her voice came out strangled, the words tangling with the heartbeat lodged in her throat. The floorboards creaked as she took an involuntary step back, her stomach plummeting as if she’d missed a stair.

Tav’s laugh was a hollow thing. "Waiting fer ye." Too calm. It didn’t match the wreckage in his eyes, the tremor in his fingers where they dug into the wood.

"Are ye mad?" The air left her lungs in a rush. "Have ye gone completely insane? Ye shouldnae be here—Tav—ye cannae?—"

"Aye." The word landed like an axe blow.

He pushed off the bedpost, and for the first time she saw the fever-bright glaze over his eyes, the sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples.

"I think I have. I think I am." A step closer.

The scent of him filled the space between them.

"Gods, Agnes. I’ve tried, I—" His voice broke on her name, and the sound of it undid her.

Agnes stepped forward, her anger igniting like dry tinder. "Tried what?" The words lashed out, sharp enough to draw blood.

Tav’s laugh was a harsh scrape of sound. "Tried tae stay away. Tried tae be the dutiful guard, the honor-bound soldier—all the things I’m meant tae be." His fingers flexed at his sides, as if gripping an invisible sword.

She crossed her arms tight over her chest, her nails biting into her own sleeves. "And what exactly is this, then?" The waver in her voice infuriated her. "Honor-bound madness?"

"This is me failing," he said, and took a step closer. The space between them crackled. "Failing tae pretend I dinnae feel what I feel every time ye walk into a room. Every time ye laugh. Every time ye breathe."

"Ye had a strange way o’ showing it," she snapped. Heat flooded her cheeks as the memory struck—his dark head bent toward that girl’s face, their shared smiles in the candlelight. "With yer new wee friend at the ball. Ye seemed tae enjoy that conversation too much."

"Isla?" Tav’s voice tipped into incredulity. "She sat beside me. Gods, I barely said ten words tae the lass."

"Ye laughed." The accusation tore from her, raw-edged.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "So did ye," he growled. "I watched ye dance with him. Watched him put his hands on ye like ye were already his." Another step. His breath hit her cheek. "And ye let him."

She stepped forward, fire in her eyes. “I had tae. I’m tae marry him. Or did ye forget?”

“Nae,” Tav said, bitter. “I’ve nae forgotten. I watched every bloody step ye took with him. I saw the way he looked at ye.”

“And what way is that?”

Tav held her gaze. “Like he owns ye.”

Agnes flinched. Then squared her shoulders.

“Better that than being ignored while ye flirt with someone else,” she said.

“Is that what this is really about?” Tav asked. “Ye want tae keep count? Should I have spun Isla around the floor tae make it even?”

“Ye already did enough. Ye looked comfortable.”

“I was pretending,” Tav said, taking a step forward with hands shaking at his sides. “Just like ye were.”

The air between them vibrated with heat. Neither stepped back. Neither gave in. Agnes shook her head, trying to swallow the storm rising in her chest. “This is madness.”

“Aye,” Tav said again, stepping closer, his voice rough. “And yet I cannae stop.”

His hand lifted to her face. He stopped just short of touching her.

“Tell me tae go,” he said. “And I will.”

Agnes didn’t speak. The world narrowed as the calloused pad of his thumb traced her jawline. The touch was so light it might have been imagined, were it not for the wildfire it left in its wake. His fingers trembled slightly, as if he feared she’d vanish like mist if he pressed too hard.

Then he surged forward.

Her lips met his with none of the hesitation his touch had carried.

It was no gentle courtship kiss, but something fiercer.

It was the culmination of every stifled glance, every unspoken word, every night she’d lain awake aching for this.

The taste of him flooded her senses as her fingers fisted in his shirt, anchoring herself against the dizzying realization that she’d crossed a line there’d be no coming back from.

It was not gentle. It was fire meeting fire. Her hands fisted in his coat, pulling him closer as his mouth claimed hers like he was starving for her. She gasped when he pushed her back, pressing her against the door, one hand tangling in her hair.

“Gods,” he murmured against her lips. “Ye drive me mad.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Then we match.”

His lips captured hers again, but where the first kiss had been wildfire, this one was slow-burning embers, devastating in its patience.

One broad hand cradled the base of her skull, fingers tangling in the loose hairs at her nape, while the other traced the silk-clad curve of her waist with reverence.

His touch skimmed lower, mapping the flare of her hips through the fabric as if committing her shape to memory, fingertips pressing just hard enough to leave phantom imprints on her skin beneath.

"This dress," he muttered against the column of her throat, his teeth grazing the frantic pulse there.

The words vibrated through her, warm and rough as aged whisky.

"It's tryin' tae kill me." His palm slid up her ribcage, the heat of it searing through the delicate fabric. "All this bloody silk...."

Agnes arched into his touch, her breath hitching as his mouth found the sensitive hollow behind her ear. "It's tryin' tae kill me too," she gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

A low growl rumbled against her collarbone. "Let me help."

She felt rather than saw his hands move to the back, the sudden cool air on her spine as he began working the fastenings. His fingers, usually so sure with a sword, trembled slightly against the intricate loops and buttons. The unexpected vulnerability made her stomach flutter.