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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T he first thing Agnes registered was the absence of weight beside her.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, reluctant against the early light filtering through the curtains.

She was warm, cocooned in the remains of tangled blankets, her cheek still resting in the hollow Tav had left behind.

For a moment, she just lay there, basking in the muted hush of morning and the memory of his arms around her.

And then, she realized he wasn’t there. She sat up too quickly, the sheet falling from her bare chest as her eyes swept the room.

No sign of him. His clothes were gone from the floor, his boots no longer tucked beside hers.

The hearth still held the scent of embers and ash, but the man himself had vanished.

Agnes stared at the vacant space beside her, one hand gripping the edge of the blanket.

Her skin still hummed from the memory of the night before—the press of his mouth on her skin, the way his voice had broken when he had said her name, the weight of his body as he lowered her to the bed.

She flushed just thinking about it, her lips parting slightly, breath catching as heat swept up her neck.

She had never known pleasure could feel like that. Her fingertips drifted to her shoulder where he’d kissed her, softly, like a vow. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. God, it had felt like everything.

But then, why had he left? The question cut clean through the golden haze still curling in her limbs, slicing straight to the core of her.

Had he regretted it? Had the night meant something only to her?

Maybe it had been just a lapse for him. Some sort of an emotional misstep in a moment of exhaustion.

A weakness. A soldier's instinct to reach for comfort after pain. Nothing more. She was a woman he’d sworn to protect.

A duty. Was that all she had been, even now?

She frowned and swung her legs over the side of the bed, drawing the blanket up around her with a sudden, self-protective jerk. Her body ached from him, hips and thighs and chest marked by what they’d done. But it was a good ache. It was an ache that spoke of closeness, of something true.

And yet her chest felt too tight. He hadn’t said anything about leaving.

Not a word. No kiss pressed to her shoulder.

No whispered goodbye. Had someone come for him?

Had Caithness sent for him? Or one of his men?

Had some new threat appeared? Or—her heart stuttered—had he simply woken, looked at her curled beside him, and decided the whole thing had been a mistake?

Agnes pressed her fingertips to her lips, remembering the way he’d kissed her.

The way he’d breathed her in like she was air after drowning.

That couldn’t have been a mistake for him.

No, Tav wasn’t that man. He wasn’t cruel.

He had probably crept out quietly to avoid causing her problems, staining her reputation.

She rose, the blanket falling from her shoulders.

The floor was cool beneath her feet, the stone pressing a chill into her skin that she barely registered.

Her mind raced ahead of her body, thoughts tumbling over one another with every step she took toward the basin, the wardrobe, the chair where her gown from the day before still lay folded.

She dressed without thought, her fingers stiff as they fastened the laces of a fresh gown, darker than what she usually wore.

Something simple, that didn’t draw much attention.

Her hands trembled with the need to do something, anything, that might quiet the storm beginning to swirl in her chest. Every movement felt like a question she didn’t have the answer to.

She hesitated before leaving the room, glancing back at the rumpled bed, where the sheets still smelled of him. Her cheeks flushed hot at the memory of him flashing before her eyes once again. She curled her fingers into a fist, pressed it to her stomach to ground herself.

Then she opened the door. The corridor beyond was dim and still.

A maid passed her carrying linens but didn’t offer more than a polite nod.

Agnes returned it automatically, her thoughts elsewhere.

The silence stretched around her, broken only by the occasional creak of timber or the distant clang of a closing door.

Every sound was louder than it should have been.

Her feet carried her without pause, her body moving as though pulled forward by something invisible.

She rounded the familiar turns of the hallway, past oil lamps that flickered low and tapestries that blurred at the edges of her vision.

Her heartbeat thudded steadily louder in her ears the closer she got.

Tav’s door came into view and she stopped a few feet short of it, frozen. For a long moment, she just stood there. What if he didn’t want to see her? Taking a deep breath, she knocked once. Then, before she could think better of it, she opened the door.

Tav stood in the center of the room, pacing like a man trapped in a cage.

His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to crack bone.

The sight stopped her in her tracks. His posture was tense, almost coiled, his hand raking through his hair as he moved back and forth across the rug like a man chasing ghosts. He didn’t hear her at first.

"Tav?"

He turned sharply. Stopped, his face was drawn, pale. His shirt was wrinkled, half-buttoned, and his eyes were shadowed with something darker than exhaustion.

Agnes stepped quietly inside and closed the door behind her with a soft click. The sound echoed far too loudly in the stillness between them.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice gentler than she felt.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stopped, mid-step, his back half-turned to her. When he looked over his shoulder, his eyes were wild—storm-dark and unsettled. His mouth opened like he meant to speak, then closed again, as though the words refused to come.

She took a few careful steps toward him, leaving space between them, but her heart was already sinking.

“Ye left,” she said, the words barely above a whisper. “I woke and ye were gone.”

He flinched. Actually flinched.

Tav turned away again, dragging a hand down his face. “Aye. I’m sorry. I just—I needed tae think.”

Her breath hitched. “Think?” she echoed. “About what?”

Silence stretched. He didn’t look at her.

“Tav.”

His shoulders rose with a deep breath, and he let it out like it hurt to carry. “About… everything,” he muttered, dodging her gaze.

She crossed her arms, her voice quieter now. “That’s nae what I asked.”

He finally met her eyes. And she saw it. There was fear in them. Not of her, but of what he was holding inside.

“I was going tae me room,” he said, fast now, too fast, like the words were rushing out before he could stop them. “I was halfway there when Caithness found me. Called me by name. Looked at me like—like he kent something.”

Agnes frowned. “What did he say?”

“He asked me tae follow him. Said he had somethin’ tae show me. Wouldnae tell me what. Led me down intae the dungeon. And there?—”

He stopped. Pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead like he could shove the memory away.

“There was a man,” he said. “One of Armstrong’s.

Shackled, bloodied—looked half dead, but his eyes were still sharp.

Caithness said they'd found him after the ambush. He’d lied, said he was from a merchant’s train.

But they caught him, searched him. And eventually—after enough beatings—he had talked. ”

Agnes stepped closer. Her voice dropped. “What did he say?”

“That it was never about ye,” Tav said bitterly. “Ye were just bait. They were after me. Always me.”

He turned and walked a few paces, then swung back toward her, hands gesturing sharply as he spoke.

“Armstrong sent those men tae kill me. Me. And the man, the prisoner, he said—he said Armstrong told them tae 'kill the bastard'. His words. Kill the bastard.”

He was breathing hard now, like he’d run all the way back to her room. His hands were clenched into fists, eyes still blazing.

Agnes furrowed her brow. “Ye think he meant it as an insult?”

“That’s just it—I dinnae ken!” Tav snapped.

“I’ve been called worse. But the way he said it…

it felt like more. Like it meant something.

But it cannae be! And then Caithness looked at me like he wanted tae say somethin’, but he didn’t.

Just said he wrote tae yer faither and we’re tae wait fer his orders. ”

He paused, the fire dimming just slightly in his eyes. “He asked me tae stay here. Said it’s nae safe out there fer me. That Armstrong will keep sending men. That… that it’s nae over.”

Agnes reached for his arm, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist. “Then stay,” she said softly. “Please.”

Tav flinched at her touch. Not violently, but enough that she felt the tension in his frame coil tighter. Her heart skipped a bit.

“I dinnae ken what tae believe anymore,” he murmured. “I dinnae understand why Armstrong would go tae such lengths.”

“Maybe because ye got back up and started a new life,” she whispered. “And maybe that frightens him.”

He looked at her then, but the stillness in his gaze felt more like distance than focus. Agnes let her hand linger, but the way his body remained rigid beneath her fingers made her chest ache.

“Tav,” she said gently, “I’m here. Whatever this is, whatever it means—we’ll figure it out.”

But he shook his head. Not in anger, but in frustration as he drew back a little, just enough to break the contact. Not enough to be cruel, but enough to be clear.

“I cannae think straight when ye say things like that,” he muttered, voice thick with conflict. “Because I want tae believe ye. I dae. But me whole life’s been built on someone else’s lies. I dinnae ken who I am in all of this, and it terrifies me.”