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Agnes swallowed, the space between them colder now that he’d put it there. She gave a small nod and let her hand fall to her side.

“I should leave ye tae rest,” she said quietly. “I just wanted tae make sure ye were alright.”

He didn’t speak as she turned toward the door, but she didn’t wait for a response.

And when she closed it behind her, the silence in the corridor felt colder than it had before.

The day was too fine for how she felt. The sky had bloomed open with the pale blue of late spring, dotted only by the wisps of cloud that seemed content to drift without purpose. It should have brought comfort, but to Agnes, it only heightened the dissonance in her chest.

She noticed it the moment she stepped into the great hall, the light spilling in through the narrow windows, too golden, too soft. It shouldn’t have been this beautiful, while her thoughts were this tangled. Not when Tav still hadn’t looked her in the eye since that morning in his chamber.

It had been three days since she’d found him pacing like a caged animal, his jaw tight when she tried to speak to him. She hadn’t truly seen him since. A glimpse across a corridor. A shadow moving beyond a threshold. Never long enough to speak.

Agnes pulled her shawl tighter and sat down at the long table. A few servants moved quietly through the room, setting down platters of bread and cheese, bowls of stewed apples. She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat, tearing the bread into small, uneven pieces.

Every sound grated against her. The scrape of a chair, the clink of a spoon. It all felt too loud.

She had just finished her tea when the door creaked open and Laird Caithness stepped inside.

“Lady Agnes,” he greeted, with a nod. “I hope I’m nae interruptin’ yer morning.”

She stood automatically. “Nae at all, me laird.”

He glanced toward the windows, then back at her. “A breath o’ air might dae us both good, I think. Too long indoors sours the head. Would ye walk wi’ me?”

Agnes hesitated. For a moment, her instinct was to refuse. She hadn’t the energy for niceties, nor the strength to pretend. But there was no pressure in his voice. Just quiet expectation. And something in her said yes before she could stop it.

“O’ course,” she said softly.

He smiled. “Good. I’ve had a spot prepared. Naething grand. Just a small meal and some sun. Follow me when ye’re ready.”

She watched him turn and leave, and her hands curled into the folds of her skirt. She wasn’t ready. Not for this, not for anything.

But she climbed the stairs to her room to prepare anyway, each step feeling heavier than the last. In her chambers, Paisley was already laying out a fresh light blue linen gown, with sleeves Agnes could roll if the sun grew too warm.

She let the maid dress her in silence, saying nothing when her braid was redone or when her slippers were exchanged for walking boots. She barely felt any of it.

By the time she reached the courtyard, Caithness was already mounted. He offered her his hand to help her into the saddle, and though she hesitated for a breath she took it. His grip was steady.

They rode in silence, past the outer gardens, along the narrow trail that edged the southern slope. The hills rolled out before them like a painted thing, green and gold and aching with peace. Agnes kept her eyes on the horizon. It was easier than looking at him. Easier than thinking.

They stopped just past a stand of birch, where the trees opened into a small clearing. Someone had already spread the blanket. Caithness dismounted first and then offered his hand again.

Agnes didn’t speak. She only nodded and lowered herself to the blanket beneath the birch tree. A small basket of bread and soft cheese sat untouched between them. A flask of watered wine, two empty cups. She didn’t touch any of it.

Laird Caithness, for his part, had done everything right. He had chosen a spot with a view of the southern hills, far from prying eyes, and arranged it all himself—no servants, no pretense. Just a man and the woman he was meant to marry.

He removed his coat, rolling his sleeves to the forearm.

There was a casualness to him she hadn’t seen before, something easier in his stance, though not without its gravity.

He was a striking man, certainly. Not beautiful like Tav, there was no wildness in him, but he was handsome in the way of kings and carved statues.

Tall and composed, with a face that bore both history and expectation.

And he had never once treated her as a prize.

That, more than anything, unsettled her now.

Agnes stared out across the field, her fingers twisting in the folds of her skirt. “It’s… lovely,” she said at last, because it was, and because silence felt like cowardice.

“I hoped ye’d think so.” Caithness leaned back on one arm, the other resting on his bent knee. “It’s been a difficult stretch fer ye. Thought a softer moment might be earned.”

Agnes glanced at him, but his expression betrayed nothing. He looked at the hills, not at her. As though he, too, were somewhere far away in his mind.

“I’m grateful, truly,” she said. “Ye’ve been… kind.”

His gaze slid to hers then, and the weight of it made her sit up straighter.

“But?” he asked.

She tried to swallow. “There’s nay but. Only… I feel I’ve nae been the most gracious guest. Me thoughts have been… scattered.”

“I ken why they are,” he said, and the bluntness of it cut through her like a blade made of ice. She turned to face him fully, startled.

“I beg yer pardon?”

Caithness exhaled, slow and steady. “Agnes. Ye dinnae need tae pretend. Not wi’ me. If ye dinnae want yer future husband tae ken about the man ye’re in love with, perhaps ye shouldnae have brought him wi’ ye.”

Her heart jerked, so sudden and sharp, it felt like a misstep on uneven stone. She blinked. “That’s nae?—”

He lifted a hand, not cruelly. “I’m nae accusing ye. Or him. I saw how he looks at ye. And I saw how yer face when they dragged him off. There’s affection between ye. I’d be a fool tae miss it.”

Shame rose hot in her throat. Not because she’d been caught. But because, somehow, he wasn’t angry. Not even disappointed. That was worse.

“I never meant tae disrespect ye,” she said quietly. “Or this arrangement.”

Caithness nodded once, slowly. “I believe that.”

The wind rustled through the leaves above them, the branches casting soft shifting shadows on the grass. Agnes found herself looking at her hands again. She didn’t know what to say. What could be said, when her heart was a battlefield of its own making?

“I brought ye out here tae tell ye something,” he continued, his voice even. “And ask ye something else.”

She looked up.

“I ken what this alliance means—fer my clan and fer yers. I dinnae take it lightly. But I also ken that a marriage, if we were tae move forward, cannot be built on... obligation alone. I’ll nae force ye. If ye wish it, I will see tae it that another match is made fer ye.”

Agnes blinked. “Ye’d dae that?”

He nodded. “I would.”

“Why?”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Because I ken what happens when two people are yoked without choice. Ye are a good woman, and I appreciate all ye’ve done. I wouldnae wish that fate on ye.”

Agnes felt something hitch inside her. She wasn’t sure if it was awe or grief.

“I still need tae ask ye two things,” he said.

She nodded slowly. “Aye.”

“First,” Caithness said, folding his hands loosely in his lap, “dae ye think, given time, that ye could care fer me as a husband? Perhaps even love me?”

She stared at him, throat closing. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked at the wine flask, the edge of the blanket, the shape of the hills beyond.

“I think ye’re a good man,” she said. “A much better one than I expected. Ye’ve shown me more respect than most. And I care fer that. Truly. But…” Her voice broke a little on the word. “I cannae say what time would dae. Only what I feel now.”

Caithness didn’t flinch. “Then we’ll move forward from that truth. Nae pretend it’s otherwise.”

He let the silence stretch before continuing.

“The second thing I need tae is, if we wed, would ye be loyal tae me? Would ye be me wife, nae just by contract, but in truth?”

The question felt heavier than the first. She could lie, say yes, because it was expected. Because it would keep her clan safe, and close the book before it ever had a chance to become something messy and real. But a lie like that would rot her from the inside.

So she said, “If I wed ye… aye. I would be loyal. I’d nae dishonor ye, I promise that. But I cannae promise I can, and if I did, that me heart would be yers.”

He met her eyes for a long time, searching. Whatever he found there, it must have satisfied him, because he nodded.

“Then I’ll give ye time,” he said. “A few days. Nay more. Think on it, speak tae yer faither. But ken this—I willnae force ye. And I willnae punish ye if ye choose otherwise.”

Agnes opened her mouth. Closed it again. No one had ever spoken to her like that. As if she were not a simple tool to be wielded, but a person, one who might be worthy of choosing her own life.

Her eyes stung. “Thank ye,” she said, and meant it.

Caithness gave a small nod and reached for the wine.

“Tae whatever future awaits,” he said, pouring them each a cup.

Agnes took hers, the cup trembling faintly in her hands. They drank in silence.

And in that silence, she realized something that hurt more than she’d expected. She could have liked him, maybe even come to love him, if life had been different. If her heart hadn’t already been in the hands of a man who might not survive the week.

She set her cup down and turned her face to the wind. It smelled of moss and something faintly sweet. Hope, maybe.