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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T av woke to Agnes laying curled against his chest, soft bare skin beneath the tangled sheets. One of her legs had found its way between his.

She looked so young like this, unguarded. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheekbones. Her soft lips were parted slightly. Her hair was a riot of copper and gold across his chest, wild and soft and sleep-warmed. His heart ached.

He reached up, slowly, to brush a stray strand of hair from her temple. She didn’t stir. He let his fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

She is here. In me arms. This is real.

She shifted slightly against him, and he turned his head to kiss her hair.

“Are ye awake, lass?” he whispered.

A quiet, grumbling sigh answered him. Then her nose nuzzled against his chest.

“Mmh,” she murmured.

He chuckled as Agnes made a sleepy, contented noise, her hand smoothing down his ribs.

“Ye talk in the mornings, then?” she asked without opening her eyes. Her head lifted slightly. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks were pink. She looked angelic.

He buried his nose in her hair, letting the sweet scent of her settle into his lungs like a vow.

Her breath slowed. Her body melted against his.

He didn’t know if she was falling asleep again, or simply resting, but he stayed utterly still, not daring to wake her, not daring to break whatever fragile thing they’d conjured between them in the dark.

They stayed like that for a while. At one point she kissed the hollow of his throat, and he nearly wept.

She threaded her fingers through his and held their joined hands against her chest. “Feel that?” she whispered. “Still beatin’. Still here.”

He nodded, too overcome to speak. He had no words for the quiet miracle of her pressed to him like this, like they weren’t running out of time. It was pure bliss—everything Tav had never let himself believe he could have.

Eventually, the light changed. He sighed against her mouth. “I have tae go.”

Agnes blinked up at him. “What?”

“If anyone sees me sneakin’ out of yer room,” he said, brushing his nose against hers, “we’ll both be neck-deep in trouble before breakfast.”

Her expression darkened slightly, but she nodded. “Aye. Ye’re right.”

He kissed her once more, slow and lingering.

“I’ll see ye later,” he murmured. It hurt him to leave her bed.

She nodded again and watched him dress, her eyes quiet. Thoughtful.

Tav left as quietly as he could, slipping through the corridor with the stealth of a thief. His room was still dim when he entered. The window was cracked open, and the early light bled in soft as milk.

He laughed under his breath. It sounded a little mad.

He was in love. Not the way boys loved lasses, this was bigger. A few moments later, Tav startled. There was a knock at the door.

“Aye?”

A servant’s voice, muffled. “Beg pardon, sir. The laird’s been askin’ fer ye. Says it’s urgent.”

Tav frowned. “Did he say why?”

“Nay, sir.”

Tav hesitated. His stomach turned, just slightly.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Tell him I’m on me way.”

He dressed quickly, more rushed than usual.

Something about the servant’s tone set his teeth on edge.

He stepped into the corridor and found it already buzzing.

Voices carried in low tones. Servants moving briskly.

A handful of soldiers out of place. By the time he reached the main hall, he understood why.

Laird Ewan Kerr was there, with men behind him.

Tav froze. The older man turned, saw him, and smiled broadly.

“Tav,” the laird said, striding forward. “Ye look well, lad.”

Tav barely managed a bow. “Me laird. I didnae expect?—”

“Aye, I imagine nay one did.” Kerr clapped him on the shoulder. Warm. Too warm. “But I’m glad tae see ye.”

“Come with us,” he said, after Laird Caithness appeared at his side. “We need tae speak.”

Tav nodded mutely and followed. They led him to a private chamber. The fire was lit. A bottle of whisky had already been opened. Caithness poured three glasses and handed one to each man.

Caithness gave Kerr a look, then nodded. The latter took a deep breath. “Ye asked why there was an attack. I have the answer.”

Tav went still.

Kerr continued. “Ye already ken it was Armstrong. His men were behind it. Ye ken why they’re after ye?”

“Nay,” Tav said slowly, shaking his head.

Ewan looked him dead in the eye. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “Because he believes ye’re his son.”

The silence hit like a blade, clean and cold. The room contracted. Tav blinked, but the air didn’t shift.

Son . Nay. Nay, that couldn’t— That makes nay sense.

“What?” he finally managed, the word scraped raw from his throat.

He looked between the two lairds, searching for some sign that this was a joke gone foul. But there was only the fire crackling low in the hearth, and two men watching him with the solemnity of a funeral.

Son. Armstrong’s son?

The thought alone turned his stomach. He tried to laugh, but it came out wrong.

“This is a mistake,” he said again. “It’s—ye’ve got it wrong. That’s mad. That’s?—”

But the room didn’t correct him. And something beneath his ribs shifted like earth under pressure.

Everything in him reeled. Could it be? He had always wondered about the age difference between him and Bane.

Could his mother have been with child, and then met the man he had always thought was his father and married him?

He had never doubted his father’s role as such, he had felt just as loved as Bane.

His father had never treated him differently.

“This is wrong,” he repeated. “This isnae possible.”

He looked again at Kerr. The older man didn’t speak or move. He was simply watching Tav, quiet and still, his hands folded in front of him. There was no urgency in his expression. No judgment, either. Just a calm, steady sort of waiting.

That quiet certainty made Tav feel smaller. Like the ground had shifted without his permission. Like he wasn’t the one steering anymore. He drew a shaky breath.

"Even if it's a mistake," Tav said slowly, his hands trembling faintly, "why now? "

Ewan and Caithness exchanged a glance.

It was Caithness who spoke next. "Because Armstrong is expecting a child."

Tav frowned. "What?"

"A bairn," Kerr clarified. "Word is, he's certain it's a boy."

Tav blinked. The air in the room thinned. "What daes this mean?"

Caithness folded his hands. "It means that now he’s afraid."

"Afraid o’ what?" Tav asked, but even as the words left his mouth, he felt the chill of understanding creep in.

"Of ye," Ewan said. "Of how ye might threaten his rule. He wants tae erase the threat before his son is born. Make sure there's nay claim but that of his own legitimate heir."

Tav’s throat worked. “Even if this is true what daes he think I’m goin’ tae dae? March up tae his gates and declare meself? Take his keep?”

Ewan’s voice was quiet. “He thinks ye might. Ye wouldnae be the first. Men like Armstrong plan decades ahead. And he’s always been a man ruled by fear.”

Tav paced, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “It makes nae difference what he fears. I dinnae want it. I never have. I want peace. I want...”

He closed his eyes.

Agnes.

Kerr was watching him carefully now. “Ye dinnae sound sure.”

“I am,” Tav snapped.

There was a long pause.

Caithness set his glass down. “We can bury this, if ye want. We can burn the secret and keep it between us. But it willnae stop the man from comin’. If he thinks ye’re a threat, then he’ll come fer ye again. And next time, it willnae be a raid.”

Tav clenched his fists. “Let him come. I’ll meet him with steel if I must. But I’ll nae go playin’ prince in a house I’ve never seen, among people who dinnae even ken me name.”

Kerr leaned forward, his expression grave. "And if it's true, Tav? If what we’ve found proves true? That makes ye a rightful heir tae a seat of power. That makes ye more than a warrior. It makes ye a threat."

"I'm nay threat," Tav muttered. "I'm a man who wants tae be left alone."

Agnes stepped into the solar just after the midday bell, expecting the space to be empty.

The room was warm with afternoon light, the fire burning low but steady.

The shutters had been thrown open, letting in the spring air, but she barely noticed the breeze.

Her stomach was tight, her hands colder than they should have been.

She hadn’t even crossed halfway into the room before a voice behind her made her freeze.

"Agnes."

Her breath caught. She turned. Her father was standing by the hearth, arms folded, eyes on her with that familiar, steady warmth that cracked her wide open.

"Faither?" she breathed, astonished.

His face softened into a smile. "Ye look well."

She managed a smile. "Dae I?"

"Tired," he added, stepping closer. "But well."

She stepped toward him, heart fluttering wildly. "What are ye daeing here?"

She tilted her head, studying him. Her father, there without warning, standing in this castle as if he had always belonged to it.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

It felt strange they had been apart this long, and stranger still that she could feel both unsettled and happy to see him.

The sight of him was a comfort she hadn’t realized she’d missed until then.

"Couldnae stay away forever," he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder gently. "And we have things tae speak about, ye and I."

“How have ye been? Is Constance back at Stewart castle with Bane?” she asked, her voice gentler now, even as her throat tightened with the question.

“Aye, she is. We’ve all been well enough,” her father said, his gaze softening further. “Though the castle feels hollow without ye, me child.”

He reached out and cupped her cheek, his callused thumb brushing lightly along her temple. He was the last one who had touched her with that kind of uncomplicated affection.