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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T av hadn’t meant to shut her out. Not really. He’d just needed space to think—to breathe through the madness of what he'd learned. The weight of it all had knotted around his lungs, and when she’d tried to help, he’d pushed her away with too few words and too much distance.

It was the same mistake he'd made before, after that first night. After she'd let him get close, had given him her body and her trust, he'd vanished into himself. The guilt had eaten him alive then, and it was doing the same now.

So he went looking for her. Not simply to apologize, even though he wasn’t sure he could even find the right words for that, but to see her.

But the castle felt wrong. Quiet, yes, but not in the peaceful way it sometimes was in the afternoon. This was the kind of quiet that prickled. The kind that followed after something had already gone missing.

He checked the usual places first. The solar. Her chambers. The gallery. But Agnes was nowhere. Then came the dread.

It was a subtle shift at first, an unease in the stillness, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He’d been pacing the corridors for what felt like hours.

First near the kitchens, then down through the old gallery hall.

The paintings had watched him like witnesses.

A few servants had nodded politely when he passed, some had even smiled, but none had seen her.

None had noticed Agnes slipping out. Not one.

He tried to reason with himself at first. Maybe she was resting. Maybe she’d gone for a walk and forgotten to tell anyone. But that uneasy whisper wouldn’t quiet.

She wasn’t in the dining chamber, or in her rooms. Not even in the garden?—

He pushed through, scanning the paths, the rose arch, the far corners where she liked to sit. Nothing. The bench under the pale-yellow blooms was empty. Not a single footprint. No trace of her slippers.

“Agnes,” he called her name once. Then again, louder.

No answer.

His chest tightened. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

Something was off. He could feel it in the marrow of him, that animal sense that had never once led him wrong.

She was gone. He didn't waste time. The second the garden turned up nothing, Tav's legs moved on instinct.

He pushed back through the gate, took the steps two at a time, and stormed into the keep.

"Ye!" he snapped at the first guard he saw. "When did ye last see Lady Agnes?"

The guard blinked. "This morning, I think?—"

"Think? Ye think? Where? What corridor? Was she alone?"

The man stammered. "North wing. Aye, she was alone. Headed out—looked like she needed air."

Tav swore under his breath and pushed past him. He turned the corner sharply and nearly collided with a maid.

"Lady Agnes—have ye seen her?"

The girl shook her head quickly. "Nay, sir. Nae since breakfast."

He pressed on. Another guard. "Who was posted at the north wing today?"

"That would be Beric."

"Where is he now?"

"I—I'm nae sure, sir."

He kept moving. More questions. More faces. No answers. Tav’s voice grew sharper with each denial, the urgency climbing into panic. The castle now seemed suddenly too large, too full of blind spots.

All he got were blank stares, sheepish apologies. No one had seen her. No one had noticed a thing. It made the rage in him simmer. Because someone should’ve noticed. She wasn’t invisible. She mattered. And someone had let her disappear without a whisper.

He stormed into Caithness's office without knocking. The laird looked up from a map sprawled across his desk, startled. Ewan Kerr stood by the hearth, arms crossed.

"She’s gone," Tav said, breathless.

Caithness blinked. "Who?"

"Agnes. She’s naewhere in the keep. Nae in the gardens. Nae in her room. She’s gone."

Ewan straightened, his face darkening. "Have ye looked everywhere?"

"Aye, I’ve been through every corridor twice. Nae one’s seen her since this morning."

Caithness exchanged a look with Ewan. The tension in the room spiked.

"We’ll send men," Caithness said sharply. "Comb the grounds. If she’s taken a ride, we’ll find her trail."

But Tav already knew. Someone had taken her.

The sun had begun its descent when the rider came. A young messenger, breathless, pale with dust. He handed a sealed parchment to Caithness, then promptly vanished through the door.

Caithness broke the seal slowly, his fingers steady despite the sudden stillness that swept the room. The sound of the parchment tearing was soft, but it echoed in Tav’s ears like the start of a dirge.

Tav leaned forward slightly, watching Caithness’s face as he scanned the page. His expression didn’t shift at first. Caithness passed the letter to Kerr, his mouth a grim line. Laird Ewan unfolded it. Read. The stillness held. Then his hands began to shake.

Tav stood, unable to wait a second longer. He took the letter from Kerr’s grip, his breath loud in the quiet. The message was short. Written in a clean, practiced hand. Each word deliberate.

The girl fer me bastard son.

Laird Armstrong.

Tav stared. It took him a moment to even breathe again. The words stabbed deeper than any blade, but he read it again. And again.

Staring at the words a final time, the letters seared into his skull like brands. Then, slowly, he folded the letter. His fingers moved with a strange, deliberate care, like the paper might burn him if he held it too tight. He handed it back, his jaw clenched.

No one moved. No one spoke. The air was thick with silence, like the room itself was mourning the truth on that page. Tav felt it pressing against his ears, against his chest, like a weight that wouldn’t lift.

It was Caithness who finally broke the silence. "We need tae think. Plan our next?—"

"There’s nae much tae think about," Tav said. His voice was low.

Ewan turned to him sharply. "And what would ye suggest? Rushing in? Sword in hand like some fool boy chasing glory?"

"Nay," Tav said. " Nae. I’ll go tae him. Alone. Offer meself in exchange, just like he asked.”

Caithness straightened. "Ye’d surrender yerself?"

"Aye. He wants me. He’s always wanted me. If I go willingly, it might buy us time—might keep her alive."

Ewan’s face twisted. "So quick tae throw yerself intae the fire."

"We dinnae have better options," Tav said. "She might nae have much time. Ye ken that as well as I dae."

Caithness didn’t speak right away. His jaw was tight. "And if we make that trade, what happens next? Ye think he’ll just hand her over and thank us kindly?"

"We use the exchange tae get close," Tav met his eyes. "Then we strike. But we have tae move now."

Something shifted in Caithness’s face. He leaned back, arms crossing. "Ye love her."

Tav didn’t speak, just stared at him.

Caithness looked to Kerr. "He loves her."

The change in Kerr was instant. His mouth twisted. His eyes flared. And then—he moved.

The punch landed hard. Tav’s head snapped sideways, the crack of it echoing like thunder in the small room. Blood bloomed on his lip, coppery and warm, and he tasted it as he staggered back a step. But he didn’t fall. He didn’t raise a hand in return.

He had expected it. How could he not? He had touched Ewan Kerr’s daughter—loved her, held her, taken her to bed—and then shut her out like a coward. Tav knew what it meant to a man like Kerr. He knew what it meant to Agnes. He’d deserved this blow and much worse.

So it didn’t hurt the way he thought it might. Not really. The pain was sharp, but it dulled under the guilt already festering in his gut. For her, he’d take it a thousand times more. So he straightened, wiped the blood from his mouth, and said nothing.

Kerr was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like he’d just come off the battlefield.

"Ye’re in love with me daughter?" he spat. "Is that it? Have ye touched her? Aye?"

Tav wiped the blood from his mouth. "Aye, I’m in love with her."

"And ye expect me blessing?"

"Nay," Tav said. "I’m expectin’ ye tae stop wastin’ time hittin’ me and tae start thinkin’ how we get her back."

Caithness stepped between them. "Enough."

Kerr’s chest rose and fell, nostrils flared. Tav looked at him, gaze unwavering.

"Ye can hate me later. Right now, she needs us."

Kerr stared at him a moment longer. Then he turned to Caithness. His face was still flushed, his jaw tight, mouth drawn in a grim line. But he nodded once, sharp and certain. "We need a plan. A good one. And fast."

Caithness moved to the map on the table and unrolled it with a flick of his wrist, the parchment cracking across the worn wood.

Tav followed without a word, the tension grinding in his shoulders like stone on stone.

His lip still stung from his laird’s punch.

He didn’t care. If anything, the pain was a balm—a tether.

"If we go in straight," Caithness said, pointing at Armstrong’s stronghold on the map, "he’ll kill her. Or use her tae stall us. Maybe worse. We cannae charge in blind."

Tav’s mind was moving fast, like a horse spooked in a storm, racing through all the worst-case scenarios.

One thought spiraled into another, and beneath it all was fear.

He was scared. More scared than he’d ever been.

Not for himself, but for her. His hands shook where they gripped the edge of the table, and still he couldn’t stop the plans forming, layering, twisting.

She was out there, somewhere, possibly afraid or hurt or worse.

The idea gutted him. And because he loved her—because that love had torn him open—he was willing to do something reckless. "Then we give him what he wants," Tav said slowly. "We give him me."

Kerr looked up sharply, his face hardening. "Ye’re mad."

"Nay," Tav said, leaning over the map. "We make it look real. I’m surrendered. Handed over. Chains. Knees in the dirt. He’ll believe it, if it comes from ye. And it’ll get me close. Close enough tae find her."

Caithness’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched Tav with a measured gaze, like he was weighing something heavier than strategy. "And what if he kills ye on sight?"

Tav met his eyes without hesitation. "Then at least she has a chance. And ye ken Armstrong—he willnae rush it. He’ll draw it out. Make a spectacle. He’ll want tae gloat. That buys time. Time enough tae get men in position."

Kerr’s hands curled into fists. "This isnae a game, Tav."

"Ye think I dinnae ken that?" Tav snapped. "I’m nae playin’ hero. I dinnae care what happens tae me. I care what happens tae her . That’s it. That’s all that matters."

Silence stretched between the three men. Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle dimmed by the weight in the room.

Finally, Caithness gave a slow nod. "He’s right. Armstrong will want tae savor it. If Tav’s in chains, he’ll think he’s already won. It’ll lower his guard. That’s when we strike."

Kerr turned away, pacing. The firelight caught the deep lines carved into his face, the shadow clinging to his brow. "We’ll have tae act fast," he muttered. "He’ll have scouts. If we move too slow, he’ll smell a trap before we’re even close."

Caithness nodded and turned back to the shelf, unrolling a second larger map, more detailed. "We’ll move the troops through the hills. Use the ravines tae mask the numbers. Split the forces. We come from two sides—north and east—once Tav’s inside. We hit hard. Nay warning."

Tav’s hand rested on the edge of the table, his fingers digging into the wood. His knuckles were white. His breath came slow and heavy, as if the plan had weight, and he was already shouldering it.

Caithness looked up again, his expression unreadable. "And if we dae this—if it works—what then?"

Tav blinked, confused. "What dae ye mean?"

"I mean," Caithness said carefully, "once Armstrong falls, his seat will be empty. His line ends with ye. If ye truly are his blood, the people may look tae ye."

Tav reeled back half a step like he’d been slapped. "Nay. I dinnae want that. I never have."

Caithness’s tone stayed calm. "That may nae matter. People remember names. They’ll follow blood."

"It matters tae me," Tav growled. "Let someone else sit the throne. Let it rot fer all I care. I want one thing—Agnes. Safe. Free. That’s it."

Kerr’s voice cut through the air, sharp and bitter. "And what if the only way she stays safe is if Armstrong is gone?"

Tav’s eyes met his. No hesitation. "Then burn him. Salt the land. I’ll help ye dae it."

The words hung heavy. There was no righteousness in his voice, no vengeance. Only cold resolve. The kind of fury that didn’t roar. It burned quietly.

Caithness folded his arms, nodding slowly. "Then we have our plan."

Kerr said nothing. He was still staring at the map, but Tav knew the battle had moved elsewhere now—into his thoughts, into the future.

Tav’s gaze fell to the curve of the ridge behind Armstrong’s hold. That was where he’d need the archers. And the cut in the southern wall was where he’d run if it all went wrong.

He knew what he was walking into. The odds weren’t in his favor.

But the risk didn’t matter. She did. He closed his eyes.

Her face filled the dark behind his lids.

The warmth of her voice, the way she’d touched him like she knew he’d break.

He could still hear her last words to him.

The look she’d given him in that corridor.

He didn’t deserve her. But he would fight like hell to get her back. He opened his eyes again.

"Just hold on, lass," Tav whispered, his voice barely above the crackle of the fire. "I’m comin’."

And this time, he wouldn’t be too late.