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CHAPTER FIVE

A gnes was sitting by the hearth when her father came to her.

Constance had sat with her earlier, quiet and wide-eyed, offering tea she hadn’t touched and words Agnes hadn’t fully grasped.

But eventually, she had asked her to leave.

Her sister had hesitated but she had left her to dwell in the silence.

She simply needed to sit with the weight of it all without anyone watching her splinter apart.

The fire had long since died to smoldering embers, yet she had not moved to stir it, letting the room go cold. Letting the shadows stretch long across the stone floor and spill toward her feet. She was not afraid of the dark anymore. What could it take from her that hadn't already been claimed?

Agnes did not turn her head. She waited instead, still and mute, tracing the flickering glow that danced across her knuckles where her hands lay clasped in her lap. She only looked up when he cleared his throat.

“Ye leave again tonight,” he finally spoke.

It took her a moment to understand. “Again?” Her voice cracked slightly on the word. “So soon? I thought it would be wiser tae wait.”

Her father nodded, face unreadable. “Ye’ll take only a satchel this time. Tav will ride with ye. Nay carriage.”

“Ride?” Her stomach dropped as the word settled into her. “With nay carriage?”

“It is necessary tae get ye tae Caithness. Ye’ll arrive before the week’s end.”

She stared at him, willing his face to crack or give away some sign that this was a cruel jest. But there was nothing there but the same cold resolve she had grown used to reading in his eyes. Still, she clung to a splinter of logic.

“Ye think they will nae try again?” she asked, voice hollow. “Ye think the men who chased us through the woods will simply… forget I exist? Willnae notice me simply because I am riding a horse?”

Ewan exhaled through his nose, then stepped closer and lowered himself into the chair beside hers. The firelight carved deep lines in his face. “Nay,” he said plainly. “I expect they will try again.”

“Then why?—”

“Because we have nay choice, Agnes.” His tone sharpened, not in anger but in finality.

She turned away from him, blinking slowly, not trusting herself to speak.

A part of her wanted to scream—if not at him, then at the gods, or the wind, or whatever cruel hand had spun this particular fate for her.

But she didn’t. She only pressed her palm against her mouth and breathed.

Ewan shifted again, and when he spoke, his voice had softened, traces of the father she knew and loved. “I’m sorry, Agnes.”

Her breath caught.

“I never wanted this fer ye. None of it. Ye deserve—” He stopped himself. “But we dinnae live the lives we deserve. Ye ken that better than most.”

She glanced back at him. His face was heavy with guilt, but his eyes… they remained steel. “Ye’ll dae what ye must,” he said gently, “because ye’re me daughter, and because I ken yer heart. Ye willnae fail us.”

That broke something in her. She nodded once, a brittle thing. “When dae we leave?”

“Pack tonight. Ye’ll leave with Tav under the cover of dark.”

She wanted to laugh, to curse or cry or walk into the woods and never come back. Instead, she sat for a moment longer, then stood.

“I’ll be ready.”

The satchel was pitifully light. A plain linen gown, another shift, a comb, a strip of dried meat wrapped in cloth, a pair of riding gloves. She tucked a single ribbon into the corner, though she doubted she’d wear it.

The torchlight flickered along the stone walls as Agnes stepped softly through the hallway, her satchel slung over one shoulder, the hem of her cloak brushing the cold floor.

She understood her duty, aye. She had always known it would come for her in some form, but this?

This cold journey into Caithness soil, delivered like a parcel to a stranger’s stronghold, left her heart thrashing against the walls of her chest. She had seen what became of women who were sent away for alliances.

And the uncertainty of it all, the precarious danger of venturing again into open roads after what had happened.

She had not slept, despite trying. Her body had found stillness for an hour or so, but her mind had remained too restless to surrender to sleep.

The conversation with her father still echoed in her skull, as stubborn and heavy as her heartbeat.

There was a finality to his words that made her chest ache.

She shook her head as she reached the stables. The scent of hay and horse and oil greeted her like a balm, familiar and grounding. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her satchel. She was about to step into the shadows when she saw him.

Tav.

He was there, of course. He stood beside his stallion, running a hand down the horse’s flank, whispering something she couldn’t quite hear.

There was such an ease to the way he moved, all lean muscle and quiet strength, like the tension of a drawn bow waiting to be loosed.

His tunic clung to his torso in the dim firelight, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms thick with strength and marred with black ink and faded scars.

He looked like he belonged in a song—one of those old, breathless tales sung by the hearth, where the warrior was both storm and sanctuary.

Agnes’s breath caught.

She had admired him before, of course she had.

Tav was impossible not to notice. He carried himself like a sculpture carved from Highland rock and wind, fierce and unreadable.

But it was not only the breadth of his shoulders or the sharp, angular cut of his jaw that tugged at something in her belly.

It was the steadiness of his gaze.

His head turned, eyes catching hers through the dimness. She stepped forward, trying to still the sudden flutter behind her ribs.

"Ye’re early," he said, voice low, rough like gravel and smoke.

"Couldnae sleep," she replied. Her voice felt strange in her throat, uncertain. "And ye?"

"I wanted tae ready him before the day started. Calms me."

She glanced at the stallion, black as night, eyes blinking slow and trusting as Tav continued to run a hand along his mane. The gentleness in the gesture tugged at something deep in her.

Agnes stepped closer, letting the scent of hay and leather ground her. She liked it here. The steadiness of it. The low snorts and soft shuffling hooves. Everything had its place. Everything knew its rhythm.

“I thought we were leaving now,” she said, not quite a question.

“We wait fer the first light.” Tav’s voice was quiet but firm. “Yer faither agreed. The forest’s too dense fer night travel, and the risk’s higher in darkness.”

Agnes shifted her satchel against her shoulder. “So we sit in the open and wait fer the sun tae rise?”

“We wait,” Tav repeated, but gently this time.

She let her shoulders drop, but the tension didn’t ease. “Ye’re certain o’ the path?”

“Aye, I am.”

She studied him a moment. The slight crease in his brow. The way he always stood like he was listening to something far away. She wasn’t sure when she’d begun to trust him. Perhaps it was merely necessity, wearing the face of trust.

“Dae you think we’ll make it?”

His eyes flicked toward her. “Aye.”

Her thoughts drifted back to their return. She remembered the rigid tension in his shoulders, the blood she’d wiped from his ribs, the quiet pain he’d endured to shield her. She was grateful, truly. But beneath that gratitude coiled something deeper that made her hands tremble and her breath catch.

She hesitated before asking, "Did ye go tae the healer, then? Fer yer… wound?"

Tav blinked and looked at her more fully now. A small furrow appeared between his brows as the ice in his eyes cracked for a fleeting moment.

"Aye. I did." He nodded.

She let out a breath. "Good. I was... I was worried. Ye took quite the hit."

"It’s naethin’. Bruisin’, mostly."

"Still. Bruises need care as well."

He said nothing for a moment, merely watched her with that quiet, unreadable gaze. Then, so softly she almost missed it, he said, "Fia used tae say the same."

Agnes tilted her head. "Fia?"

He gave a small nod, shifting his stance, one hand still resting on the horse’s back.

"Me sister, the healer. I met her and brought her home when I was 21 and she was barely fourteen, like me braither. Starving. Nay family tae guard her. Her parents had abandoned her and me and me Bane’s parents had also died. So we formed a family of our own, a family of sorts."

Agnes swallowed, heart pinching.

"Ye saved her."

"I tried tae. She was the first person I ever felt responsible fer. Nae just... loyal too. But truly meant tae protect."

His voice was so quiet now, almost hoarse.

"I never saw her as weak, though. Even then, as a child. She had fire in her. Still daes. She’s the reason I go tae the healer. She made me see wounds as something tae tend tae, nae simply tae endure."

Agnes felt the weight of those words in her chest. For a man like Tav to speak so openly, to reveal this slice of his life... it felt like watching the sea pull back to reveal what had always lain beneath.

"She must mean a great deal tae ye," Agnes said softly.

"She daes." Tav met her eyes again. "But nae in the way folk think. She is like a sister tae me. Family."

Agnes bit the inside of her cheek. That strange swell in her chest, that ache that came when something was both beautiful and unbearable, rose like a tide.

He had always been the strong one. The shield. The sword. But here, now, she could see him for what he truly was; a man who had borne more than most and still chosen to be gentle when it counted.

"She’s lucky," she whispered. "Tae have had ye."

Tav didn’t smile, not quite. But there was a softness that crept into the corners of his eyes.

They stood like that for a while. Just the two of them and the quiet breath of horses, the hush of hay shifting beneath their feet.

Agnes felt her palms go clammy. She suddenly wished she had braided her hair, done something more with herself.

He looked like steel and temptation, and she was here with sleep-heavy eyes and a heart that didn’t know how to stop aching.

“We leave just before dawn,” he said finally.

She nodded, though every part of her felt restless. “I’ll be ready.”

He watched her, his face unreadable in the dim light, shadows dancing across his jawline. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, “Get some rest, Agnes. Ye’ll need it.”

The way he said her name made something flutter low in her belly.

A strange ache bloomed behind her ribs. She hesitated, then took a small step back, not trusting herself to speak.

Her voice felt too thin, too full of things she didn’t understand well enough to say aloud.

But as she turned, she felt it—his gaze lingering on her like a touch.

It trailed down her back as she moved to leave.

Agnes stopped, halfway between the open stable door and the darkness beyond. Her hand hovered near the post, her fingers curling around the splintered edge of the wood.

“I dinnae want tae go back tae me chambers,” she said quietly, her voice barely louder than the wind rustling the straw beneath their feet.

Tav stilled behind her.

She turned, lifting her eyes to meet his. “I dinnae want tae sit alone, waiting fer morning like I’m some... thing tae be moved about wrapped in wool. I’d rather we leave now.”

He frowned slightly. “Agnes, it’s near black out there. We’d nae make it a mile before we’re blind on the road. It’s nae safe.”

“I ken,” she said. “I ken it isnae. But it daesnae feel safe in me chamber either.”

The words spilled before she could think to soften them. She wrapped her arms around herself and exhaled. “I just... I dinnae feel like being alone tonight.”

There was a silence. She didn’t expect him to say anything.

“I’ll wait here,” she said quickly, before he could send her back inside. Her voice shook a little.

Tav’s eyes flicked toward the open stable doors, then back to her. Something shifted in his expression, quiet and unreadable.

She lowered herself to the edge of the stable, perching on a low beam near the wall where hay had been loosely stacked.

The air smelled of horses and earth and cold air, and strangely, it made her feel steadier.

Her skirt rustled as she settled. She didn’t look at him again.

Just stared out at the night beyond the stable door, watching the sky for signs of morning.

She looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. “Dae ye ever regret it? Working fer me faither?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Nay. Nay regret. But sometimes I wonder what it would have felt like... tae choose something else.”

She glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at her. Just staring out at the night, his jaw tight.

“What would ye have chosen?” she asked, the words barely a whisper.

He shrugged. “I dinnae ken. I’m nae a man made fer imaginin’, wishin’, Agnes. Fer softness.”

“I think that’s nae true,” she said, before she could stop herself. “I think... I’ve seen ye be gentle. Like with… Fia. I think ye are soft, deep down.”

His gaze cut to her, sharp and startled, making her heart thud wildly in her chest. The two sat in silence, time passing faster than they both expected.

“It’s time,” he finally said, gently.

Agnes nodded, her throat tight. “Aye.”

She stood, brushing the straw from her skirts. Tav moved to check the horses, saddling them with practiced ease. There was a quiet rhythm to it, to the way he moved.

She watched him for a moment, her chest aching. And when he turned to hand her the reins of her mare, his hand brushed hers just a little. Her breath caught. And she wondered if he’d felt it too.

“Ready?” he asked.

Nay. Nae even close.

But she nodded. “I am.”