Page 21 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

CHAPTER SIX

The morning had broken like a blade across the sky.

Tav felt the coldness in his chest first. This was not simple. It was the most mentally and physically straining mission he had ever been on, and yet the most alluring one. They had left just after dawn, slipping from the edge of the keep like smoke.

The route was crueler this time, less forgiving. But safer, at least in theory. No open road, no flatland where a man could be taken down with a well-placed arrow. Only dense forest, ravines, and narrow paths that wound like veins through the hills. He knew every inch of them. Had bled on them.

And now he would lead her through them.

Agnes rode beside him, quiet and pale under her cloak, the weight of her satchel pressing lightly against her back. Her posture was proud as ever, but her eyes flicked often to the tree line. Good. She was paying attention.

They rode all day without a word. It wasn’t awkward. He’d never been a man of endless talk. Words were tools to him, like a whetstone or a good blade. You used them when they were needed, no more. She didn’t seem to mind. Her silence matched his. Her gaze kept up with his pace.

She had good instincts. And she was beautiful—too beautiful.

God, she was perfect. He’d seen beautiful women before, in courts and taverns alike. But Agnes was not like them.

She burned him.

He hated himself for noticing. Hated the pull in his gut every time her knee brushed against the side of his leg when their horses drew close on a narrow bend.

He shoved it down. This was a mission. And she was not his.

When they reached the village just past dusk, he found himself clenching his jaw when two men outside the tavern turned their heads to watch her dismount. He was off his horse before she’d even touched the ground, standing too close, offering his hand as if she needed it. She took it anyway. Her fingers were cold. Her palm small against his.

He didn’t let go right away.

The innkeeper looked them up and down when they entered—Tav with his traveling cloak, sword at his hip, blood still dried in the seams of his boots; Agnes with her hood drawn, cloak a bit too fine for a common traveler, though dust had already begun to cling to the hem.

“We’ll need a room,” Tav said. His voice came out lower than intended.

“One?” the innkeeper asked.

Tav didn’t blink. “Aye. Me and me wife.”

He felt her flinch beside him. The tension that stilled her breath, the question that lingered behind her eyes as she turned toward him. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, but he did not look back.

The innkeeper grunted and handed over a key.

They climbed the narrow stairs in silence. His palm still burned from where hers had been. He knew she had questions. And he didn’t blame her. He’d lied without telling her first. But he didn’t regret it. One room raised fewer questions. A husband and wife drew less interest than a guarded woman with a sword-slung man. They’d pass through the village unnoticed that way. That was the story. That was the truth. The rest? He wasn’t sure what to call it.

The door closed behind them with a dull click.

The noise barely echoed in the small inn room, yet it felt final, like the thud of a drawn blade. The room was clean enough. A single bed. A small hearth. One basin. Agnes stepped in and removed her cloak slowly, carefully, folding it as though she needed something to do with her hands.

He set the sword against the far wall and rolled his shoulders. The day’s ride had left a knot between them. He felt older than sixty—like every year of blood and bone had settled in behind his collar.

Tav lingered by the wall for a moment, jaw tight. Agnes stood just ahead of him, her back to the hearth, half in shadow. She’d removed her cloak, but this time it lay forgotten on the foot of the bed, her hands clasped at her waist in a way that didn’t suit her. She was too proud for that kind of nervousness.

He knew what was coming.

“I imagine ye had yer reasons,” she said at last, voice low and measured. “But I would like tae ken them.”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. That made it worse somehow. Her tone was calm, but the stiffness in her spine gave her away. She was trying not to be offended. He crossed the room slowly, his footfalls heavy on the old wooden planks.

“It’s a cover,” he said eventually. “It’s protection.”

She turned her head then. He caught her profile in the firelight—the stubborn angle of her chin, the delicate tension that lived between her brows. He always noticed too much when it came to her. Noticed things he shouldn’t. Like the way the firelight gilded the strands of her hair. The way her chest rose and fell, too carefully, like she was keeping her breath under command.