Page 71 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tav woke up to warmth.

Agnes was curled into him, her back pressed flush to his chest, her hair a soft tangle that tickled against his nose, her skin bare beneath the blanket that still held the heat of the night before. One of his arms was slung around her waist, his palm resting just below her navel, fingers splayed across the smoothness of her belly like he was afraid to let go. Her breathing was soft and even, untroubled. As if the world had finally gone quiet for her.

He stared at the back of her neck, at the faint freckles just below her hairline. At the elegant slope of her shoulder, rising and falling with each breath. And in that moment, the weight of what they’d done crashed down on him like a wave.

What have I done?

The question slammed into him like a fist. His stomach twisted; his chest pulled tight. His heart began to pound like it was trying to tear itself free.

Slowly, carefully, he eased his arm away from her. Each motion felt foreign, unnatural, like his own body was resisting. She shifted slightly in her sleep, but didn’t stir. Gods, he was grateful for that. He wasn’t ready to see her eyes. Not with his head reeling and his heart shattering in his chest.

Tav sat up, his breath catching. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving only embers and shadows flickering along the walls. The scent of the night still hung in the air—smoke and sweat and skin and her. His hands were shaking as he ran them through his hair and down his face. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t eaten. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything but fight and survive.

He looked down at her.

Agnes.

So beautiful, especially now. But she wasn’t his. Not truly.

He had touched her like she was. Made her come apart in his hands like she belonged to no one else. He had memorized the tremble in her breath, the way her hands clutched at him when she lost herself. The taste of her skin still lingered on his lips, the sound of her voice echoing in his mind like a vow. He had worshipped her with his hands and mouth, had poured every unsaid word into every kiss. And for that one night, she had clung to him like he was the only man in the world.

But that was the lie they’d allowed themselves. A dream conjured in firelight and shadows, fragile as smoke, already unraveling in the cold light of morning.

Tav stood, movements jerky, the blanket falling from his shoulders. The pain in his ribs flared as he straightened, but it barely registered. It was distant. Insignificant next to the hurricane of guilt and longing churning in his chest. He grabbed his shirt from the floor, yanking it over his head with a grimace, then reached for his trousers, his boots. Every motion was fast, desperate, like he could run from the truth if he moved quickly enough.

It wasn’t regret. Not exactly. But it was fear. Panic. The crushing weight of a mistake that could ruin them both. She was to marry Caithness. That had not changed. The world would not bend for them, no matter what passed between tangled sheets. And he? He was a soldier. A tool. A name that meant nothing in these stone halls.

By the time he reached the door, his breath was ragged. He turned for one last look. She was still sleeping, her bare back turned to him, the curve of her spine bathed in the faint light from the hearth. He memorized it. Let it sear into his mind.

Then he opened the door and stepped into the silent corridor. The morning chill cut through the remnants of heat clinging to his skin, sobering him more with each step. Tav moved like a ghost, one hand braced against the stone wall to steady himself as he walked. His side ached with every step, but it was a dull throb compared to the riot in his chest. Pain was easy. Pain made sense. But what he felt now was a different sort of agony.

He had to get to his room. Had to think.

What now? What could he possibly do?

He would return to Laird Kerr. That was the only path left to him. Deliver the final report. And then vanish. Drift into some distant, nameless place where her name wouldn’t haunt every corner of his thoughts. A border outpost, a sea voyage, exile by duty… anything to keep from watching her belong to someone else.

But the idea of leaving her⁠—

His steps faltered. Could he do it? Truly? Walk away from her, from what they had shared? The image of her burned behind his eyes. Agnes, breathless and flushed beneath his hands. Her voice when she’d whispered his name like it was a prayer. Her kiss, reckless and searing, breaking every rule they’d both sworn to follow. The feel of her fingers gripping him, grounding him, like she was holding onto more than just flesh; like she had finally, truly seen him.

That hadn’t been a dream. That had been real. But it was also a lie. A perfect, impossible lie conjured in firelight and shadows. And he had let himself believe in it. Just for a night.

But now morning had come. And morning always wanted answers. He let out a breath that tasted like ash and regret.

The corridor stretched ahead of him, long and quiet, the shadows dragging behind each flickering torch. He counted his steps, not because he had to, but because it gave him something to cling to. Something other than her voice echoing in his skull, other than the way her body had curved so perfectly against his.

The truth was he didn’t know how to leave. Not really. His entire life had been shaped by orders, commands, and duty. But none of that had prepared him for Agnes. For the way she’d looked at him the night before, like he wasn’t just a soldier, but a man. A man worth choosing.

He wasn’t. That thought alone was enough to make his pace quicken again, his hand pressing harder to the wall for balance. He just needed time. One day. One hour. Something to figure out how to sever this cleanly—before it cost them both.

He turned the last corner, the door to his chamber just a few paces away, when a voice cut through the silence.

"Graham."

Tav stopped mid-step. His body went still, spine locked straight. The voice was calm, almost casual. But it hit him like a blade between the ribs. Slowly, stiffly, he turned. Laird Caithness was standing halfway down the corridor, arms folded across his chest, dressed not in brocade or finery but in dark wool and practical boots. His expression was composed. Too composed.