Page 13 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

CHAPTER FOUR

They rode in silence, but it was not peace. Not for Tav.

He could feel her back pressing on his chest, the smooth skin of her neck seemed almost inviting to him. Her presence was not just a weight on the saddle, but a heat that crawled up the back of his neck and rooted somewhere low in his gut. Every time the horse shifted beneath them, her thigh brushed against his. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she did, but she didn’t pull away. Neither did he. He couldn’t. Hell, he didn’t even try.

This is wrong.

The wind had picked up again, tugging at her hair until strands of it slipped forward and brushed against his jaw. Her soft scent wrapped around him and Tav found himself tightening his grip on the reins just to give his hands something to do. Something that wasn’t reaching forward to touch her knee, to press her closer, to do something reckless and stupid.

She'd touched him the day before, her hands had roamed on his bare skin, careful but sure. Agnes Kerr had bent over him, unafraid of his blood or the grim set of his jaw, her fingertips whispering across the wound on his ribs like she meant to memorize him. He’d watched her work, unable to tear his eyes from the curve of her brow, the focused line of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest when she breathed. God help him, he felt possessed.

The ache in his side had dulled, especially after they had stopped to camp for the night to rest, but now another kind had taken its place, sharper and hungry. Tav shifted slightly in the saddle. A mistake. Her body slid backward an inch, her hand accidentally pressing against his thigh. She must’ve noticed his breath catch, because he felt her still in front of him. One, two, three heartbeats passed before she moved again, but even that tiny pause made sweat bead at the back of his neck.

She was a fire that burned him, and she didn’t even know it.

She is off-limits.

Tav stared straight ahead, focusing on the path, the landscape, the dying light of day as it burned low over the Highland hills. Anything but her. Anything but the memory of her fingers pressing the cloth to his side, her voice low and tight with worry. He didn’t deserve that voice. Or the way she’d looked at him like he was more than just a blade for hire.

And yet, part of him wanted to be seen like that. Especially by her.

She didn’t know what kind of man he was. She thought he was brave, perhaps, or loyal, maybe even good. But Tav knew better. Tav knew exactly how many men he’d killed. He remembered every face. He remembered how quickly the light left the eyes.

She would look at him differently if she knew. He wasn’t meant to be touched by hands as clean as hers.

Still, he couldn’t stop the images that crept into his mind as they rode. Her mouth. Her voice. The flush on her cheeks. He’d never met a lass like her. Agnes was clever. She was sharp with her words and quicker still with her eyes. She saw too much. She asked too many questions. And yet, she hadn’t pulled away from him even once, not when she’d seen the wound, not when he’d grunted through the pain, not when their eyes had locked and the silence had thickened between them like syrup.

She made him feel… alive.

That was the worst part.

Then, the castle appeared ahead, the dark towers rising from the moor like the teeth of some slumbering beast. The horse slowed instinctively, and Tav’s body tensed from the fresh agony of her dismounting. Her leg brushed over his thigh as she swung it down. For one insane second, he nearly reached for her waist, just to keep her there.

But her feet hit the ground, and the moment passed.

She stepped away, brushing her skirts down, avoiding his eyes. Her lips parted as if she might say something—but then the doors to the castle burst open.

Ewan Kerr stormed down the steps like a man built from fury and suspicion, broad-shouldered and with a scowl already set deep across his features.

“Why are ye back?” His voice cracked like a whip. “Ye should be a three day’s ride north by now.”

Tav dismounted in silence. The ache in his side flared as his boots hit the ground. He straightened, squaring his shoulders.

“We were ambushed,” he kept his voice calm.

Ewan’s eyes darted to Agnes, then to the dried blood on Tav’s side. “Ambushed?”

“All o’ our men are dead. Yer daughter was chased from the carriage,” Tav ground out, jaw tight. “I found her in the trees. She would’ve been taken⁠—”

“I can speak fer meself,” Agnes said quickly, stepping between them now, her voice trembling just enough to draw Tav’s gaze. “I left the carriage when the fighting began. I ran. Tav found me, and he—he took a blade fer me. He was hurt.”

Tav almost flinched. The way she said it. Like his health mattered to her.

“Go tae your room, Agnes.”

She opened her mouth again, then closed it. Her shoulders stiffened as if struck, but she didn’t argue. She cast Tav one last glance, something unreadable passing between them then lifted her chin and walked toward the house.

Tav watched her go. He shouldn’t have. But he did. He watched the sway of her hips, the way her fingers clutched her skirt, the tension in her spine. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, even now, with her father looking at him like a loaded fire gun.