Page 44 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

He was a man of duty. Bound by code, by promise. But there were limits to the oaths a man could carry before they broke him. And wanting her... wanting her was beginning to feel less like a mistake and more like the one true thing he had left. She stirred against him, head still tucked beneath his chin.

“Ye alright?” he murmured.

Agnes nodded, barely. He didn’t ask again. He just stayed and held her through the quiet. Sitting with her in his arms, as unmoving as a stone, but a storm churning beneath the surface, listening to the fire crackle, he tried not to think of having to let her go. Her weight against his chest was slight, barely anything. But it anchored him to the ground in a way nothing else had in years.

The fire had burned low, casting only a faint orange glow, like the final embers of a day too long. The stars above them pulsed behind thin clouds, quiet witnesses to his undoing.

He should have moved. The rational part of his mind, the part that still clung to restraint, knew he should have shifted her back onto her blanket, and let her sleep properly instead of tangled against him like this. But the thought alone sent a sharp protest through his body. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her fingers were curled into the fabric of his tunic, clutching him even in sleep as if she feared he might slip away. The warmth of her cheek pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, as though that space had been carved just for her. And God help him, he burned with it.

Every breath she took fanned against his skin. Every shift of her body, soft and trusting against his, sent heat licking through his veins. His entire body ached, not just with want, but with something deeper, something perilously close to need. The urge to pull her closer, to mold himself against her until there was no space left between them, was nearly unbearable.

But he stayed still, because if he moved, even an inch, this fragile, stolen moment would shatter. And he wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.

He kept his arms firm around her and tilted his head back against the tree trunk, eyes on the dark canopy above. He traced constellations in his mind—not the old names, but the routes. Hills they’d passed. Streams. He recited them silently like a prayer. East by the hollow. Avoid the fork at Windmere.

But he couldn’t concentrate, with her curled against him like that. Not with the memory of her scream still echoing in his bones.

That nightmare had carved something open in her. And it had gutted him. He hadn’t known he was capable of such rage until that moment, hearing her cry ou, seeing her flinch. It had lit something inside him—raw and violent and terrifying. He would’ve razed the world just then, if it meant taking the fear out of her eyes.

He looked down at her sleeping face, soft again now in the hush of midnight. Her lashes still damp. Her brow smooth. One of his arms was under her shoulders, the other wrapped across her back, his hand resting between her shoulder blades, keeping her close. Keeping her safe.

He should never have let it go that far. He should have distanced himself from the start. Called her "Lady Agnes" at every turn, kept his tone formal, cold. Built a wall and never let her climb it. But he hadn’t. And now, there she was, pressed to him like something he couldn’t put down, couldn’t part with.

His fingers moved before he could stop them, lightly tracing one loose strand of hair curling against her cheek. He caught himself, stopped, clenched his hand in a fist against her back. He wanted to keep her. The thought came uninvited, a blade slipped between his ribs. Fierce. Unforgivable.

He could see it with brutal clarity: spurring his horse past the castle gates, the thunder of hooves drowning out the shouts behind them. Taking the southern road through the glens, where the mist clung low and the bracken whispered secrets. Disappearing into the mountains with her, where the world couldn’t claw them back.

To somewhere else. Somewhere untouched by fathers or alliances or the weight of broken names. Just her. Just him. A cabin, maybe, rough-hewn and snug against the wind. The weight of her head on his chest, her breath warm through the linen of his shirt. Her laughter, bright as a spark catching, curling through the rafters and settling in his bones like a prayer.

He could see it. He could feel the phantom press of her palm against his, the imagined heat of her mouth. The way the future trembled, sweet and impossible, just beyond his grasp. And that terrified him more than any blade ever had. Because he knew better.

Her freedom was borrowed. Brief. A fleeting season of stolen moments before duty reclaimed her. It would end the moment they crossed the threshold of Caithness, and she’d become a stranger again. She would be a lady with his fingerprints still fading from her skin.

And what would be of him?

He lowered his head slightly, breathing her in. Her scent was warm and earthy, touched with pine and fire smoke and something faintly floral. He’d noticed it before, as he had always noticed everything about her, even when she wasn’t paying attention to him. His grip tightened for just a moment, then loosened.

She shifted slightly in his hold, a quiet breath escaping her lips, and Tav stilled, every muscle alert. When she settled again, cheek nestling deeper into his collarbone, a soft sound escaped him—a whisper of a sigh.

He thought of the next day. And the final one. When he would walk her to the gates of a life she hadn’t chosen. When he would have to hand her over, eyes down, mouth shut, pretending none of this had happened. That he hadn’t braided her hair, that he hadn’t held her through the dark. That she hadn’t said his name like it meant something.

Would she look back at him? Or worse… would she not? He didn’t know what scared him more. He closed his eyes again, letting his forehead rest gently against hers, not enough to wake her, just enough to feel her breath against his skin.

He couldn’t change the end of this road. But maybe, just maybe, he could linger on it a little longer. Just until dawn. And so he stayed there, holding her as the stars wheeled silently overhead, listening to the forest breathe, to the soft beat of her heart near his own, pretending, just for one night, that the story ended there.

That that was enough. That he was enough.