Page 48 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sun was high by the time they climbed out of the water, their soaked clothes clinging to their skin, faces flushed from laughter and breathless splashing. The forest around them glistened, dew still clinging to the low ferns and wildflowers at the river's edge. Agnes stepped carefully over the slick stones, her shift heavy and transparent against her thighs, the fabric dragging with each movement.

Tav offered his hand. She hesitated. Then took it, lacing her fingers with his. His palm was rough, callused, warm despite the cold river. He helped her up the bank, steadying her as her bare feet slid on mossy patches of rock. Her breath hitched when he didn't let go right away, his fingers brushing over her knuckles with what felt like more intention than the simple need for balance. She glanced at him, cheeks flushed, but he was already looking ahead, guiding her toward the slope where the sunlight spilled through a break in the trees.

They found a patch of dry grass near a sun-warmed boulder, where they could sit and let the warmth dry their clothes. Agnes collapsed onto it with a soft groan, her limbs aching in that pleasant, half-tired way she used to feel after walking all day when she was a child. She lay back, face turned to the sun, and let herself feel that moment of impossible ease. The heat on her skin, the breeze combing fingers through her damp hair, the feel of Tav sitting beside her.

She looked at him. God, he was beautiful.

His hair had dried in wild, curling strands that caught the light in places. His chest was still bare, glistening faintly, and she could see every hard line carved into him by years of labor and violence. But it wasn’t just his body. It was the relaxed, quiet, not guarded way he was sitting. His eyes were half-lidded from the sun, his mouth soft. And when he glanced over at her and caught her staring, something like mischief sparked there.

"What?" he smirked.

Agnes bit her lip to keep from smiling. "Naething."

He raised a brow.

"I simply..." She trailed off, sitting up a little and crossing her arms over her knees. "I much prefer this version o' ye."

His brow furrowed. "What version?"

"This one," she said. "The version o’ ye who laughs. Who talks. Who acts like he sees me instead o' starin' straight through me like I’m some bothersome ghost."

Tav shifted, the lines of his face hardening just slightly. "I havenae been ignoring ye."

"Nay?" She tilted her head, voice sharp now. "Ye barely said two words since last night, by the fire. Nae even any looks. Just silence. As if I wasnae even there."

He exhaled through his nose. "I was focused on gettin' ye tae Castle Mey.”

Agnes watched his face carefully, saw the flicker in his eyes that betrayed the calmness in his tone. There it was again—his favorite shield. Cold purpose. Practicality. As if, if he said it enough, maybe he’d believe it too.

"Aye," she said, her voice quieter, tighter. "Because that’s all this is, isnae it? Duty?"

"It is."

The answer came too quick. Like a blade unsheathed before a threat. His jaw was tight now, eyes locked on the horizon like it held his salvation. If he didn’t meet her gaze, it seemed, maybe her words wouldn’t land. Maybe they wouldn’t mean anything.

Agnes felt her heart stutter once in her chest, as if it had missed a step, or dropped into a well. That was it then. That’s what he’d decided to be, her escort. Not the man who had held her in the dead of night, who had sung lullabies beside a dying fire, who had touched her hair like it was a thing to be cherished.

She stood slowly, every inch of movement deliberate, fists clenched at her sides. Her shift clung to her skin, damp from the water, the sun making patterns against her bare arms. She didn’t feel warm anymore. Not with his words hanging between them like iron.

"That’s a lie." Her voice didn’t shake. It cut.

Tav looked up at her then.

And she hated that he looked calm. Hated the quiet way he met her eyes, like she was being difficult. Like this was all there was to it. Her pulse roared in her ears. He was lying. Not just to her, but to himself. She’d felt it in every glance he tried to hide, every time his hand lingered too long, in the way his breath caught when she looked at him like she wanted to be kissed. That wasn’t duty. That wasn’t protocol. That was him, wanting her, needing her. And being too damned afraid to say it out loud.

She wanted to shout. Shake him out of it. Force him to admit what they both already knew. That what had passed between them on the road wasn’t some fever dream. That he hadn’t held her at night like a man fulfilling a contract. That he hadn’t looked at her like she was more than a burden to be delivered.

"I ken what this is," she said, her voice low now, cracking despite her. "I ken what it’s become. Dinnae insult me by pretendin’ otherwise."

She watched his throat move, his silence speaking louder than any denial. She almost hated how he made her feel mad for simply wanting honesty. Like she was greedy for wanting more than silence. Wanting more than duty. But what else was there left to say, when he wouldn’t even say her name?

"Ye’re lyin’," she said again, voice trembling not with fear but with the fury of truths too long unspoken. "Tae me. But worse, tae yerself."

He stood as well, towering over her, the sun throwing shadows across his bare shoulders. "Ye dinnae ken what ye’re talkin’ about."

"I ken ye," she snapped. "I ken ye better than ye want me tae. And I ken this isnae only about duty. If it was, ye wouldnae look at me the way ye dae when ye think I’m not watching. Ye wouldnae have held me like that. Spoken tae me like I was... more."