Page 52 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

“Open the gates! It’s Agnes Kerr! She’s bein’ pursued!”

For one horrifying second, nothing moved. No shout from the ramparts. No signal. Just the endless beat of hooves and the thunder of breath beside him. Tav’s heart kicked against his ribs, his voice still echoing in the stone. If they didn’t open—if they hesitated⁠—

He tightened his grip on his sword, already shifting in the saddle to shield her with his body. He’d die there if he had to. But not before cutting down the first bastard who reached her.

Then—groaning hinges. The gates cracked open, and a rush of mounted soldiers poured out, already armed, already riding to meet them.

Tav dragged his horse to a brutal stop, spinning it around to face the riders chasing down the slope. He raised his sword again, pointing.

“These men have pursued us fer days!”

The castle soldiers didn’t wait. They swept past him, steel crashing, horses shrieking as they met the mercenaries with practiced precision.

He reached for her reins. His hand was bloodied, but gentle. “Ye alright?”

She nodded, without a single word. He leaned in, his forehead brushing hers, just for a breath.

Then he turned back to the fray, riding toward chaos. He looked once more, just in time to see the guards sweep her toward the gates, already closing behind her as Agnes reined her mare in. She was shaking, her hands white-knuckled on the reins, soaked from the stream and sweat. She looked like she might cry or scream or crumble.

She would be safe. That was enough.

Every instinct in his body screamed to circle back, to ride beside her and make damn sure she reached the gates. But he couldn’t. She had to keep moving, and he had to make them pay for daring to chase her. He’d taught her to ride through fear, to follow the road even when it burned underfoot. Now he had to believe she could do it without him.

He turned his horse toward the hill, blood pounding through his skull like a second heartbeat. The mercenaries were faltering. Surprise was a blade in the hands of Caithness’ men, and they were wielding it well. But it wouldn’t last. Not unless someone broke their line clean.

Tav gripped the reins with one hand, his sword slick in the other. His ribs ached, sharp and hot where pain throbbed beneath layers of soaked fabric, but he didn’t dare stop to check the wound. Nae now.

The mercenaries had regrouped at the base of the slope, forming a tight knot of riders around a man with a red scarf at his throat. He barked orders between gritted teeth, swinging his blade to gesture like a general with a map. Tav knew the type. Dangerous only when the odds were stacked in his favor. He’d counted on speed. Surprise. Weak opposition. But he hadn’t considered Tav.

A Caithness soldier fell to his left, knocked from his saddle by a blow too fast to parry. Tav turned toward the breach. His horse screamed beneath him but held. He ducked low, spurring forward into the heart of the fray.

He slammed into the closest mercenary shoulder-first, blade sweeping up under the man’s arm and slicing clean through leather. The man screamed. Tav pulled free before the body hit the dirt. Another was on him before he could blink, a heavyset brute with a short axe and bad teeth. Tav blocked the first strike with the flat of his sword, turned the second with his gauntlet, and drove his boot into the man’s thigh. The mercenary stumbled.

Tav didn’t give him a third chance. His blade sank deep—bone, then nothing. The man dropped.

He turned again, searching for the red-scarfed leader. The man was circling wide now, trying to pull his force back, shouting something Tav couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears. Caithness’ men pressed forward with brutal discipline, pushing the line into the open field beyond the trees. It would be over soon if they held.

He wheeled his horse around and barreled into the gap the leader had tried to carve. A younger mercenary lunged at him, sword raised awkwardly. Tav knocked it aside with a grunt and slashed low. The boy barely had time to fall before Tav was past him.

He reached the red-scarfed man as the bastard turned to flee.

“Nae yet,” Tav growled, low and vicious.

The man twisted in the saddle, eyes wide, sword swinging too slow. Tav deflected it and rammed his shoulder into the mercenary’s chest, sending them both crashing to the ground. His horse bolted. Mud filled his mouth, his lungs, but he didn’t let go of the sword. He rolled, teeth bared, and came up on one knee.

The mercenary scrambled backward, boots sliding. Tav advanced.

“Who sent ye?” he snapped, voice like gravel. “Armstrong? Say it.”

The man raised his sword again, trembling.

“Say it.”

“Go tae hell,” the man spat.

Tav obliged. One step. One cut. The red scarf hit the ground before the body did.

He stood there a moment, chest heaving, pain blooming hotter now beneath his ribs. The world tilted slightly on its axis. He pressed a hand to his side and it came away wet.