Page 68 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Agnes had danced three times. Three full, careful, elegant dances in Laird Caithness’ arms, with her chin high and her smile painted on as though it had been stitched there by a seamstress.

She was tired. The kind of exhaustion that pressed into one’s chest like wet wool, suffocating and heavy. Her cheeks still held the flush of forced laughter, and the skin just beneath her eyes ached from holding herself in place for too long. She sat now on the edge of one of the cushioned benches that lined the far wall of the hall, a half-full goblet of wine cradled loosely in her hands. Her fingers were chilled from the glass, but she barely noticed.

All she could think of was Tav.

He hadn’t returned. After seeing him across the ballroom, after watching him sit with that girl—her face clanged in Agnes’ mind like a dropped pan—he’d simply vanished.

She tilted the goblet toward her lips, then stopped, letting it rest just against her bottom lip instead of drinking. Her tongue tasted nothing.

She shifted in her seat and crossed her ankles, then uncrossed them a moment later. The fabric of her gown whispered with every movement, silk sliding against silk. She wanted to rip the sleeves off. To tear the combs from her hair and throw them into the fire. Nothing about tonight felt like her.

A shadow moved in her periphery, and she looked up. Caithness. He approached at a gentle pace, his expression unassuming, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His gaze flicked to her wine, then to her face.

"Ye look pale," he said, his tone low. "Is everything alright?"

Agnes summoned another smile. It barely reached her eyes. "I’m fine. Just tired. The journey was longer than expected."

He nodded, his brow furrowed faintly, but not with suspicion. With concern. He crouched slightly beside her seat so they were nearer in height.

"It must have taken more out o' ye than ye let on," he said. "And then this, taenight—it’s a lot. I ken that."

Agnes looked at him. Really looked. He was a good man. Sincere. He had done nothing wrong. And still, something inside her buckled.

"I think I may go tae me chambers soon," she said softly. “I would appreciate the rest.”

He nodded. "O’ course. Ye dinnae owe anyone yer whole night. Certainly nae after what ye’ve endured."

Relief bloomed in her chest so fast it felt like the first real breath she'd taken in hours. She started to rise, and Caithness reached to take the goblet from her hands. Their fingers brushed, and she flinched before she could stop herself. He froze for a moment, then took the cup gently and placed it on the tray of a passing servant.

"Shall I escort ye?" he asked.

Agnes hesitated. "I think I’d prefer tae go alone. I wouldn’t want yer guests tae miss ye, me laird."

He paused, then gave a small, understanding smile. "All right."

She walked slowly. Each step was a small mercy. Her limbs ached with exhaustion, her head heavy with too much noise and too little rest. The long corridor leading to her room stretched like a tunnel, lined with flickering sconces and silence. She moved through it like a ghost, hands brushing lightly against the cold stone walls, her thoughts spinning like dead leaves in wind.

The doorknob turned easily in her hand. But the moment she stepped inside, she stopped.

Tav.

Standing in the center of her chamber, as if he’d been waiting for hours. His jacket was still on, though wrinkled and askew, and his stormy eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them. Wild. Ragged.

The man standing before her was a frayed rope moments from snapping. Moonlight through the window slats painted stripes across Tav’s hunched shoulders, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the bedpost. Every breath he took looked like it cost him, his ribs expanding too fast beneath his thin linen shirt, his throat working as if swallowing knives.

Agnes froze, her hand still on the door latch. The click of it shutting echoed like a gunshot in the stillness.

"What are ye daeing here?" Her voice came out strangled, the words tangling with the heartbeat lodged in her throat. The floorboards creaked as she took an involuntary step back, her stomach plummeting as if she’d missed a stair.

Tav’s laugh was a hollow thing. "Waiting fer ye." Too calm. It didn’t match the wreckage in his eyes, the tremor in his fingers where they dug into the wood.

"Are ye mad?" The air left her lungs in a rush. "Have ye gone completely insane? Ye shouldnae be here—Tav—ye cannae⁠—"

"Aye." The word landed like an axe blow. He pushed off the bedpost, and for the first time she saw the fever-bright glaze over his eyes, the sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples. "I think I have. I think I am." A step closer. The scent of him filled the space between them. "Gods, Agnes. I’ve tried, I—" His voice broke on her name, and the sound of it undid her.

Agnes stepped forward, her anger igniting like dry tinder. "Tried what?" The words lashed out, sharp enough to draw blood.