Page 77 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

Agnes pulled her shawl tighter and sat down at the long table. A few servants moved quietly through the room, setting down platters of bread and cheese, bowls of stewed apples. She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat, tearing the bread into small, uneven pieces.

Every sound grated against her. The scrape of a chair, the clink of a spoon. It all felt too loud.

She had just finished her tea when the door creaked open and Laird Caithness stepped inside.

“Lady Agnes,” he greeted, with a nod. “I hope I’m nae interruptin’ yer morning.”

She stood automatically. “Nae at all, me laird.”

He glanced toward the windows, then back at her. “A breath o’ air might dae us both good, I think. Too long indoors sours the head. Would ye walk wi’ me?”

Agnes hesitated. For a moment, her instinct was to refuse. She hadn’t the energy for niceties, nor the strength to pretend. But there was no pressure in his voice. Just quiet expectation. And something in her said yes before she could stop it.

“O’ course,” she said softly.

He smiled. “Good. I’ve had a spot prepared. Naething grand. Just a small meal and some sun. Follow me when ye’re ready.”

She watched him turn and leave, and her hands curled into the folds of her skirt. She wasn’t ready. Not for this, not for anything.

But she climbed the stairs to her room to prepare anyway, each step feeling heavier than the last. In her chambers, Paisley was already laying out a fresh light blue linen gown, with sleeves Agnes could roll if the sun grew too warm. She let the maid dress her in silence, saying nothing when her braid was redone or when her slippers were exchanged for walking boots. She barely felt any of it.

By the time she reached the courtyard, Caithness was already mounted. He offered her his hand to help her into the saddle, and though she hesitated for a breath she took it. His grip was steady.

They rode in silence, past the outer gardens, along the narrow trail that edged the southern slope. The hills rolled out before them like a painted thing, green and gold and aching with peace. Agnes kept her eyes on the horizon. It was easier than looking at him. Easier than thinking.

They stopped just past a stand of birch, where the trees opened into a small clearing. Someone had already spread the blanket. Caithness dismounted first and then offered his hand again.

Agnes didn’t speak. She only nodded and lowered herself to the blanket beneath the birch tree. A small basket of bread and soft cheese sat untouched between them. A flask of watered wine, two empty cups. She didn’t touch any of it.

Laird Caithness, for his part, had done everything right. He had chosen a spot with a view of the southern hills, far from prying eyes, and arranged it all himself—no servants, no pretense. Just a man and the woman he was meant to marry.

He removed his coat, rolling his sleeves to the forearm. There was a casualness to him she hadn’t seen before, something easier in his stance, though not without its gravity. He was a striking man, certainly. Not beautiful like Tav, there was no wildness in him, but he was handsome in the way of kings and carved statues. Tall and composed, with a face that bore both history and expectation. And he had never once treated her as a prize.

That, more than anything, unsettled her now.

Agnes stared out across the field, her fingers twisting in the folds of her skirt. “It’s… lovely,” she said at last, because it was, and because silence felt like cowardice.

“I hoped ye’d think so.” Caithness leaned back on one arm, the other resting on his bent knee. “It’s been a difficult stretch fer ye. Thought a softer moment might be earned.”

Agnes glanced at him, but his expression betrayed nothing. He looked at the hills, not at her. As though he, too, were somewhere far away in his mind.

“I’m grateful, truly,” she said. “Ye’ve been… kind.”

His gaze slid to hers then, and the weight of it made her sit up straighter.

“But?” he asked.

She tried to swallow. “There’s nay but. Only… I feel I’ve nae been the most gracious guest. Me thoughts have been… scattered.”

“I ken why they are,” he said, and the bluntness of it cut through her like a blade made of ice. She turned to face him fully, startled.

“I beg yer pardon?”

Caithness exhaled, slow and steady. “Agnes. Ye dinnae need tae pretend. Not wi’ me. If ye dinnae want yer future husband tae ken about the man ye’re in love with, perhaps ye shouldnae have brought him wi’ ye.”

Her heart jerked, so sudden and sharp, it felt like a misstep on uneven stone. She blinked. “That’s nae⁠—”

He lifted a hand, not cruelly. “I’m nae accusing ye. Or him. I saw how he looks at ye. And I saw how yer face when they dragged him off. There’s affection between ye. I’d be a fool tae miss it.”