Page 99 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

Tav’s hands curled into fists within the chains. "We had a deal."

"I dinnae deal with bastards," Armstrong spat. His voice rang out across the courtyard, bold enough for every man nearby to hear.

But something shifted. Behind him, one of his soldiers moved, just slightly, with a twitch of unease. Tav saw it. Another man looked away. The rest still clutched weapons, but their eyes weren’t as sure. Doubt was seeping in, like cracks forming under the weight of the lie.

"If ye dinnae let her go," Tav said, his tone calm and cutting, "then what happens next willnae be a siege. It’ll be a reckoning."

Armstrong scoffed and turned away, but it was a show now, not confidence. He flicked his fingers as if to dismiss a stray dog. "Big words fer a kneelin’ man."

Tav’s eyes flicked to the ridgeline.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But it was enough. The signal had been sent. Armstrong didn’t notice.

He turned to his men. "Take him. Lock him below. I’ll deal with him after."

Two guards stepped forward. Tav let them grab him, let them believe. As they hauled him toward the keep, boots sinking into the wet soil, Tav whispered a prayer, not for himself, but for the army hidden in the hills, for the strike waiting in the shadows. And for her. Always for her. The air changed. Birds lifted in a rush from the trees. Even the fog seemed to still. Tension snapped taut. From across the yard, he saw Agnes twist in the grip of her captor, eyes wild, wrists raw from the rope. She didn’t look afraid. She looked ready to fight.

Then—

An arrow split the quiet. It buried itself in the throat of the guard beside Tav. The man collapsed, blood spurting, lifeless before he hit the ground.

Chaos.

From the hills, the cry of battle erupted. Caithness’s men poured over the ridge like a storm. Kerr’s followed from the eastern tree line. Soldiers thundered forward, their cries fierce and wild.

Tav yanked the chain free and dove, snatching up a fallen sword. The second guard lunged. Tav twisted, parried, drove the blade through his gut. The man let out a choked gasp, crumpling to the mud.

All around him, war bloomed.

The clang of steel roared to life, shattering the eerie calm like glass underfoot. Tav turned as more soldiers surged down, shouting and brandishing weapons. He didn’t wait. There was no time for strategy, no space for hesitation. Blood was already in the air—thick, metallic, and cloying—mixing with the fog and the smoke that coiled like ghosts around the battlefield. His boots slipped in the muck as he lunged forward, catching the first man across the jaw with the hilt of his sword. The crack of bone vibrated through his arm.

Another soldier came fast, a short blade raised. Tav ducked the swing and drove his shoulder hard into the man's gut, sending them both sprawling into the churned-up mud. They wrestled viciously, grunting, snarling, mud splattering up their faces and chests. Tav twisted his body, rolled on top, and with a grunt of effort, shoved the tip of his sword up under the man’s ribs. He felt the resistance of flesh and bone—then the yielding. The soldier gave a short, sharp gasp and went limp.

Tav shoved him off and stood, chest heaving. The mud soaked through to his bones. Blood painted his arms. His knuckles were raw. He scanned the battlefield. Caithness’s men had broken through the outer ranks. Armstrong’s soldiers were splintering, falling back toward the stone courtyard. Bodies littered the field. Shouts echoed. Arrows hissed overhead. Horses screamed. The fog, once thick and quiet, was now ripped apart by fire and iron.

But Tav didn’t care about the battle. Not really. Only Agnes mattered. He didn’t care who fell or who triumphed. He had to reach her. Had to get to her first, before any blade, any hand, any shadow found her again.

He stalked across the battlefield like a man possessed, breath loud in his ears, heart pounding with a rhythm not quite his own. He shoved through knots of soldiers, ducked under swinging blades, dodged the slash of an axe that barely missed his jaw. His sword felt like an extension of his body now, one that knew that the only direction was forward.

He couldn’t find Agnes immediately, amidst the fighting. Not near the camp’s front. Not at the ridge where the banners were flying. He pushed through the chaos, eyes scanning every face, jaw clenched with cold purpose. Armstrong must’ve gotten to her first. Tav couldn’t find him or her. And the not knowing was a blade all its own.

At first, every flicker of movement could’ve been them—but none were. One soldier lunged from the left, catching Tav off guard, blade already mid-swing. Tav barely twisted in time, the sword grazing his ribs. He hissed and turned, driving his blade up into the man’s gut. The attacker choked on blood, but even as he fell, another man came from behind, silent and fast.

Tav ducked instinctively. Steel grazed his scalp. He turned, swung wide—missed. The attacker was trained. Their swords clanged, their boots skidding in the mud-slicked courtyard. Tav blocked a slash, barely, then parried hard, his muscles screaming from strain. A second missed blow left him open, and the man lunged⁠—

Tav twisted, dodged by inches, then rammed his shoulder into the man’s sternum, sending them both crashing to the ground. He wrestled his blade free from the man’s grip, elbowed him across the jaw, and with a furious snarl, drove his sword straight through the bastard’s throat.

He rolled off, breathless, chest heaving. He didn’t stop. Wiping the back of his hand across his face, he staggered up and kept moving. He wove through the smoke and screams, heart pounding like war drums in his ears. He yelled Armstrong’s name into the choking fog once, then again. But the roar of battle devoured it.

Then, through the din, he caught movement near the edge of the camp. Tav squinted. A man barking orders, surrounded by a clutch of scrambling soldiers trying to hold the line. His stance was rigid, authoritative.

There. Found.

Armstrong stood near the edge of the camp, barking orders at the last of his men. And beside him was Agnes. Her hands were still bound, her dress torn at the hem, and she was struggling against him.

“Let me go!” she cried, voice raw with fury and fear.

Tav froze for half a breath, from rage. It rose like a storm in his chest, hot and hollow, rattling his ribs like thunder. Armstrong. With her. Dragging her away like a spoil of war.