Page 72 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

Tav swallowed, throat tight. His mouth had gone dry. "Me laird," he said, dipping his head.

Caithness didn’t answer immediately. His eyes swept over Tav like a blade, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

"Did ye sleep well?" the laird asked.

Tav’s pulse pounded in his ears. Was it a trap? Did he know?

The words caught in his throat. "Well enough," he said, though the lie scraped his tongue like broken glass.

Caithness nodded slowly, his brow creasing. "Come with me," the laird said at last. "There’s something I want tae show ye."

Tav stiffened. His first instinct was to refuse, but that would be worse. More suspicious. So, he nodded, falling into step a few paces behind as Caithness turned and began walking. Not toward the main hall, but down. Toward the lower levels. The dungeon. Tav’s breath caught as a cold sweat broke out along his spine. His thoughts whirled.

He kens. Someone saw. Someone told him. Or maybe Agnes—nay, she wouldnae. She would never. Would she?

His heart was thundering now, a brutal rhythm against his ribs. Every step down the spiraling stairs felt like descending into judgment. Would Caithness punish him? Publicly? Would he drag Agnes into it?

No. No, he couldn’t allow that. If this was a trap, Tav would fight. He would get her out. There would be no way they would touch her, if he was alive. They would run, disappear across the border, start over. But he had no weapons or allies, he had no plan. But he would give his life, if it meant she would be safe.

He kept walking beside Caithness, each step taking them deeper into the underbelly of the keep. The corridor narrowed as they descended, stone giving way to older stone, rougher and darker, slick with damp. The walls pressed in, glistening with beads of moisture, and the air turned cold enough to sting his lungs with every breath. It smelled of rot and rust, old blood and older secrets.

The silence between them stretched taut, weighted with unspoken thoughts and the echo of distant footfalls. Tav could feel it tightening around his ribs like a vice. At the end of the corridor loomed a heavy ironbound door, streaked with the orange of long-set rust. A guard stood beside it, still as a statue. He gave a small silent nod and stepped forward to heave the door open with a groan that scraped along Tav’s spine.

Caithness entered first, his cloak brushing the threshold. Tav paused. He stood just outside the frame, the weight of old stone and something colder pressing in from every side. The darkness beyond the door wasn’t pitch. It flickered with sickly light, but it felt darker all the same. Like stepping into a place where the truth lived raw and waiting.

He drew in a slow, bracing breath. The kind that tasted of iron and earth. Whatever waited beyond that door, he would face it. For her. He stepped inside.

The dense, unmoving cold of centuries hit him first, clinging to his skin like breathless water. This chill had teeth. The dungeon smelled of mildew, sweat, and something coppery beneath it all. The torches lining the walls burned low, their flames stuttering in their sconces, casting long, jittering shadows across the damp flagstones. The air was thick, heavy with silence and the slow, rhythmic drip of water from the ceiling.

Tav’s eyes adjusted slowly. Vaulted ceilings loomed above, curved like a ribcage. Stone cells yawned open on either side, most empty, others closed with thick bars. The flicker of torchlight caught on rings of rusted metal, on dark stains in the corners of the room.

A chill uncoiled down his spine. Not from the cold, but from memory. He had been in places like this before. Had heard men scream in them. Had been one of them once, long ago, in Armstrong’s dungeon. Would he be chained to the wall for a second time?

Caithness led him in without a word and Tav followed, his boots scraping against the damp flagstones. The low groan of the heavy iron door closed behind them. He was already tense, already bracing for whatever came next—interrogation, accusation, punishment.

But instead, Caithness stopped a few paces into the chamber, arms crossed, gaze trained ahead.

“I wanted ye tae see this,” the laird said quietly.

Tav frowned. His eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom. At the far wall, hunched and shackled, was a man. His face was swollen, one eye blackened shut, a cut splitting his lower lip. But he was alert. Watching.

It took a moment, but recognition stirred. He was one of Armstrong’s men.

Tav’s brows drew together. “I dinnae understand.”

Caithness stepped forward, but kept his voice low, as if speaking too loudly might wake something better left sleeping.

“After yer ambush,” he said, “we sent riders tae comb the nearby hills. This one was found just beyond the river pass, claiming tae be a lost guard from a merchant train. Said he’d been attacked by the same outlaws. Wasn’t a terrible lie.”

Tav watched the prisoner without blinking.

“But it didnae hold,” Caithness continued. “Nae once we brought him here and searched him.”

Tav looked over. “He talked?”

Caithness nodded. “Aye. Took a while. But he cracked. And what he said…” The laird’s jaw flexed. “It matters. Tae ye, especially.”

Tav stepped closer. The man didn’t look away. In fact, he seemed to steel himself under Tav’s gaze.