Page 9 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

"We have tae go," he said. "Now."

"The others⁠——"

His jaw clenched. That was answer enough. She said nothing more, and he didn’t either. He helped her up, his breath hitching as he did. She wanted to protest, to insist he rest, but there was no time.

With effort, he lifted her onto his horse. His palms burned through her skirts as if the fabric didn’t exist. Agnes sucked in a breath, too aware of how his fingers spanned nearly the whole width of her waist, how easily he’d handled her weight like she was nothing, even when wounded.

Then he was climbing up behind her, his chest pressing against her back. God. She’d never been this close to him before. She was close enough to feel the heat of his body, to catch the scent of leather and steel beneath. His hands settled around her waist again, this time possessive, anchoring her against him as if he expected her to bolt. Her traitorous body stayed utterly still, every nerve alight where he touched her.

Then they were off, the horse thundering through the trees, away from the carnage.

Agnes couldn’t bring herself to look back.

Her hands trembled in her lap, still smeared with dirt and blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt through Tav’s body, and she felt it—the way he gritted his teeth, the wet heat of his blood against her back.

She closed her eyes, biting back the sob in her throat.

They were alone now.

And though she had never been more afraid, she had also never been more certain:

Everything had changed.

CHAPTER THREE

The rhythmic gallop of Tav’s horse pounded beneath them, a living drumbeat echoing the frantic thrum of Agnes’ heart. They had ridden far from the blood-soaked path, yet the air still carried the chill of danger. Wind tugged at the damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, and the forest blurred around them in a haze of shadows and light. Every jolt sent a sharp awareness through her—of the strong man behind her, of his arm secure around her waist, of the warmth of his breath near her ear.

She should not have noticed. She should have been thinking of the men, of the blood, of what they had just survived. But the heat of him pressed against her back, the strength of his arm holding her steady—it settled in her like something inevitable.

Still, she held herself rigid, refusing to acknowledge her own reaction, until she felt his grip weakening and his breath hitching against her shoulder.

“Tav,” she said, twisting enough to glance at him. “Ye’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted behind her.

“Ye’re nae.” She didn’t raise her voice, despite wanting to. “We’re stopping.”

He didn’t respond, but the tension in his torso behind her told her enough.

They reached a bend in the road where the trees parted slightly to reveal a thin but clean stream, threading its way between the roots. Agnes grabbed the reins from Tav’s hands, tightened her grip and brought the horse to a halt.

“I said I’m fine,” Tav muttered behind her, his voice rough, strained.

She twisted to face him as much as possible, her glare sharper than the dagger at her hip. “And I said we’re stopping. If ye fall off this horse dead, it’s going tae make getting home a great deal harder fer me.”

His eyes met hers. For a moment, there was a flicker of something that might have been amusement or defiance. But then it passed, and he nodded.

They dismounted, Tav slower than usual, his breath hitching as he pressed a hand to his side. Agnes didn’t miss the way his knuckles whitened, the way his jaw clenched hard enough to crack stone. She moved quickly, scanning the trees for threats, but the forest held its breath around them.

She crouched near the stream, tore a strip from the hem of her dress, and soaked it in the water. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him standing there, watching.

“Take off yer shirt.” Her voice was low, her eyes locking onto his, sharp as a blade’s edge, waiting.

He gave her a look that was part skepticism, part disbelief, but she didn’t waver.

Tav arched a brow. “Bold request.”

“Aye, and if I wanted yer commentary, I’d ask fer it.” She flicked the sopping cloth toward him, droplets scattering like shards of glass in the sunlight. “I can clean the wound. Ye’re nae immortal, though ye clearly fancy yerself close.”