Forbidden Kilted Highlander - Bonus Prologue

Forbidden Kilted Highlander – Bonus Prologue

The courtyard was still damp from the morning rain, the stone slick in places where the sun had yet to break through the mist. Tav didn’t mind. He preferred it that way. The chill kept his muscles sharp, the sheen of moisture making every action more deliberate, every move more exact. Sweat clung to his shirt, soaked through at the chest and collar, but he didn’t stop.

His sword moved in perfect arcs. Controlled. Mechanical. He struck again, again, again—a relentless rhythm of blade and breath. The burn in his arms didn’t bother him. Neither did the tightening in his shoulders or the ache in his scarred ribs. He welcomed it. He needed it. The pain reminded him that he was still here. Still standing. Not broken, despite what had happened to him.

Armstrong hadn’t won, despite the horrific things he had made him do. Slaughtering innocent soldiers, torturing men in the dungeons, and so much more.

Tav drove the practice blade against the post hard enough to send splinters flying. He paused, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the battered wood. His fingers twitched. He gritted his teeth. Then he reset his stance.

The repetition helped. If he moved fast enough, thought fast enough, maybe the memories would stop coming back in fragments. Maybe the way his jaw ached in the cold, or how his right knee still locked when the weather turned, wouldn’t feel like a permanent echo of failure. He had to become something stronger. Something colder. Something unbreakable. Flesh could be torn. But steel? Steel endured.

He was halfway through another set of forms when the sound of boots crunching on gravel reached his ears.

“Tav.”

He turned his head slightly. One of Kerr’s younger guards—Douglas, maybe? Hamish?—stood a few paces off, clearly hesitant to come closer.

“What is it?”

“Laird Kerr sent me. He’s askin’ fer ye. Said it was important.”

Tav rolled his neck slowly. “Aye.”

He dropped the blade, wiped his forearm across his brow, and moved to the water barrel nearby. The boy didn’t leave. Tav dipped both hands into the cold water, splashed his face, then reached for the cloth hanging over the post.

Still, the boy lingered.

“Ye train like the devil himself’s at yer heels,” he said after a beat, a poor attempt at jest.

Tav didn’t reply.

“I mean, it’s… it’s impressive,” the boy added, shifting from foot to foot. “Folk say ye could take ten men and still stand. Some say more.”

Tav glanced up, his gaze flat. The boy paled slightly.

“Right,” he mumbled. “I’ll just… I’ll tell the laird ye’re comin’.”

Tav said nothing. The boy turned and made a brisk retreat, shoulders hunched. It was always the same, admiration edged with fear. They called him loyal. Unbreakable. But they never asked what had been broken to make him that way.

Tav exhaled through his nose, slow and even. He finished drying his face, then stripped off the soaked shirt and changed into a fresh one, his movements economical. The leather jerkin went on next. He didn’t rush. He left the training yard by the north gate, boots striking a rhythm against the cobbles. The sun had broken through now, casting long slanted rays across the keep. The path to the laird’s tower wound near the outer gardens—a detour he usually avoided. Today, something pulled him that way.

He didn’t mean to glance that way. Truly. But he did.

Agnes was there. Constance too, both seated on the low stone bench near the rose arch. Constance was reading aloud from a folded letter in her lap, her voice quick and teasing, the kind of playful bite only sisters could manage. Agnes laughed. Head tilted back, eyes shut, one hand fanned over her chest like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

The sound hit him low. A crack of warmth in a place that had forgotten what soft things felt like. It made something go still inside him. Then ache.

Then Agnes reached over and flicked water from a small bowl onto Constance, who shrieked and flailed with exaggerated drama. Agnes laughed again, the kind of laugh that turned heads. Bright and sudden like light off water. She seemed so untouched by the weight of the world in that moment that Tav had to look away before something in him cracked.

He meant to keep walking. He did. But his feet hesitated. Just long enough to see the way her braid shimmered in the sun, the way her fingers curled gently around a book she wasn’t reading. How she leaned her shoulder into her sister as they laughed, how easily she belonged in the light.

He bowed his head slightly as he passed. He didn’t dare speak. She didn’t look his way.

Foolish, all of it. Whatever strange pull had once curled beneath his ribs when he looked at her—he’d buried it. He’d had to. She was the laird’s daughter. Kind. Clever. Promised to someone important, no doubt. He was a humble man with a sword and a past stitched in shadow. There were lines men like him didn’t cross.

He kept walking. But just as he reached the hedgerow that would block them from sight, he heard a sharp whisper.

“You were looking too long at that guard.” Constance. Her voice was low but not unkind. A sister’s warning.

He clenched his jaw and turned the corner without a word.

The laird’s study was on the second floor, tucked behind the great hearth. Tav knocked once before entering.

“Come in,” a voice came from inside.

Ewan Kerr’s study was dim, all shadowed corners and the faint scent of old parchment. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching on the floating dust. Ewan Kerr stood at the hearth, his back to the door, a goblet in one hand, untouched.

Tav stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Ye asked fer me, me laird?”

Ewan turned. His face was lined deeper than Tav remembered, though it had only been a matter of days since they had last spoken. Grief lived behind his eyes, tight as a knot. He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Aye. Sit, Tav.”

Tav obeyed, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. He rested his arms lightly on his thighs, leaning forward. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Kerr didn’t answer right away. He moved to the table, set the goblet down, and poured another from the decanter without drinking. His fingers were steady. His mouth, a grim line.

“I’ve made a proposal,” he said finally. “Tae Laird Caithness.”

Tav didn’t move. But his mind went alert, snapping taut like a bowstring. “A proposal?”

“An alliance,” Kerr clarified, voice low. “I offered Agnes’ hand in marriage, tae Laird Caithness. He agreed. Said it was the smartest course, politically. A uniting of our clans through blood.” He paused, then added, “Agnes would go tae him.”

The words hit like the flat of a blade. Tav didn’t let it show. He only shifted slightly in his seat, a barely-there movement.

“Daes she agree?”

Kerr hesitated. Just a flicker. A pause that would have gone unnoticed by a less observant man. But Tav noticed everything. Especially what was left unsaid.

“She’s… strong,” Kerr said finally, eyes fixed on the hearth. But it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Tav looked at the fire. It cracked once, the sound too loud in the silence.

“I ken she’s strong,” he said evenly, but his stomach twisted. Strength didn’t mean agreement.

Kerr nodded, then moved to sit behind the desk. He looked tired. Worn thin by choices that had no clean outcome. “I wouldnae ask this of her if there were another path. But Caithness’s support could make a difference tae the clan, tae the people… we need it.”

Tav stayed quiet. His hands curled slightly, the calluses catching against the fabric of his trousers. He wanted to speak, to say she was nae some chess piece to be moved across a board. But it wasn’t his place.

“We need tae start planning,” Kerr continued. “She’ll leave within the week. A small party. Discreet. I want someone I trust on it.”

Tav straightened slightly. “Ye want me tae go?”

“Nay,” Kerr said quickly, too quickly. “Nae ye. I need ye here. That’s why I called ye. I want yer counsel. Who would ye send, if she were… someone ye cared fer?”

The phrasing wasn’t lost on him. Tav frowned, considering.

“Brodie Ainslei,” he said after a long moment.

Ewan tilted his head. “Why him?”

“He’s steady. Quiet. Loyal tae a fault. Keeps tae himself. Nae the most talkative, but that’s nae bad thing. Keeps his eyes where they belong. Never looked twice at a woman he was paid tae protect.”

Ewan studied him. There was a pause, then he nodded slowly. “Aye. That might be best. And I trust he’d keep his distance.”

Tav’s jaw tightened. “He will.”

Ewan sighed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes had gone far-off, distant, like he was already watching Agnes ride away. “It goes against every bone in me body, this. Sendin’ her off like this. But me hands are tied. Every path forward comes at a cost.”

Tav rose. He didn’t know what to say. The weight in his chest felt heavier now. Like chainmail soaked in water.

“Ye’ll let me ken when they leave?”

“Aye.”

He turned to go, hand already on the latch, when Kerr’s voice stopped him.

“Tav.”

He looked back.

The laird stood now. His voice dropped lower, roughened with something that wasn’t command. “How are ye farin’? Truly.”

Tav met his eyes. “I’m alive.”

Kerr crossed the space between them in a few strides, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Ye’re more than that. Ye may be changed, aye. But nae lesser. And nae alone. Ye dinnae need tae carry it all yerself.”

Tav nodded once. “Thank ye, me laird.”

Kerr gave his shoulder a last squeeze, then stepped back.

Tav opened the door. The corridor beyond was bright now, the sun pouring in golden through the high windows. The same young guard from earlier was walking down the hall. He slowed as Tav exited, unsure whether to offer a salute or keep walking.

This time, Tav gave him a nod. The boy blinked, then stood a little taller.

Tav walked on, jaw tight, spine straight. The heaviness in his chest remained, but so did the memory of her laughter in the garden. He wouldn’t be the one to take her away.

But gods help him, he already wanted to follow.