Page 10 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said dryly, but his fingers went to the bloodied fabric, fumbling the fastenings. His hands, usually so deft, shook just enough to betray him. Agnes looked away, suddenly fierce in her study of the stream, the trees, anything but the ragged sound of his breath and the whisper of fabric sliding free.

When she turned back, he had settled on a flat rock near the edge of the stream. Shirt discarded. Skin glistening with sweat and streaked with blood.

And suddenly, breath was something elusive.

His torso was a battlefield of ink and sinew; lean, powerful, and marred with more than just the wound. It drew her in like a lure, that dangerous allure of something both beautiful and broken. The play of muscle beneath taut skin was hypnotic. The way his abs shifted with each controlled breath, slow and even despite the pain, as if his body refused to betray even a flicker of weakness. His chest was a study in strength and precision, every line carved as if by a blade.

Veins curled up his forearms like vines, thick and prominent, mapping the raw power coiled beneath. But it was the tattoos that stole her focus. They sprawled across his collarbone in jagged arcs, dipped over the hard plane of his pectorals, and vanished beneath the waistband of his pants. Not mere decoration, but rather a story. Geometric patterns interlaced with savage, angular strokes, the ink so deep it seemed to pulse under the dim light. Runes, maybe. Or warnings. A history etched into skin, each line a ledger of violence or vow. One snaked up the column of his throat, its sharp edges grazing his jaw. Another curled around his ribs, as if something inside him had clawed its way out once and left a trail.

Oh, God.

She should not have been looking. A flush of heat bloomed low in her belly, spreading like wildfire until it burned in her cheeks, her throat, the very fingertips that hovered too close to his skin. She couldn’t stop her eyes from taking in the way the sunlight caught the sweat-slick planes of his torso, the way his breath hitched just slightly when she leaned in.

She moved to kneel beside him, cloth in hand. Her voice came out a bit too tight, cutting through the thick air between them. "Ye're terrible at nae getting stabbed."

A small, rough sound escaped his lips. It was almost a chuckle, though it ended in a wince. "I'm usually better at it."

"Aye?" She arched a brow, pressing the cloth to his side with deliberate firmness. "Funny, I wouldnae have guessed, judging by this."

His lips quirked, but he didn’t answer.

"Well, ye're bleeding like a man who's out o' practice," she continued, but her fingers gentled as she dipped the cloth again. The water ran pink between them. The gash wasn't deep, but it had bled too freely, staining his skin, his clothes, her hands.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she cleaned around the torn edges. Focus, ye fool. But his skin was warm beneath her palm. And when she pressed the cloth to the jagged slice beneath his ribs, he didn't flinch. Didn't even move.

He just watched her. Steady. Unblinking.

She couldn't look at his face. Couldn't bear what she might see there. So she focused on the blood, the water, the way his muscles tensed under her touch… anything but the question burning in her throat.

It fell anyway, heavy as a stone. "Why did they come fer us?"

Silence. Then⁠—

"Maybe they heard ye nagging across county lines," he muttered. "Decided tae put us both out o’ our misery."

She scoffed, but her hands stilled. "I’m serious."

Tav was quiet for a long moment.

Then, in a softer voice, “I dinnae ken.”

She looked up sharply. “I think ye dae.”

“I have guesses,” he allowed. “But naething I’d bet me life on. Yet.”

Agnes studied him. The way the light played across the angles of his face. There were lines around his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. Tension buried deep in his shoulders, in the way he held himself, as if bracing for something more painful than the wound she was tending. His jaw was tight. His lips pressed together, like he was holding back more than words.

“Tell me anyway,” she said.

Agnes stilled, waiting for his answer, but he didn’t speak for a while. Her hand lingered just below the jagged wound. She stared at it a moment, then lifted her gaze to Tav.

He sat motionless, his torso half-turned toward her, streaked with blood, water, and the beginning of bruises. The late sun filtered through the trees, catching the edge of the ink etched into his skin, and higher, down the lean slope of his abdomen. He was lean in the way only hardened men became, with every inch of him shaped by necessity. Strength without softness.

His breathing was steadier now, but she saw the guarded glint in his eyes.

"Tav," she exclaimed. “I am waiting fer an answer.”

Tav shrugged, his jaw working silently for a moment, then leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His bare back curved, the cords of his muscles shifting beneath skin. Scars like pale memories ran across him, hidden before but now laid bare. Agnes watched his spine flex, the movement disarming her more than it should have.