Page 28 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

A flicker of amusement passed through her expression, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. They were still keyed up, both of them—fresh from sparring, from all that close contact, from pretending it hadn’t affected them when it clearly had.

He was anything but fine. His entire body was a storm of sensation. Every brush of air over his skin made him remember the heat of her against him earlier. His body hadn’t forgotten. It ached now. A steady, low pulse of frustration and want knotted low in his stomach, insistent and merciless.

Tav turned to his pack, digging through for a clean shirt and something comfortable to sleep in. The room was small, not exactly the kind of place with a dressing screen or a separate room. He froze slightly as the realization sank in.

Shit.

He heard the shift of fabric behind him. Agnes was fidgeting, perhaps reaching the same conclusion. Her voice came next, laced with tension.

“Um… then… where dae ye want tae change?” her voice was trembling.

Tav looked around at the room they were both occupying and gave a slow blink. “I mean… here, I guess.”

“Right. Aye. O’ course.” A beat. “Should we—uh—take turns?”

His mouth twitched. “Unless ye want tae change in front o’ me.”

Silence.

He immediately regretted the joke. She turned bright red, gaze flicking down. “I—well—nay—I just meant⁠—”

“I’m joking,” Tav said quickly, raising a hand. “We’ll take turns. I’ll turn around. Ye go first.”

“Aye,” she said faintly. “Thank ye.”

He pivoted to face the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staring very intently at the rough grain of the timber. “Ye have me word. Nay turning around until ye say so.”

Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric. The metallic clink of a buckle being unfastened. Tav shut his eyes and pressed his lips together, willing his thoughts into something, anything less dangerous. But his imagination betrayed him. Her silhouette was already burned into his mind. He could still see how she’d looked in the firelight while training, breathless and flushed, skin dewed with sweat.

Now he couldn’t stop wondering how much more stunning she might be without the layers. How she looked with her back bared, that long braid unravelling over her shoulder. His imagination was doing far too much. He tried to focus on the wall, counting the knots in the wood, reciting old field codes in his head. But it didn’t help. Not when he could so clearly imagine her lifting that dress, revealing smooth skin beneath.

Another soft rustle. Then a quiet, breathy curse.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Agnes cursing was rare. But hearing it now, mumbled under her breath as she fumbled with something, just about did him in.

She sounded… flustered. Which only made things worse.

Tav shifted his stance, forcing himself to focus on the wall again. He’d faced down blade-swinging mercenaries with steadier nerves than he had right now.

Finally, her voice broke through the tension. “I’m ready. Ye can turn around now.”

He did, carefully.

She was already under the blanket, sitting up against the headboard, hair unbound and a little wild. She wore a linen shift slightly too large for her, and though it covered everything important, it didn’t do much to hide the curve of her breasts underneath or the softness of her bare arms.

She clutched the blanket closely like it might shield her from his eyes, cheeks burning red.

“Ye’re up,” she said quickly. “I’ll turn around.”

He nodded once. He exhaled hard as soon as her eyes were off him, dragging a hand through his hair. This was absurd. He was not a boy anymore. He’d seen a thousand battlefields, out-bluffed smugglers twice his size, and talked himself out of a gallows noose once—but apparently, the sight of Agnes in a damn nightshirt had him undone.

He pulled his tunic over his head and let it fall to the floor, following with his undershirt, each movement deliberate. He could feel the heat of her gaze on his back, even if she wasn’t admitting she was looking. He undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and stepped out of them quickly. He didn’t usually bother with a shirt when it was warm enough. But tonight… tonight he would.

Still facing the wall, he called over his shoulder, “All done.”

He turned and crossed the room to the blanket on the hardwood floor. He knelt and laid it out by the fire, situating himself close enough to keep warm, far enough to give her space.

When he finally lay down, back pressed against the hard floor and eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling, his body ached in places he hadn’t expected. The scent of her still clung to him, stubborn as a brand. Soap, sharp and clean. Woodsmoke from the hearth. And beneath it, something softer, something hers.

This is maddening.

Every time he closed his eyes, the images came unbidden—the way the blanket had draped over her curves as she’d turned away from him, the way the firelight had gilded the slope of her shoulder. But worse were the memories from earlier, when her body had pressed against his as he’d adjusted her stance, her breath hitching when his hand had lingered a second too long on her wrist.

From the bed, she turned over. The creak of the mattress was loud in the quiet.

He didn’t look. He didn’t dare.

Instead, he said, voice low and strained, “Try tae get some rest.”

“Mm,” came her muffled reply. “Ye too.”

“I’ll try.”