Page 64 of Under the Laird’s Promise

This time, Tavish couldn’t stop the groan that escaped.

"Daes it hurt?" Her brow furrowed with concern.

"Nay." The opposite, actually. Her touch felt incredible, soothing the ache while stoking a completely different kind of fire. "Yer hands… they're⁠—"

"They're what?"

"Magic." He caught her wrist again, his thumb finding her pulse. It raced beneath his touch. "Ye could bring a man tae his knees with hands so gentle."

"Ye’re already sitting down."

"Metaphorically speaking, lass."

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "Ye talk too much."

"So I've been told." He stroked his thumb along the delicate bones of her wrist. "But ye like it."

"I tolerate it."

"Liar."

Her smile grew. "Maybe."

The salve had been applied, but neither of them moved. Maighread's hands rested on his thighs now, warm and steady. Tavish's pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out every rational thought.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them by inches. Testing. Waiting fer her to pull back.

She didn’t.

Their foreheads nearly touched. He could count her eyelashes from here, see the individual flecks of silver in her grey eyes. Her breath mingled with his, quick and shallow.

"This is a mistake," she whispered.

"Probably."

"We have rules."

"We dae."

"Last night was… we cannae⁠—"

"I ken."

But neither of them moved away.

Tavish's hand came up, cupping her jaw. Her skin felt impossibly soft beneath his calloused palm. "Tell me tae stop."

"I should."

"But will ye?"

Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Maighread's eyes searched his face, looking fer something he desperately hoped she'd find.

Then, suddenly, she pulled back.

The loss hit him harder than any sword blow. Tavish dropped his hand, letting her go even though every instinct screamed at him to pull her close and finish what they'd started last the previous night.

"The bandage," Maighread said, her voice unsteady. She reached fer the fresh linen, keeping her eyes averted. "I need tae wrap it."