Page 40 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

There was a pause. Then, softly, “Fia.”

Agnes blinked. “Really?”

“Aye. When she first came tae live with us, she’d fall ill. Often. And I—” He hesitated, fingers pausing mid-motion. “Figured I should learn. In case she needed me.”

Agnes turned her head slightly, just enough to see him over her shoulder. “Ye? Braiding hair?”

Tav met her eyes, one corner of his mouth quirking. “Nae well. Took me half a year tae make it look like somethin’ other than a bird’s nest. But I learned.”

Agnes didn’t know what stunned her more—the image of him as a younger man, clumsy fingers learning to twist hair for a sick girl who wasn’t even blood or the fact that he’d shared this with her at all.

Because Tav didn’t talk like that. Tav guarded his words like weapons. And this was raw and quiet softness.

“I didnae think ye had it in ye,” she said, the words escaping before she could temper them.

He didn’t take offense. Just returned his focus to her hair, brushing through a final tangle with his fingers. “Most folk dinnae.”

“That’s because ye go around lookin’ like a man ready tae murder any soul who asks if ye want sugar in yer tea.”

At that, he did laugh. Not loud, but real. Agnes felt it in her chest. He shifted slightly, and she felt his hands gather the loose waves again. She held still as he began braiding. His hands were slower this time, more careful. She could feel each movement, the gentle tug, the precision of his fingers. It wasn’t perfect. But it was... thoughtful. His hands brushed the back of her neck again and her entire skin prickled.

“Ye’re full o’ surprises,” she murmured, not daring to look back at him.

“And ye’re full o’ complaints.”

She smiled, small but unguarded. “Aye, but I’m keepin’ most of ‘em tae meself taenight.”

“Grateful fer the mercy.”

His voice was low now, close to her ear. She could feel the heat of him at her back, steady and quiet and undeniably real.

Agnes swallowed. “Tav…”

He paused. Just a beat. Then resumed the braid without a word. And she let him, because if she said one more word or if she turned to look at him now, with the firelight soft against his face and his fingers in her hair, she wouldn’t trust herself to stop.

The way he crouched there, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the hairs at her nape, made her chest ache with something dangerously like hope. It was not mere duty. It was something that burned deeper, that made her palms itch to turn and frame his face, to demand the truth from those guarded eyes.

But she remained still. What if she’d spun this entire fantasy from stray glances and silences? What if, in her longing, she’d mistaken pity for passion? The risk of being wrong lodged in her throat like a stone. She stayed very still. And yet her mind raced with everything she couldn’t say. That this felt like something it shouldn’t. That this small thing—her sitting between his knees, the heat of his thighs bracketing her hips—made her feel more seen than she’d ever been except by her father. He stirred sensations in her that had no name, the kind that only bloomed under the weight of true affection. Yet doubt curled like morning mist through her chest. Perhaps she’d simply willed the meaning into existence, mistaking ordinary kindness for something far more dangerous.

There was a quiet reverence to it. His callused fingers ghosted over her scalp with surprising care, catching on the occasional knot but never pulling too hard. When he reached the bottom, he didn’t tie it straight away. Just held it there, twisting the final strands slowly between his fingers. She imagined his hand, tangled in her hair, tugging her head back just enough to claim her mouth with that same rough intensity he did everything else. Her breath hitched at the imagined scrape of his beard, the heat that would follow⁠—

“When I used tae practice on Fia,” he murmured, unprompted. “I made such a mess o’ her hair once, I thought she’d kill me wi’ a spoon.”

Agnes let out a quiet laugh. “She sounds like a smart lass.”

“She is.” He tied the braid off at last, the twine knotting with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Agnes turned slowly, her braid falling over her shoulder. “And here I thought ye had nay skill outside swingin’ a sword and scowling.”

“I’ve layers,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh aye? Like an onion?”

“Like a well-armored cake.”

She laughed again, truly this time. And it felt like something clean cracking open in her chest. “I mean it, Tav,” she said, softer now. “Thank ye.”

He nodded. “Dinnae get used tae this. It’s nae what I was made fer.” He paused, voice lower now. “I was built tae fight. Tae kill. That’s what I ken.”