Page 66 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

The ballroom spun on around him, a swirl of laughter, velvet, music, and heat. Tav sat motionless at the edge of it, one hand clenched around the goblet he hadn't touched. His side ached in deep, pulsing waves, but he barely registered it anymore. Rage had dulled the pain to something distant, a drumbeat in the background of something louder.

He heard her laugh again. It was softer now, relaxed. She was settling into the role. The thought turned his stomach. He was about to stand—or try, at least—when a voice beside him made him start.

"Ye're either very mysterious," the voice said, "or just very rude."

Tav blinked and turned slightly. A woman stood beside him. She didn’t seem noble, and she was not dressed like the rest. Her gown was lovely but clearly a little out of place. A bit too tight across the ribs, her shoulders set awkwardly, as if she wasn’t used to corsets or careful posture. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and there was a single smudge of something dark on her glove.

She was smiling. "Forgive me," she added quickly. "I didn’t mean that to sound harsh. I just—well, you look like you’re scowling at the world. Or maybe brooding? Gods, I never know the difference."

Tav stared at her for a beat too long, then gave a slow blink. "I’m nae much o’ a dancer."

"Neither am I," she said brightly. "I think I nearly stepped on three people already, and I’ve only been on the floor once. And this dress was not made for sitting or breathing or moving like a real person."

She said it all in one breath, eyes wide and slightly panicked, then stopped and flushed. "Sorry. I ramble. I don’t usually get invited to things like this. First ball, actually."

Tav let out a sound, a huff that almost counted as a laugh. It startled him more than it did her.

She smiled wider. "Was that a laugh? I think that was a laugh." And without waiting for an invitation, she sank into the chair beside him, tugging at the bodice of her dress with a small, resigned huff.

“So,” she said, tilting her head toward him, “where are you from, then? I’ve never seen ye around before.”

Tav turned to look at her, one brow lifting. “Didnae ye say this was yer first ball?”

She blinked, then laughed, a short, surprised sound. “Oh, well, first proper ball. I’ve been to tae before. Dinners, dull things with too many forks. Just not this sort of spectacle.” She grinned. “Still, I’ve got a decent eye fer people. And ye—” she gestured toward him with a gloved hand, “ye dinnae look like you were born to waltz through a ballroom.”

Tav allowed himself a faint smile. “That obvious, is it?”

She giggled, covering her mouth with one gloved hand. "Fair enough. I've never been to anything with string quartets and champagne towers."

Tav gave a faint smile.

"I’m Isla," she said, leaning forward in the chair, toward him. "Isla Moore. I’m originally from London, but I’ve been staying here since last year, And ye are... clearly hiding."

"Tav," he said. He hesitated, then added, "Tav Graham."

"A pleasure, Tav Graham." Her tone was theatrical, mock-formal, but there was warmth behind it.

She leaned back slightly, adjusting the bodice of her dress as subtly as she could manage. "So, where are you from?"

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes had drifted again, drawn by some terrible instinct, to the dancefloor. Agnes. She was dancing now. With Caithness.

They moved easily together. Graceful. Her hand in his. Her eyes slightly downcast. Her lips parting in a polite smile. From a distance, it could almost look like affection. Like something blooming instead of breaking. Tav’s chest went tight.

"Ye alright?" Isla asked, noticing the shift in his posture.

He blinked. Tore his eyes away. Cleared his throat.

"Aye. Just... sore."

She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press.

Tav looked back toward the floor again, just once more. Agnes tilted her head up, smiling at something Caithness said. The laird leaned in close, just enough for his breath to touch her ear. And she laughed. That did it.

The pain in his side roared to life, not from strain, but from the crack that had just widened somewhere beneath his ribs. He stood too quickly, swaying for a moment until he caught his balance.

Isla looked up, startled. "Oh—are ye alright? Did I say something?"

"Nay," Tav said, voice low. "Nae at all. Ye were lovely company. Just... need some air."