Page 41 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"I ken how tae throw a ball, Tavish."

"Aye, but ye're trembling."

She was. Curse him for noticing.

His hand slid lower, settling on her hip with a sureness that stole her breath. His palm was warm even through the layers of fabric, and when his fingers flexed slightly, gathering a handful of her skirts to steady her, something hot and urgent unfurled low in her belly.

"Better?" The word brushed against her ear.

"Nae even slightly."

"Liar." His thumb traced a slow circle against her hip bone. "Ye like this."

She released the ball without looking, barely caring where it landed. All her focus had narrowed to the warmth of his hand at her waist, steadying her, the way he stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"Good throw," he murmured, his voice rougher than the simple words warranted.

She turned her head slightly, finding him closer than expected. Close enough to see the pulse beating at his throat, to catch the scent of leather and wine that clung to him. "Was it? I wasn't paying attention."

"Neither was I." His hand lingered at her waist a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back, putting proper distance between them. "People are watching."

"Let them watch." But she moved away as well, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled slightly. "That's the point, isn't it?"

"This isn't part of the rules," he said, though his hands didn't release her.

"We renegotiated, remember?"

"Did we agree tae this?" His fingers tightened on the fabric bunched in his fists. "Because I dinnae recall specifics."

"We agreed tae whatever feels necessary."

"And this feels necessary?" His voice had gone dark, edged with something that made her knees weak.

"Aye." The admission cost her, but she meant it. "It daes."

For several heartbeats, neither of them moved. The sounds of the gathering faded to background noise—distant laughter, music, children playing somewhere out of sight. All of it became insignificant compared to the feeling of Tavish's hands on her, the way his chest rose and fell against her back, the tension coiling tighter between them with every passing second.

Then a ball came flying through the air, landing with a thump near their feet.

They sprang apart so fast Maighread nearly stumbled. Tavish's hands vanished from her hips, and the loss of contact felt like a physical ache.

"Sorry!" A young boy raced over, scooping up the errant ball. "Didnae mean tae interrupt!"

"Ye didnae interrupt anything," Maighread managed, her voice only slightly breathless. "We were just…"

"Practicing," Tavish finished smoothly. "Getting the stance right."

The boy grinned and darted away, oblivious to the tension crackling in the space he'd invaded.

Maighread risked a glance at Tavish. His jaw was clenched tight, his hands fisted at his sides. When their eyes met, the heat in his gaze nearly knocked her back a step.

"We should return tae the others," she said, though every part of her wanted to stay right there, wanted to step back into his arms and finish whatever had started between them.

"Aye." He didn't move. "We should."

"Tavish."

"Ye're still trembling."