Page 62 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Dreams claimed him gradually, full of the same images but hazier, gentler. In sleep, there were no rules to follow, no boundaries to respect. Only her, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

Sometime in the deepest part of night, he surfaced briefly from those dreams. The room was utterly dark, the last embers dead. The cold had crept in, making the air bite at his exposed skin.

But pressed against his side was warmth. Maighread had moved closer in sleep, her body seeking his heat as naturally as breathing. Her hand rested over his heart, palm flat against his chest, feeling each steady beat.

He should move away. Should maintain the distance she'd created when she'd turned her back. Should honor the anger she'd expressed.

He didn't.

Instead, he let his arm settle carefully around her shoulders, drawing her closer into his warmth. She stirred slightly, making a small sound in her sleep, then settled against him more fully. Her breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

This, at least, he could give her. Warmth in the cold night. Comfort in sleep, if not in waking.

His eyes drifted closed again, and this time when sleep claimed him, it was deeper. More peaceful. The ache remained, but it was bearable now, wrapped in the rightness of her weight against his side, the simple trust of her hand over his heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Tavish woke with a crick in his neck and an ache that had nothing to do with his injuries. Dawn light filtered through the grimy tavern window, turning Maighread's hair into molten copper where it spilled across the pillow they'd shared. She lay on her side, facing away from him, but he could tell from her breathing she was not asleep.

Neither of them moved.

The happenings of the night hung between them, thick and unfinished. His mouth still burned from the taste of her lips. His palm still tingled from the curve of her hip, the soft give of her flesh through the linen shift. He'd nearly broken every rule they'd made, nearly given in to the fire that blazed between them and ruined the entire charade.

And she would've let him. That was the part that had kept him awake half the night, staring at the ceiling while she pressed against his side.

"Ye’re awake," he said finally, his voice rough.

"Aye." She didn't turn around. "We should get moving."

"In a moment."

Maighread shifted, rolling onto her back. Her eyes found his, and for a heartbeat he saw the same hunger that had burned through him the night before. Then she blinked, and it was gone, shuttered behind that cool mask she wore so well.

"Did ye sleep at all?" she asked.

"Some." He sat up, wincing as his ribs protested. The ambush wounds had stiffened overnight, and the bandages felt crusty with dried blood. "Ye?"

"Enough."

A lie. He could see the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. She'd lain awake same as him, caught in the same fever.

Tavish swung his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to her. Better that way. Easier. He reached fer the edge of the bandage wrapped around his torso, trying to peel it away from the wound beneath.

Pain flared hot and sharp. The cloth had stuck to the gash, and when he pulled, fresh blood welled up. "Bloody hell."

"Stop." Maighread's voice came from right behind him. "Yer making it worse."

"I can manage."

"Clearly." She moved around the bed until she stood in front of him, arms crossed. "Let me help."

"I dinnae need⁠—"

"Tavish." His name on her lips, firm and brooking no argument. "Sit. Still."

He sat.

She knelt between his knees, bringing her face level with his chest. The position sent heat flooding through him, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. This was a bad idea. A terrible, reckless, utterly foolish idea.