Page 63 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Her fingers found the knot at his side, working it loose with slow, methodical movements. "This is going tae hurt."

"I ken."

The bandage peeled away inch by agonizing inch. Tavish kept his gaze fixed on the top of her head, watching the way morning light caught her hair. Safer than looking at her face. Safer than seeing whatever expression she wore while touching him.

"Och, Tavish." Her breath ghosted across his skin. "It is worse than I thought."

He glanced down. The gash across his ribs had reopened during the night, an angry red line seeping blood. Bruises mottled his torso in shades of purple and green, testament to how hard the Sinclair bastards had hit him.

She reached fer the water basin on the table, wetting a clean cloth. "Hold still."

The first touch of cold water made him hiss through his teeth. Maighread froze, her hand hovering above the wound.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"Dinnae be. Keep going."

She did, cleaning the dried blood away with gentle strokes. Her free hand braced against his thigh, her palm warm through the fabric of his trouser. Tavish's muscles locked, every nerve ending focused on that single point of contact.

He was going to lose his mind.

"Ye ken," he said, desperate fer distraction, "when I imagined a bonnie lass kneeling between me legs, this wasnae quite what I pictured."

Her hand stilled. "Is that so?"

"Aye. In me version, there was significantly less bloodshed. And more… enthusiasm."

A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. "Ye’re incorrigible."

"Ye’re the one who insisted on helping." He caught her wrist, stilling her movements. "Cannae blame a man fer where his thoughts wander when ye touch him so sweetly."

Maighread's eyes flicked up to meet his. The cloth dripped water onto his leg, forgotten. "I'm tending yer wounds."

"Aye."

"That's all this is."

"If ye say so, lass."

"I dae." But she didn’t pull away. Instead, her thumb traced a small circle against the inside of his thigh, right where her palm rested. The touch was feather-light, almost unconscious.

Almost.

Tavish's breath caught. "Maighread."

"What?" Innocent. Too innocent.

"Ye’re playing with fire."

"Am I?" Another circle, slightly higher this time.

"Ye ken exactly what yer daeing." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "And if ye dinnae stop, I'm going tae forget every rule we made."

She held his gaze fer a long moment, her pupils dilated until the grey of her eyes looked nearly black. Then she blinked, seeming to come back to herself, and returned her attention to the wound.

"There," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "All clean. Now fer the ointment."

The healer had left them a small pot of salve that smelled faintly of mint and something earthier. Maighread scooped out a generous amount, warming it between her palms before spreading it across the gash.