Page 78 of Under the Laird’s Promise

The question cut through her rambling, sharp and direct. Maighread's breath caught.

"What?"

Tavish stood, the chair scraping against stone. "Dae ye truly think I can sit here calmly writing letters about strategy and reinforcements when all I can see is that mercenary's hand reaching fer ye?"

"Tavish—"

He moved around the desk, closing the distance between them. "When all I can hear is the sound of steel against steel and the terror in yer voice when ye called me name?"

Her heart slammed against her ribs. "I thought ye were focused on the threat. On dealing with Keir."

"I am focused on the threat. Because the threat is tae ye." He stopped in front of her chair, looking down at her with an intensity that stole her breath. "Every strategy I devise, every plan I make, it all comes back tae keeping ye safe. Tae making certain nay one can take ye from me."

"From ye?"

"Aye. From me." His hands curled into fists at his sides, as though restraining himself from reaching for her. "Because somewhere between that first lie on the road and today's battle, this stopped being about debt or obligation. It became about ye. Just ye."

Maighread rose slowly, bringing them nearly eye to eye. "Ye should've said something."

"I'm saying it now." His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up. "Though I'm nae certain words are enough tae explain what I feel when I look at ye."

"Then show me."

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Tavish closed the final distance, his mouth claiming hers with devastating certainty.

The kiss was nothing gentle or tentative. It was heat and hunger and weeks of restraint shattering all at once. His hands moved up to cup her face, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Maighread gasped against his lips, her fingers clutching at his shirt for balance.

The world narrowed to just that: the taste of him, the solid warmth of his body mere inches from hers, the way he kissed her as though she was air and he was drowning.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers, their lips still inches apart.

"That," he murmured, his voice rough, "is what lingers on me mind. Nae strategy. Nae letters. This."

Maighread's hands smoothed the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, her fingers trembling. "I thought I was the only one who felt this way."

"Nay, lass. Ye’re nae alone in this." He stepped back slightly, though his hands remained on her face. "I've been fighting it. Trying tae be honorable and proper and all the things I should be. But today, when I saw that bastard reach fer ye..."

"Ye saved me."

"Barely." His jaw tightened. "And the thought of what could've happened if I'd been too slow, if he'd gotten ye on tae his horse and ridden off before I could stop him⁠—"

She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him. "But he didnae. I'm here. We're both here."

He kissed her fingertips, his eyes never leaving hers.

"What would happen if I begged?"

His grip on her waist tightened, his breath catching. "What?"

"Ye said before that I'd have tae beg before ye touched me again." She placed her palms flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath her hands. "I'm asking. What would happen if I did?"

For a moment, he just stared at her, conflict warring across his features. Desire battled restraint in his expression, both equally fierce.

"Maighread," he said, his voice strained. "Dinnae ask me that."

"Why nae?"

"Because I can't give ye what yer asking fer. Nae yet." He stepped back, putting distance between them even though it clearly cost him. "Because if this starts, it can never stop. And ye deserve better than being tumbled in me chambers before we're properly wed."