Chapter 20
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.
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.
This time, Tavish couldn’t stop the groan that escaped.
"Daes it hurt?" Her brow furrowed with concern.
"Nay." The opposite, actually. Her touch felt incredible, soothing the ache while stoking a completely different kind of fire. "Yer hands… they're—"
"They're what?"
"Magic." He caught her wrist again, his thumb finding her pulse. It raced beneath his touch. "Ye could bring a man tae his knees with hands so gentle."
"Ye’re already sitting down."
"Metaphorically speaking, lass."
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "Ye talk too much."
"So I've been told." He stroked his thumb along the delicate bones of her wrist. "But ye like it."
"I tolerate it."
"Liar."
Her smile grew. "Maybe."
The salve had been applied, but neither of them moved. Maighread's hands rested on his thighs now, warm and steady. Tavish's pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out every rational thought.
He leaned forward, closing the distance between them by inches. Testing. Waiting fer her to pull back.
She didn’t.
Their foreheads nearly touched. He could count her eyelashes from here, see the individual flecks of silver in her grey eyes. Her breath mingled with his, quick and shallow.
"This is a mistake," she whispered.
"Probably."
"We have rules."
"We dae."
"Last night was… we cannae—"
"I ken."
But neither of them moved away.
Tavish's hand came up, cupping her jaw. Her skin felt impossibly soft beneath his calloused palm. "Tell me tae stop."
"I should."
"But will ye?"
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Maighread's eyes searched his face, looking fer something he desperately hoped she'd find.
Then, suddenly, she pulled back.
The loss hit him harder than any sword blow. Tavish dropped his hand, letting her go even though every instinct screamed at him to pull her close and finish what they'd started last the previous night.
"The bandage," Maighread said, her voice unsteady. She reached fer the fresh linen, keeping her eyes averted. "I need tae wrap it."
"Aye."
She worked quickly, her movements efficient and impersonal. The cloth wound around his torso, crossing over the wound and tying it off at his side. When she finished, her fingers lingered on the knot fer just a heartbeat before she stood and stepped back.
"All done."
Tavish nodded, not trusting his voice.
Maighread moved to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between them as the small space allowed. She turned her back, busying herself with straightening the bedding that didn’t need straightening.
The air between them felt thick, unresolved. Every word they didn’t say hung there, waiting.
After a moment, Tavish stood and reached fer his shirt. His muscles protested, still stiff from the hours on the tavern floor, but he pulled the garment on anyway.
"We should—" Maighread started.
"Aye," he cut her off. "We should."
They dressed in silence, the easy banter from earlier gone.
Tavish kept his back to the bed, refusing to look at the rumpled sheets that still bore the impression of their bodies.
If he looked, he'd remember how she felt pressed against him.
How her breath hitched when his hand had slid lower.
How close they'd come to crossing a line they couldn’t uncross.
Better not to think about it.
Maighread sat on the edge of the bed, tugging on her boots. "Dae ye think the villagers noticed anything?"
"That we shared a room?" Tavish buckled his sword belt. "They ken we're betrothed. Comes with the territory."
"I suppose." She stood, reaching fer her cloak.
Tavish got to it first. He lifted the heavy wool from the peg, shaking it out before turning to face her. "Here."
She stepped closer, turning so he could drape it across her shoulders. His fingers found the clasp at her throat, working the metal catch with more focus than necessary. The task gave him an excuse to stand near her, to breathe in the scent of lavender that clung to her hair.
The clasp clicked shut. His hands remained where they were, resting against her collarbones. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his fingertips.
"Tavish," she said softly.
"Aye?"
"We should go."
He knew she was right. Knew they were dancing too close to disaster. But his hands didn’t seem to care about logic or rules or consequences. They slid down, fingertips grazing the swell of her breasts through the fabric before he forced himself tae step back.
"Sorry," he muttered, though he wasn’t sorry at all.
Maighread's cheeks flushed. "Dinnae apologize. Just…. dinnae dae it again."
"If ye insist, lass."
"I dae."
They gathered the rest of their belongings in silence. Tavish checked his weapons while Maighread rolled up the extra blanket they'd used. When everything was packed, they stood facing each other in the center of the room.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be."
The walk to the door felt longer than it should have. Every step took effort, as though his body refused to leave this room where they'd nearly surrendered to the heat between them.
Maighread reached the door first, her hand on the latch.
She paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "Tavish?"
"Aye?"
"Last night…" She trailed off, seeming to struggle with the words. "It cannae happen again."
"I ken."
"Dae ye?" Her voice carried a note of desperation. "Because I'm nae sure I’ll have the strength tae stop us twice."
Tavish crossed the room in three strides, stopping just short of touching her.
"Then dinnae ask me tae be strong either, lass.
Because when ye look at me the way ye did this morning, when ye touch me so gently while tending me wounds, I want naething more than tae throw every bloody rule out the window and show ye exactly how badly I want ye. "
Her breath hitched. "We cannae."
"I ken that too." He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder as he gripped the door handle. "But knowing it and accepting it are two different things entirely."
They descended the narrow stairs to the tavern's main floor. The innkeeper waited by the hearth, nursing a cup of what smelled distinctly like whisky.
"Morning," the old man said, eyeing them with undisguised curiosity. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough," Tavish replied, fishing out coins from his purse. "What dae we owe ye?"
"Two shillings fer the room, another fer the meal last night." The innkeeper pocketed the coins Tavish offered. "Yer horses are saddled and waiting outside. Took the liberty of having me boy prep them soon as I heard ye stirring."
"Much appreciated."
The morning air hit them as they stepped outside, crisp and cold enough to make Tavish's breath fog. Their horses stood ready, stamping impatiently in the packed earth.
Maighread moved to her mare without a word. Tavish followed, unable to help himself. He reached her mount before she could swing up into the saddle.
"Let me," he said, offering his cupped hands.
She hesitated, then placed her boot in his palm. Tavish lifted her easily, watching as she settled onto the horse with natural grace. When she gathered the reins, their eyes met.
"Thank ye," she said.
"Anytime, lass."
He mounted his own horse, falling into position beside her. They rode through the village together, side by side, careful not to let their legs brush. The distance between them felt calculated, maintained.
Neither spoke fer a long while. The only sounds were hoofbeats on packed earth and the jingle of tack. Tavish kept his gaze forward, tracking the road ahead fer signs of trouble.
But his mind stayed fixed on the woman riding beside him.
On how she'd touched him. How her hands had lingered. How she'd leaned into him instead of away.
On how badly he wanted to pull her from that horse and finish what they'd started.
"Ye've gone quiet," Maighread said finally.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"How much longer we can keep pretending."
She glanced at him, her expression guarded. "Pretending what?"
"That this is just an arrangement." He met her eyes. "That we're just playing a part."
"We are playing a part."
"Are we?"
Maighread looked away, her jaw tight. "We have tae be."
"Why?"
"Because—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "Because it's safer that way."
"Safer fer who?"
"Fer both of us."
Tavish wanted to argue, to push until she admitted what they both knew. But something in her tone stopped him. She sounded tired. Scared, even.
So instead, he nodded. "If ye say so, lass."
They rode on in silence, leaving the village behind as the road wound through frost-tipped fields. The sun climbed higher, burning away the morning chill.