Page 23 of Taken By the Highland Villain

“That’s nae what I meant. There are different techniques I’ll need to use, to ensure that yer clothin’ fits properly nay matter what ye happen to be doin’.” Her cheeks were crimson, but she rallied quickly enough. “Stand still.”

With that, she began measuring around his forearms and biceps, around his chest and waist, and even around his hips, noting down everything with quick, efficient movements.

Her touches were light as a butterfly coming to land, there and gone again in an instant, but Jude felt every one of them like sparks landing on his skin. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as he fought back the urge to catch her hand and pull her closer.

Not that it would have been any great effort when she was so close that every breath ghosted across his skin.

He could feel the heat of her body, so close to his that he could have guessed where she stood with his eyes closed. Her warmth seemed to seep into him and awaken an answering heat in his blood, pooling low in his gut until he considered it a miracle that he wasn’t having an embarrassing reaction.

But och, if the circumstances were different, what I’d do…

I’d like to feel her hands on every inch of me, tracing my skin like that, drawing her warmth onto me the way she’s makin’ those marks and notes. And I could do the same… map her body with my hands, bring her close and taste her mouth, her skin…

To have her warmth so close and bring her closer, remove that blouse and apron so we were both partially naked… Or remove everythin’ altogether and let her take her measurements of everythin’, her hands and that little knotted string of hers around me… Or better yet, her mouth or her thighs on either side of mine…

He felt her touch move lower, heard the unmistakable sound of skirts settling around her as she dropped into a crouch, or a seat, on the floor.

The image flashed through his mind:Valerie kneeling before me, her blouse undone or discarded, her breasts pressed against my thighs and my kilt on the floor while she drank me in, her lips and wicked tongue dancin’ over my shaft…

Jude bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood on his tongue.

I cannae be thinkin’ about those things. I cannae. Otherwise…

He was so focused on controlling his response to her that her next question took him entirely by surprise. “May I take a look at yer scar?”

Valerie wasn’t sure how she expected Jude to respond.

Most warriors, when confronted with the idea of revealing their scars, tended to react in one of two ways. When dealing with scars that were more on the surface level—scars that didn’t hamper their physical abilities—they displayed them like badges of honor, physical remnants of battles won.

Scars of injuries that hampered movement and fighting ability were usually treated as badges of shame, hidden away and ignored, or despised when they could not be ignored.

She would have expected Jude to scowl, perhaps complain, or even refuse, but instead he just rolled his broad, muscular shoulders.

“Aye. Ye can look if ye need to. It is on my right knee, under the hem of my kilt.”

“It doesnae bother ye?”

Jude blinked. “It isnae comfortable, if that’s what ye mean—pains me with every change in the weather, or when I exert myself too much—but if ye’re askin’ me if seein’ the scar troubles me… I came to terms with it a long time ago.”

Valerie was tempted to ask more questions or perhaps quell her curiosity about how he’d acquired the scar to begin with, but she held her tongue. After seeing the dark mood he had been in when she arrived, she was reluctant to risk prodding those wounds.

Instead, she bent down and drew a line from his waist to his ankle with her knotted cord.

Jude made a strangled noise. “What are ye…?”

“I need to get measurements for the outer seam and inner seam of yer trews.”

Valerie bit her lip, torn between laughter and consternation when he let out what sounded like a muted groan.

With a careful hand, she tugged up the bottom hem of his kilt to expose his right knee. There was a rope of uneven scar tissue across the back and outer edge of it, deep and with odd edges, as if the wound had opened more than once.

An injury like this… he likely sustained it in battle. And it looks like he went into battle again afore it was fully healed.

She wondered about the circumstances of the battle, but she also knew better than to ask. Instead, she wound the knotted cord gently around the point where the scar and underlying muscles were thickest. It would be the reference point for the width of any trews or leggings she needed to make. Her fingers skimmed over the skin, making sure the cord was neither too tight nor too loose, noting the way Jude shifted under her hand.

‘Tis particularly sensitive there.

She gently rested her hand on his knee, feeling the firm muscles as she made notes and adjusted for the width of his thigh.