Page 110 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Her father had given his blessing. The Council could grumble all they wanted, but she had what mattered most.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The dust cloud appeared on the horizon just past midday, and Tavish felt something loosen in his chest. His men. Finally.

He stood in the courtyard beside Maighread, watching the riders approach. Her hand brushed his arm once, steadying, before she stepped back into proper distance. The touch left heat behind.

"How many did ye send fer?" she asked quietly.

"Fifty. Maybe more if Greg brought extra."

"That's a considerable force."

Tavish glanced at her. "Keir willnae stop unless we make him."

Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. They'd spoken of this already, in the dark hours before dawn when neither could sleep. The threat hung over them like a blade suspended by fraying rope.

The riders crested the hill, and relief flooded through Tavish. His oldest friend was back after going to fetch men from his land. The man who'd stood beside him through every stupid decision and reckless fight. The man who knew exactly how badly Tavish had fucked up years ago, and stayed anyway.

Greg dismounted before his horse fully stopped, striding forward with that familiar grin splitting his scarred face. "Christ, ye look like shite."

Tavish clasped his forearm hard. "Missed ye too, ye bastard."

"Heard ye got yersel' intae trouble again." Greg's grip tightened. "When dae ye ever learn?"

"Never. Keeps life interesting."

Greg laughed, then his gaze slid past Tavish to Maighread and smiled.

"How was the ride?" Maighread asked.

"Long. But we made good time." Greg glanced back at the assembled men. "Brought sixty instead of fifty. Figured ye might need the extra swords."

"We dae," Tavish said before Maighread could respond. He moved half a step closer to her. "Sinclair's been escalating. Ambushes on the road, hired mercenaries, threats."

Greg's expression darkened. "That bad?"

"Worse."

Maighread cleared her throat softly. "We're grateful fer yer arrival. All of ye." She raised her voice slightly, addressing the assembled soldiers. "MacEwan Castle welcomes ye. There's food and drink waiting, and quarters have been prepared. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow we plan."

The men murmured appreciation. Tavish felt a flicker of pride at how easily she commanded their attention, how naturally authority settled on her shoulders.

"Get them settled," Tavish told Greg. "We'll gather in the hall tonight. Formal welcome."

Greg nodded, but his gaze stayed on Tavish for a beat too long. Reading him. Always reading him.

The soldiers filed into the courtyard, dismounting and leading horses toward the stables. Tavish issued brief instructions about quarters and meal times, his voice falling into the familiar cadence of command. It felt strange, giving orders in someone else's keep. Like wearing a cloak that didn't quite fit.

Maighread stood beside him throughout, silent but present. When he finished, she added her own words about castle rules and respect for her people. The men listened, nodding.

As the group dispersed, Greg lingered. He watched Tavish watch Maighread walk away across the stones, her braid swinging against her spine.

When she disappeared through the doors, Greg turned back with that knowing smirk Tavish had seen a thousand times.

"So," Greg said. “From where I've been standing, it looks like things have become considerably more personal since I left."

Tavish opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.