Page 111 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"That's what I thought." Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Show me tae me room.”

The Great Hall filled quickly that evening. Torches blazed along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the assembled crowd. MacBain soldiers mingled with MacEwan clan members, the initial wariness giving way to cautious conversation as ale flowed.

Tavish sat at the High Table beside Maighread, hyperaware of every inch of space between them. She'd changed into a deep green gown that made her eyes look like storm clouds, and her hair fell loose over one shoulder. He wanted to bury his hands in it.

Instead, he reached for his cup and drank.

Greg sat across from them, relaxed and grinning. He'd cleaned up, trading road-stained leather for a fresh tunic.

"Tell me, me lady," Greg said, leaning forward with easy charm. "Ye agreed tae marry this fool. Bold choice."

"Someone has tae keep him from getting himself killed."

"A full-time occupation, that."

Tavish scowled. "I'm sitting right here."

"We ken," Greg said, not looking at him. His attention stayed fixed on Maighread. "So tell me, what exactly won ye over? The charm? The wit?"

"Och, definitely the charm," Maighread said, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He's absolutely overflowing with it."

Greg barked a laugh. "I like her."

"Wonderful," Tavish muttered.

A servant appeared with platters of roasted meat and bread. Greg reached for a piece, still watching Maighread with open curiosity.

"Ye've a good head on yer shoulders, me lady. That's clear enough." He bit into the bread. "But I have tae ask—what made ye certain? About him, I mean."

Maighread glanced at Tavish, something soft flickering in her expression before she looked back at Greg. "He's honorable. And brave. Those qualities are rarer than ye'd think."

"That they are." Greg's voice turned serious. "He's also loyal tae a fault. Once he commits, he daesnae waver."

"I've noticed."

Tavish's hand found the back of Maighread's chair, fingers curling around the carved wood. Greg's eyes tracked the movement, his smirk returning.

"And ye, me lady?" Greg continued. "What should Tavish ken about ye that he might nae have discovered yet?"

"That I dinnae suffer fools," Maighread said smoothly. "And I protect what's mine."

The words landed between them, quiet but absolute. Tavish felt heat crawl up his neck.

Greg raised his cup slightly. "A perfect match, then."

Before anyone could respond, a young servant approached the table, bowing quickly. "Me lady, forgive the interruption. The steward needs tae speak with ye about tomorrow's supplies."

Maighread sighed. "Of course he daes." She rose gracefully. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I'll return shortly."

Tavish started to stand, but she placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down. "Stay. Finish yer meal."

He watched her leave, tracking her movement through the crowd until she disappeared through a side door. When he turned back, Greg was studying him with unsettling focus.

"What?" Tavish demanded.

Greg said nothing for a long moment. Then he leaned back, crossing his arms. "Ye're going tae marry her."

"Aye. That's the plan."