Page 13 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Malcolm, her father's steward, stepped forward immediately. His weathered face remained carefully neutral as he bowed. "Me lady. Welcome home."

"Thank ye, Malcolm." She gestured toward Tavish as he dismounted beside her. "This is Tavish MacBain. Me betrothed. He'll need quarters prepared."

Malcolm's eyebrows rose fractionally, but he recovered quickly. "Of course, me lady. And Laird MacEwan requests yer presence. Immediately."

Her stomach dropped. "I shall go tae him now."

Keir dismounted, stepping forward uninvited. "Surely I should accompany Lady Maighread tae see her faither. As a concerned friend of the family."

"Laird MacEwan's instructions were specific," Malcolm replied firmly. "Lady Maighread only."

Fury flickered behind Keir's eyes, quickly masked. "I see. Then I'll await word."

"Yer patience is appreciated, me laird." Malcom bowed his head.

Maighread gestured to Tavish. "Come with me. Me faither will want tae speak with ye as well."

Beside her, Tavish stiffened slightly. Their eyes met for a brief moment. He knew there was no turning back.

"Lead the way," Tavish said evenly.

"Someone will show ye tae guest quarters, Laird Sinclair," Malcolm said. "And provide refreshment."

He turned away before Keir could protest further, gesturing for Maighread and Tavish to follow.

They climbed the spiral stairs in silence. Maighread's legs shook, though whether from exhaustion or fear, she couldn't say. Malcolm kept glancing back at Tavish, clearly bursting with questions he was too professional to ask.

Her father's chamber occupied the highest floor of the tower, where sunlight and fresh air reached most easily. Malcolm knocked twice, then pushed open the heavy oak door.

"Lady Maighread and Tavish MacBain, me laird."

"Send her in first." Her father's voice came weaker than she remembered.

Malcolm withdrew, closing the door behind her.

The chamber smelled of sickness. Herbs burning in a brazier, sweat-soaked linens, something sour underneath. Her father lay propped on pillows, his face gaunt and grey. He had clearly worsened in the weeks she'd been gone.

"Dearest Faither." She crossed to the bed quickly, taking his hand. His fingers felt like bird bones wrapped in parchment.

"I must tell ye something very important and we dinnae have much time Faither," she said quietly.

Silence stretched between them. Her father's expression shifted from confusion to sharp attention, and then he gestured for her to sit. She perched on the edge of the bed and told him everything—the ambush, Keir's orchestrated "rescue," how she'd claimed Tavish as her betrothed in desperate panic. Her father listened without interruption, his fingers tightening on hers whenever the tale turned particularly grim.

When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Then his lips twitched. "Ye lied tae Keir Sinclair's face."

"Aye." She swallowed hard. "And now we need this betrothal tae be real. At least real enough that Keir cannae challenge it."

Relief flooded through her at his reaction. Her father's steady gaze held no judgment—only assessment and understanding.

"Ye survived, me child" her father said firmly. "Ye saw the trap Keir laid and ye found a way out. Was it reckless? Aye. But ye're here, alive, and nae under Sinclair control. That's what matters."

Relief flooded through her. "So ye're nae angry?"

"Oh, I'm furious." But his eyes held warmth beneath the sternness. "Ye should have trusted me tae protect ye. Should have sent word instead of making desperate bargains with strangers. But what's done is done." He studied her face carefully. "The question now is what happens next."

"He's been… honorable, Faither. Kind, even. He's kept me safe, played his part, asked naething in return."

Her father nodded slowly. "That speaks well of him." He paused. "Bring him in. I need tae speak with him."