Page 132 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"I ken ye can, but right now ye need tae bloody listen!"

The mercenary recovered and came at him again. Tavish met him head-on, their blades clashing twice before he found an opening. His sword bit deep into the man's thigh. The mercenary howled and dropped, clutching the wound.

More shadows moved. More men emerging. This wasn't just an attack. This was a coordinated strike meant to capture or kill.

Meant for Maighread.

Tavish positioned himself between her and the advancing soldiers, his mind racing through options. They were too far from the castle proper for immediate help. The garden paths twisted and turned, offering both cover and confusion. He needed to get her to safety, but the attackers had them surrounded.

"Well, well." A voice cut through the chaos, cold and mocking. "How touching. The hero protecting his prize."

Keir Sinclair stepped from behind a stone statue, sword drawn, his expression twisted into something ugly. Hatred and entitlement warred across his features.

Tavish's blood turned to ice. Then fire.

"Ye bastard," he snarled.

"Me?" Keir's mouth curved. "I'm simply taking what should have been mine all along."

His men surged forward, cutting off escape routes. Eight of them now, fanning out in a loose circle. Professional fighters, not the hired thugs from the village attacks. This was Keir's elite guard.

Tavish's grip tightened on his sword. "Ye're a dead man."

"Bold words from someone outnumbered." Keir's gaze shifted past Tavish to Maighread. "Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?"

"Go tae hell," Maighread spat.

"Charming as ever. We'll work on yer manners once ye're home where ye belong."

"She's nae going anywhere with ye." Tavish's voice dropped into something lethal. "Touch her and I'll gut ye where ye stand."

"Ye'll try."

Keir gestured. His men attacked.

Tavish met the first strike with brutal efficiency, his sword a blur. Block, parry, riposte. The movements came automatically, honed by years of training and warfare. But he was fighting defensively now, unable to press advantages because every instinct screamed at him to protect Maighread.

She wasn't making it easy.

From behind him, he heard her grunt of effort. A man's pained shout. When Tavish risked a glance, he saw her yanking her dagger free from a soldier's side, blood staining the blade.

Pride and terror warred in his chest.

"Maighread!"

"I'm fine!"

She wasn't fine. She was in mortal danger, fighting men twice her size with nothing but a small dagger and fierce determination.

A blade whistled toward Tavish's head. He ducked, slashed upward, felt his sword bite flesh. The attacker stumbled back, clutching his arm. Tavish pressed forward, driving him away from Maighread with a series of brutal strikes.

Then a shout erupted from the garden path.

"Tavish!"

Greg burst into view, five MacBain warriors behind him. Relief flooded Tavish's system. His friend took in the situation instantly, his scarred face hardening into battle fury.

"Kill them all!" Greg roared.