Page 134 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"I was building an alliance! Creating something greater than one clan! MacEwan and Sinclair taegether would have been unstoppable!" Keir's voice rose, cracking with desperation. "But nay, she had tae be stubborn. Had tae refuse the logical choice. Had tae ruin everything!"

Tavish blocked another strike, sidestepped, and drove Keir back. "She made the right choice. Yer nae interested in alliances. Ye just want power."

"Power is all that matters! The strong take what they want. The weak submit or die." Keir's sword came down in a vicious overhead strike. "And I am nae weak!"

Tavish caught the blow, their blades locked together. They stood face to face, close enough that Tavish could see the madness burning in Keir's eyes.

"Ye are weak," Tavish said quietly. "Because ye dinnae understand what real strength is. It's nae taking whatever ye want. It's protecting what ye love. It's standing between danger and those who matter. It's choosing honor over ambition."

"Honor is fer fools."

"Then I'm a fool. And I'll die a fool before I let ye touch her."

Tavish shoved hard, breaking the lock. Keir stumbled back. Greg appeared at Tavish's side, blood-spattered but grinning.

"Need help finishing this bastard?"

"Aye. Keep the others off me."

"Done."

Greg spun away, his blade flashing as he engaged two Sinclair soldiers trying to flank them. His men were making quick work of the remaining attackers, the tide of attack turning decisively.

Tavish's focus narrowed to Keir alone.

The Sinclair laird recovered his balance, chest heaving. "This isnae over."

"Aye, it is. Ye just havenae realized it yet."

They came together again. This time Tavish fought without restraint, every strike meant to kill. He drove Keir backward step by step, using the garden terrain to his advantage. A bench here, a statue there, forcing Keir into awkward positions.

Keir was good. Well-trained, experienced. But he was fighting angry, letting emotion cloud his judgment.

Tavish, on the other hand, was fighting cold. Calculated. Lethal.

Their blades rang together in a complex exchange. High, low, feint, thrust. Tavish read Keir's patterns, anticipated his movements, stayed one step ahead.

From somewhere nearby, Maighread shouted. Tavish's attention flickered for a fraction of a second. Enough for Keir to land a glancing blow across Tavish's ribs. Pain flared, hot and sharp.

"Ye're distracted," Keir taunted. "Worried about yer precious wife?"

"Nae worried at all. She can handle hersel'.

As if to prove the point, Tavish saw Maighread throw her dagger with deadly accuracy. It caught a Sinclair soldier in the throat just as he tried to circle around Greg. The man went down choking.

Tavish's chest swelled with fierce pride. His wife. His warrior.

"She's magnificent, isnae she?" Tavish said, his voice almost conversational. "Strong, brave, smart. Everything ye're nae."

Keir's face purpled. "Shut yer mouth!"

"That's what really eats at ye, aye? Nae that she chose me. But that she saw through ye. Saw the pathetic, grasping, weak man underneath all that arrogance."

"I said shut up!"

Keir attacked wildly. Tavish sidestepped, letting momentum carry Keir past him. As the Sinclair laird stumbled, Tavish's blade came down across his sword arm. Not deep enough to disable, but enough to hurt.

Keir howled in pain and rage.