Page 16 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Is it?" Kathleen studied her face. "Because the way ye describe him, the way yer voice changes when ye say his name––"

"Ye're imagining things."

"Am I?" Kathleen smiled slightly. "All right. I'll leave it. Fer now." She pulled Maighread to her feet. "Come. Let's find ye something suitable tae wear. If ye're announcing yer betrothal taenight, ye should look like a lass in love. Nae a drowned rat."

They sorted through gowns, settling on a deep blue wool that brought out the grey in Maighread's eyes.

Maighread's mind kept circling back to Tavish. His warmth when he'd held her last night. His solid strength. The way he'd fought for her without hesitation. The careful way he'd asked if she was hurt, like her wellbeing actually mattered to him.

"Ye're thinking about him," Kathleen observed.

"I'm thinking about dinner."

"Aye. Sure ye are." Kathleen secured the final braid. "There. Ye look almost respectable."

"Thank ye." Maighread stood, smoothing the gown. "Fer listening. Fer nae calling me a complete fool."

"Oh, ye're absolutely a fool." Kathleen hugged her tightly. "But ye're me fool. And I'll stand beside ye through whatever madness comes next."

Relief flooded through her. "I dinnae deserve ye."

"Nay, ye really dinnae." Kathleen pulled back, grinning. "Now come. Let's get ye a bath because then we must go announce yer completely legitimate betrothal tae the castle. And try nae tae contradict each other too obviously when Keir starts asking questions."

"I'll dae me best."

"That's what worries me."

CHAPTER SIX

The Great Hall blazed with torchlight, smoke curling toward the blackened rafters. Maighread's stomach churned as she descended the stairs, Kathleen at her side. Every eye in the hall would be on her that night. Judging. Questioning. Calculating what the sudden betrothal meant for their own interests.

"Breathe," Kathleen murmured. "Ye look like ye're walking tae the gallows."

"I feel like I'm walking tae the gallows."

"Well, stop it. Ye're supposedly in love, remember? Nae one contemplating her own execution."

Maighread forced her shoulders back, her chin up. The blue gown rustled around her legs as they entered the hall. Conversations stuttered and died as heads turned.

Tavish stood near the high table, freshly washed and wearing clean clothes. The firelight caught gold in his hair and turned his eyes that impossible blue-green. He looked every inch the Highland warrior, broad and powerful and entirely too handsome for her peace of mind.

Their gazes met across the hall, and Maighread's breath caught.

Sweet Mary. Cleaned up and properly dressed, Tavish MacBain was devastating. Someone had found him clothes that actually fit—a deep blue doublet that brought out those impossible eyes, dark trews that emphasized his height and the powerful line of his legs. His sun-gold hair had been tied back, though a few strands had already escaped to frame his face.

Something flickered in his expression as he watched her approach—concern, maybe, or reassurance. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that managed to be both respectful and intimate.

She crossed to him, aware of every whisper following her path, aware of how her pulse had quickened the moment their eyes met.

"Me lady." He offered his arm formally, his voice pitched low and warm. "Ye look bonnie."

Heat flooded her cheeks. The compliment shouldn't affect her like it did—she'd been called beautiful before, had endured countless flattering words from men who wanted something from her. But from Tavish, spoken in that rough, genuine tone, it felt different. Real.

"Ye clean up acceptably yerself." She took his arm, her fingers closing around solid muscle beneath fine fabric. The contact sent awareness sparking through her, sharp and undeniable. This close, she could smell woodsmoke and leather, could see the faint scar along his jawline she hadn't noticed before.

Focus. She must focus.

"Are ye ready fer this?" she asked quietly.