Page 39 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Tavish accepted a bow from the steward, weighing it in his hands. Decent quality, though nae as fine as his own weapons back at MacBain lands.

"Three shots," the steward announced. "Closest tae center wins."

The first man shot. Solid hit, just left of center.

The second man shot. Better, nearly splitting the center line.

Tavish stepped up, aware of Maighread watching. He could feel her gaze on him, warm and assessing. Could sense the crowd's curiosity about how the lady's betrothed would perform.

He drew the bow, muscles protesting slightly from his healing ribs. The arrow flew true, striking dead center.

Approval rippled through the watchers.

"Again," the steward said.

Tavish's second shot split his first arrow, an old trick he'd mastered years ago.

Now people were actively cheering.

"Last shot," Maighread called. "Make it count."

He turned tae look at her, grinning. "What dae I get if I win?"

"Me eternal gratitude?"

"Nae good enough."

"What dae ye want then?"

Heat flared between them, quick and sharp. "Wouldnae be appropriate tae say in public."

Pink stained her cheeks. "Then ye'd better win so we can discuss it privately."

His third shot matched the first two, a perfect cluster that had the crowd roaring approval.

"Show off," Maighread muttered when he returned tae her side.

"Ye told me tae blend in."

"That was nae blending. That was dominating."

"Couldnae help meself." He leaned close, voice dropping. "Wanted tae impress ye."

"Mission accomplished." She squeezed his arm. "Now try the stone toss and actually let someone else win."

The afternoon continued in that pattern. Games and competitions interspersed with eating and drinking. Tavish participated in wrestling—losing honorably tae a young man who needed the confidence boost. He threw stones and axes, always coming close but never quite winning, except a couple of times, to not raise suspicion given his size.

Through it all, Maighread stayed close. A constant presence at his side, her hand finding his whenever the crowd pressed close. Her smile genuine when he made a good showing, her laughter bright when he deliberately fumbled.

People noticed. How could they nae? Every touch, every shared glance, every moment of easy partnership was witnessed and catalogued.

Tavish caught fragments of conversation from a nearby group—women clustered together, watching them with knowing smiles.

"… perfect taegether," one whispered.

"Aye, ye can see the affection plain as day," another agreed.

A third woman leaned in. "Me Ailsa said Lady Maighread's eyes go soft when she looks at him."