Page 46 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Tavish leaned against cold stone, letting his head fall back until it connected with unforgiving rock. The pain helped. Grounded him when his thoughts threatened to spiral.

He had to find a solution, to see if he could avoid the threat while also leaving Maighread unharmed.

He could leave. That night, tomorrow, whenever. Ride back to MacBain lands and send word that the betrothal was dissolved, that he'd changed his mind, that Maighread deserved better than a man with more enemies than sense. It would hurt her pride, certainly. Cause political complications, absolutely. But it would also remove him as Keir's primary obstacle.

Without Tavish in the way, Sinclair would leave Maighread alone.

By marrying her…

The thought settled heavy in his chest, not as strategy but as loss. Pure, gutting loss that had nothing to do with obligation or debt and everything to do with grey eyes that saw too much, with a laugh that made his ribs ache, with the way she fit against him like she'd been crafted specifically for his arms.

When had that happened? When had Maighread MacEwan stopped being a favor for her father and started being… important. Essential. The only thing that made sense in a world gone mad with politics and violence.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to the empty corridor.

Leaving would protect her them both from Keir's immediate attention. But it would also destroy her completely. Without a husband, Maighread couldn't inherit or rule. She would lose everything she'd been fighting for—autonomy, respect, the chance to lead her clan on her own terms. A dissolved betrothal would strip away what little authority she still held, leaving her with no choice but to accept whatever husband was selected for her. And the Council would choose Keir—the man with the strongest claim, the most resources, and the willingness to do whatever it took to possess MacEwan lands.

No. He couldn't leave. Wouldn't leave, despite Keir's threats and implications. Because running away now would accomplish nothing except handing victory to a man who deserved to choke on defeat.

Tavish pulled out flint and struck a flame, holding the message over it until fire caught paper. He watched it burn, the words dissolving into ash and smoke, taking Keir's threats with them.

Staying meant danger. Meant Sinclair would keep pushing, keep testing, keep looking for weaknesses to exploit. But leaving meant abandonment, and Tavish had spent too many years trying to atone for past failures to add another to the pile.

So he'd stay. He'd play this role until either Keir gave up or circumstances forced different choices. And if that meant walking around with a target painted on his spine, well. He'd faced worse odds and survived.

The message reduced to ashes, Tavish ground the remains beneath his boot and headed back toward the gathering. Maighread would have questions later—she always did—and he'd answer what he could without adding to her burdens.

But for now, he'd paste on a smile and pretend the world wasn't actively conspiring to destroy everything they'd built.

When he emerged from the passage, Maighread was waiting near the entrance, arms crossed and expression knowing. "Feel better?"

"Marginally."

"Liar." But her voice held warmth instead of accusation. "Come on. Kathleen's saved us some food before the vultures pick everything clean."

She held out her hand, and after a heartbeat's hesitation, he took it. Let her fingers lace with his, let the contact ground him in ways the cold stone hadn't managed.

"Tavish?" Her voice went soft. "Whatever that message said, whatever Keir's planning… we'll handle it. Taegether."

The promise in those words, the absolute certainty, made something crack open in his chest. "Aye. Taegether."

Morning arrived too early and too bright, sunlight streaming through gaps in shutters like accusations. Tavish woke with his ribs protesting and his head fuzzy from too much ale and too little sleep. Dreams had plagued him—variations on Keir's message, on choices unmade and consequences unfolding in terrible spirals.

He dressed quickly, needing movement to silence the thoughts still churning. The training yard called to him, promising the kind of physical exhaustion that might quiet his brain for a few blessed hours.

The yard was already occupied when he arrived, half a dozen MacEwan warriors running through drills with varying degrees of competence. They paused when they spotted him, conversation dying to awkward silence.

"Morning," Tavish offered, moving toward the weapons rack.

Grunts of acknowledgment, nothing more. The tension was thick enough to chew.

He selected a practice sword, testing the weight. Decent balance, though the edge needed work. "Anyone up for sparring?"

One of the younger men stepped forward—Callum, if Tavish remembered correctly. Eager expression, movements that suggested more enthusiasm than skill. "I'll go."

They circled each other, the other warriors forming a loose ring to watch. Tavish kept his strikes controlled, testing Callum's defenses without overwhelming him. The lad had potential, just needed seasoning.

"Guard yer left side," Tavish suggested after a particularly sloppy block. "Ye're leaving yerself open."