Page 52 of Under the Laird’s Promise

The words hit him like a fist to the gut, desire flooding hot and urgent through his veins. "Then we're both in trouble."

"Maybe I like trouble."

"Maighread." Her name came out strangled. "Ye dinnae ken what ye're asking fer."

"Dinnae I?" Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. "Because I think I ken exactly what I'm asking fer. Been thinking about it since ye put yer hands on me during that lawn bowling game. Since ye made promises about what would happen if I begged."

His control, already strained to breaking, nearly shattered completely. "Lass."

"I'm nae begging yet," she continued, voice going softer. "But I'm nae stepping back either. So what daes that make us?"

"Reckless." He forced himself to release her waist, hands dropping to his sides even though every instinct screamed to keep touching her. "It makes us reckless and foolish and playing games we can't win."

Disappointment flickered across her features before she masked it. "Right. Of course." She stepped back, creating space that felt like loss. "We should get back tae work."

"Maighread."

"The saddlebags." She gestured vaguely toward the high shelf. "Could yer get them fer me? Since ye're tall enough tae reach without risking death."

He could push. Could close the distance again and show her exactly what he'd been thinking about. Could press her against those shelves and make good on every heated promise his body had been making since she'd landed in his arms.

Instead, he reached up and grabbed the damned saddlebags, handing them over without comment.

"Thank ye," she said, clutching the leather like a shield.

"Ye're welcome."

They stood there awkwardly, the moment fracturing around them into pieces neither seemed to know how to gather.

Finally, Maighread turned and fled, leaving him alone in the storage room with a head full of images that would haunt him for days.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tavish guided his horse through the border village's main square, twenty warriors at his back and Maighread riding beside him with her spine straight and chin high. The village looked worse than he'd expected—buildings sagging, people gaunt-faced and wary, the kind of poverty that spoke of months of neglect.

They'd barely dismounted when a voice called from the gathered crowd.

"That's the MacEwan lass?" A middle-aged man pushed forward, his weathered face carved with suspicion. "Come tae show herself now that her faither's dying?"

Maighread's expression remained calm, though Tavish felt her tense beside him.

"Aye," she said clearly. "I'm Maighread MacEwan, daughter of Angus MacEwan."

"Daughter." The man spat the word. "Nae son. Nae heir. Just a lass who'll need a husband tae rule fer her—if the Council even allows that."

Murmurs rippled through the watching villagers.

Tavish stepped forward before the discontent could spread further. "I'm Tavish MacBain," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "Lady Maighread's betrothed. And ye're right—she'll need a husband by law. That's why I'm here."

The crowd's attention shifted to him, wary but listening.

"We've brought supplies," Tavish continued. "Grain and salted meat. Enough fer every household tae get through till spring planting." He gestured toward the loaded wagons. "And we're leaving five warriors tae protect yer fields from the raiders who've been stealing yer crops."

The suspicious man's expression shifted slightly. "Supplies? Real supplies, nae just promises?"

"See fer yerself." Tavish nodded toward Malcolm, who'd already begun directing the unloading. "We're here tae help, nae tae make empty promises."

Tavish stepped forward, keeping his movements calm and unthreatening despite the violence simmering beneath his skin. "I ken ye've been raided four times in the past six months. I ken the raiders come from Sinclair lands, wearing nay colors but carrying Sinclair steel. I ken they've been taking crops and livestock while making sure ye blame MacEwan negligence instead of Sinclair aggression."