Page 6 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Maighread grabbed a low hanging branch and hauled herself up into a massive pine. Bark bit into her palms. Her arms shook from exertion. But she climbed higher, higher, until the branches grew thin and the ground spun sickeningly far below.

She pressed against the trunk, trying to quiet her ragged breathing. Through the needles she could see them searching below, spreading out in an organized pattern that spoke of military training.

"She's got to be here somewhere!"

"Check the stream again! Look fer tracks!" Keir's voice cut through the search, sharp with frustration. "Fan out wider. She cannae have gotten far on foot." He moved through the trees with controlled purpose, his gaze scanning the undergrowth. "Search every bloody tree if ye have to. I want her found. Now."

One of them passed directly beneath her tree. She held her breath, pressed her cheek against rough bark, and prayed to every saint she could remember.

He moved on.

For a long moment, blessed silence. Then more cursing, farther away now.

"She couldnae have gotten far. Keep looking!"

Maighread waited until their voices faded to nothing. Waited until the forest settled back into rain drip quiet. Then she waited longer still, counting her heartbeats, making sure.

Finally, when her arms were quaking and her fingers had gone numb from gripping bark, she began to climb down.

Her boots hit solid earth. She stood there swaying, filthy and exhausted and more frightened than she'd ever been in her life.

She took one shaky step forward, then another. Her legs barely held her weight. The forest remained quiet around her. A twig snapped behind her. Before she could turn, hands seized her shoulders.

"Got ye now, ye stubborn bitch!"

Hands seized Maighread's shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh through the sodden wool. She twisted violently, bringing her elbow up into soft belly meat. The man grunted and his grip loosened enough for her to wrench free.

"Grab her, Callum! Dinnae let the quine slip away again!"

Another set of hands caught her from behind, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clean off her feet. Maighread kicked backward, her heel connecting with a shin. The man cursed but didn't release her.

He yanked her and she went down hard, face first into the mud. The breath punched from her lungs. Someone's knee ground into her spine, pressing her deeper into the muck. She couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, could only thrash uselessly while they pinned her.

"Hold her still!"

"I'm trying, ye great lummox! She fights like a wildcat!"

A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. Pain blazed across her scalp. Through the mud coating her face, she glimpsed the scarred man from earlier grinning down at her.

"Now then, me lady. Let's discuss being reasonable, aye? Ye can walk back tae the horses nice and calm, or we can drag ye. Yer choice."

"Go... to... Hell..." She spat mud and blood.

He laughed. "Oh, Keir's definitely going tae enjoy ye. Might even keep ye spirited fer a while⁠—"

The words cut off abruptly as steel flashed through the air. The scarred man jerked backward with such force he flew from sight. The knee on her spine vanished. Someone screamed—high and panicked.

Maighread rolled onto her side, gasping, and looked up through mud-caked lashes.

A warrior on a massive grey stallion bore down on the second man, sword already swinging. The blade caught her attacker across the chest before he could raise his own weapon. He dropped like a felled tree. The rider wheeled his mount with perfect control, scanning for more threats.

More riders poured into the clearing behind him—seven, maybe eight—wearing blue and white. But Maighread couldn't tear her gaze from their leader.

Sun-gold hair, longer than fashion dictated, tied back loosely so strands escaped to frame a face that could've belonged to some ancient warrior king. Blue-green eyes blazed with barely contained violence as he assessed the scene. Broad shoulders, powerful arms that controlled both sword and horse with effortless grace. Young—perhaps mid-twenties—but carrying himself with the absolute confidence of a man who'd seen battle and won.

Something in her chest lurched sideways.

Even through her terror and exhaustion, she couldn't look away. He was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful—wild and dangerous and utterly compelling. The kind of man bards wrote songs about. The kind of man women dreamed of in the dark hours of night.