Page 68 of Under the Laird’s Promise

The escort ahead shifted formation, spreading wider as the road opened into a broader stretch. The distance gave them privacy, though Maighread suspected Tavish had arranged it that way deliberately. He seemed to understand instinctively when she needed space to breathe, when the performance of their betrothal became too suffocating.

It was one of the things that unsettled her most about him. How easily he read her.

"Are ye comfortable?" he asked, glancing over. "We can stop if ye need tae rest."

"I'm fine. We should press on while the weather holds."

"If ye’re sure."

"I am."

But she appreciated the offer. Another small kindness in a growing collection of them. Tavish MacBain was proving to be far more considerate than she'd anticipated when she'd blurted out that reckless lie about their betrothal. She'd expected help, certainly. Protection, maybe. But not the attentiveness. This quiet awareness of her comfort and needs.

It made everything more complicated.

They rode in companionable silence for another hour, the sun climbing higher and burning away the last of the morning frost. Maighread's shoulders gradually relaxed, the steady rhythm of travel soothing some of the restless energy that had plagued her since leaving the tavern.

The visit had been successful. More than successful, if she was honest. They'd secured the villages tentative support, demonstrated unity, and given the border folk reason to question Keir's influence. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

"Ye did well back there," Tavish said suddenly. "With the children, especially. They adored ye."

"Children are easy. They dinnae care about politics or alliances. Just whether ye're kind."

"Exactly." He shifted in his saddle, his gaze thoughtful. "That's why it mattered. Their parents saw how gently ye spoke to them, how ye didnae talk down or dismiss their questions. It showed them who ye really are."

Maighread felt heat creep up her neck. "I was just being meself."

"I ken. That's what made it effective." He paused, then added more quietly, "Ye'll make a good laird, Maighread. When the time comes."

The words settled over her, unexpected and affecting. She'd spent so long fighting for the right to inherit, to prove herself worthy, that genuine acknowledgment felt foreign. Especially from him.

"Thank ye," she managed.

"Dinnae thank me fer stating the obvious."

The road began to narrow, trees pressing closer on either side. The open countryside gave way to dense woodland, the canopy overhead thick enough to dim the sunlight.

Maighread's horse nickered softly, ears swiveling forward.

Something felt wrong.

The forest had gone too quiet. No birdsong. No rustle of small creatures in the underbrush. Just stillness that prickled along her spine and raised every instinct she'd learned to trust.

"Tavish," she said softly.

"I ken." His hand moved to his sword hilt, easy and practiced. "Stay close tae me."

The escort ahead had slowed, sensing the shift as well. Hands reached for weapons. Horses pranced nervously.

Then the attack came.

Men erupted from the trees on both sides, moving with coordinated efficiency that spoke of training and planning. Not bandits. Men wearing Sinclair colors poorly hidden beneath rough cloaks.

"Take the lass!" The shout came from somewhere to her left. "Alive! Laird Sinclair wants her alive!"

Ice flooded Maighread's veins. Not just an ambush. An abduction.

Keir intended to steal her. To force a marriage before Tavish could make their betrothal legitimate. One ceremony, one consummation, and all her careful planning would crumble into dust.