Page 7 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Heat flooded through her despite the cold rain and mud coating her skin. Her heart hammered for an entirely different reason now, and she hated herself for it. She was filthy, terrified, half-dead from running—and yet some traitorous part of her noticed the way his wet shirt clung to his chest, the fierce protectiveness in his expression as he looked at the men who'd hurt her, the raw power in every movement.

Something in her chest lurched sideways.

The scarred Sinclair man moved to block her from view, reaching for his sword. "This doesn't concern ye, MacBain⁠—"

MacBain. The name rang through her skull like a bell.

The golden warrior didn't let him finish. His blade flashed in a brutal arc that caught the scarred man across the forearm. The Sinclair soldier howled and staggered back, his sword clattering to the ground.

"Touch her again," the warrior said, voice deadly calm, "and I'll take the whole arm."

The second Sinclair man lunged from the side. MacBain's sword met his with a shriek of steel, then swept low in a move so fast Maighread barely tracked it. The man's legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard.

Two more Sinclair soldiers charged forward. MacBain's men intercepted them, and suddenly the clearing erupted into controlled chaos. But the golden warrior remained focused, positioning himself between Maighread and any threat. He moved like violence made beautiful—every strike precise, every step purposeful. His blade sang through the air, driving back anyone who came close.

Maighread couldn't look away. Even through her shock and pain, she watched him fight for her with a ferocity that stole her breath. It wasn't just skill. It was fury on her behalf, and something about that made her heart stutter in her chest.

Within moments, it was over. The Sinclair men who could still stand retreated into the forest, abandoning their wounded. MacBain turned immediately, sheathing his sword as he crossed to where Maighread still sprawled in the mud.

He crouched beside her, those startling blue-green eyes scanning her face with genuine concern. "Are ye hurt, lass? Can ye stand?"

His voice had gentled completely, lost all that deadly edge. Warmth instead of violence. She found herself staring at him, her mind still scrambling to catch up. This man had just fought off multiple attackers without breaking a sweat, and now he was looking at her like she was something precious.

"I…" Her voice came out rough, scraped raw. "I can manage."

"Let me help regardless." He slid an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up. His hands were careful, almost reverent. "Easy now. Take yer time."

She let him help her to her feet, hating how her legs shook, how she had to lean against his solid warmth to stay upright. He smelled of leather and horse and woodsmoke, clean male sweat beneath. Heat radiated from him despite the cold rain.

"Thank ye." She forced the words past her chattering teeth. "I… thank ye fer…"

"Nay need." He steadied her, his grip firm but gentle on her elbow. "Are ye truly unharmed? Did they hurt ye beyond..."

Horse hooves. Distant but approaching fast.

Maighread's stomach dropped to her boots. She knew that sound, the particular cadence of multiple riders moving in formation. Keir's men regrouping. Or worse, Keir himself coming to claim his prize.

Time collapsed into urgency.

She grabbed the golden warrior's arm, fingers digging into the muscle beneath his sleeve. "I'm Maighread MacEwan. Angus MacEwan's daughter. Please, I need..."

Recognition flared in his eyes. "I ken yer faither. Good man."

"Then in honor of that, in honor of him, I'm begging ye..." The hoofbeats were getting closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Follow me lead. Please. Just… please just trust me."

He frowned, confusion creasing his brow. "Follow yer lead? Lass, what are ye…"

The hoofbeats crested the ridge. Riders appeared through the trees, at least a dozen strong. And at their head, astride a black destrier that matched his soul, rode Keir Sinclair.

His gaze found her immediately and something flickered across his face. Relief? Satisfaction? It vanished too quickly to name.

Maighread's blood turned to slush.

"Lady MacEwan." He guided his horse closer, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "Thank God ye're safe. When me men reported ye went intae the forest, I feared the worst. These roads are treacherous fer a woman alone."

She felt the golden warrior stiffen beside her, sensed his confusion. No time to explain. No time for anything except the desperate gamble forming in her mind.

"I wasnae alone," she said clearly. Loudly enough for every man present to hear. "Me betrothed was with me."