Page 70 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Something passed across Tavish's face. Relief, maybe. Or fury barely contained. His hand tightened on her leg, grounding them both.

"Check the men," he called to the escort without looking away from her. "Any injured?"

"Bruises and scratches, nothing serious," one of the guards reported. "We were lucky."

"Luck had naething tae dae with it. Ye fought well." Tavish finally released Maighread's leg and stepped back, though his attention remained fixed on her. "Can ye ride?"

"Aye." She straightened in the saddle, forcing steel into her spine. "I can ride."

"We need tae reach MacEwan lands before they regroup. This wasnae random. They kenned our route."

"Keir." His name tasted bitter on her tongue. "He planned this."

"Aye. And he'll try again." Tavish wiped his blade clean on a dead man's cloak, his movements sharp with barely suppressed rage. "He wants ye badly enough tae risk open conflict. That makes him desperate."

"And dangerous."

"Aye. That too."

Maighread watched as the escort moved through the aftermath, checking bodies and securing weapons. Five attackers dead. Three fled. The odds had been too close for comfort.

If Tavish hadn't been there…

She shoved the thought away. He had been there. That was what mattered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The last attacker disappeared into the trees, and Tavish's sword arm dropped. Blood dripped from his blade, dark against the frost-pale ground. His chest heaved, lungs burning, but none of that mattered.

Only Maighread mattered.

He spun toward her, his heart still hammering from the moment that bastard had lunged for her. The image was seared into his mind: the mercenary's hand reaching for her leg, his cold eyes fixed on her. Two more seconds. Maybe three. That was how close she'd come to being stolen.

To being taken to Keir.

The thought sent fury blazing through his veins all over again.

Maighread sat on her mare, spine straight despite the tremor in her hands. She was trying to appear calm, controlled, but Tavish could see the fear she was working so hard to hide. It showed in the tightness around her mouth, the too-quick rise and fall of her chest.

He crossed the distance between them in three strides.

"Down," he said, reaching up.

"I'm fine, I can⁠—"

"Down. Now."

She must have heard something in his voice, because she didn't argue further. Her hands found his shoulders as he gripped her waist and lifted her from the saddle. The moment her feet touched ground, his control snapped.

His hands moved to her arms, gripping firmly, feeling for wounds through the fabric. Nothing. He shifted to her shoulders, pressing carefully, searching for any sign of injury she might be hiding.

"Tavish," she said softly. "I'm nae hurt."

"Let me check."

His palms slid down her sides, urgent and thorough, checking ribs for fractures. She tensed under his touch but didn't pull away. He moved to her back, running his hands along her spine, then around to her waist, his fingers splaying wide as he searched for any indication of harm.

Nothing. No blood. No breaks. No wounds.