Page 80 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Maighread glanced his way again. This time, her gaze grew into something almost wicked before she turned back to the elderly woman speaking to her.

Och, she was going to kill him.

"Ye look troubled, lad." Greg appeared at his elbow, his own cup already half-empty. "Something bothering ye?"

"Nay. Just thinking."

"About the attack?"

"Among other things." Tavish forced his attention away from Maighread. "Have ye heard anything from the men? Any word on where those mercenaries fled?"

"Into the woods toward Sinclair territory. We tracked them for a while but lost the trail after dark." Greg's expression hardened. "They'll be reporting back tae Keir by now. Telling him the attempt failed."

"Which means he'll try again."

"Aye. Soon, probably." His friend studied him. "Ye protected her well today. Fought fierce."

Tavish thought of that mercenary's hand reaching for Maighread's leg. The cold terror that had flooded his veins. "I nearly wasnae fast enough."

"But ye were. That's what matters."

"Is it?" He gripped his cup tighter. "Next time⁠—"

"Next time ye'll be faster still. Or she will. That lass is nay helpless flower, Tavish. She can handle herself."

"I ken that." He did. But it didn't stop the fear that gnawed at him whenever he thought about how easily she could be taken.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Whatever's going on between ye two, it's changed ye. Made ye sharper. More focused."

"What makes ye think something's going on?"

"The way ye cannae stop looking at her. The way she keeps glancing over here with that secretive smile." Greg grinned. "Ye forget I've kenned ye since we were lads. I can tell when ye’re distracted by a woman."

Tavish opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. What was the point? Greg would see through any lie he told.

"It's complicated," he said instead.

"It always is." His friend's expression turned serious. "But fer what it's worth, I think she's good fer ye. Makes ye think before ye charge into situations. Makes ye want tae be better."

The observation struck closer to truth than Tavish wanted to admit. Maighread did make him want to be better. Smarter. Worthy of the trust she'd placed in him.

A servant approached with a lute, speaking quietly to one of the council members. Moments later, soft music began to fill the hall. Not a full performance, just gentle background noise meant to ease the tension still lingering from the attack.

Tavish watched as several couples moved to the center of the room, forming the beginning of a dance. It was simple, traditional. The kind of thing expected at gatherings such as this.

His eyes found Maighread again. She stood near the far wall, watching the dancers with an expression he couldn't quite read.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Tavish crossed the room.

She saw him coming, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "Tavish."

"Maighread." He stopped in front of her, acutely aware of the eyes tracking his movement. "Would ye dance with me?"

"Dance?"

"Aye. Yer betrothed is asking ye tae dance. It would look strange if ye refused."

Something flickered in her eyes. Amusement? Challenge? "And here I thought ye didnae care about appearances."