Page 84 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Normal. Peaceful.

It felt strange after yesterday's violence. As though the world should still be reeling, but instead it simply carried on.

"I've been thinking about what ye said last night," Tavish said quietly. "About being afraid tae need someone."

Maighread's fingers tightened on her shawl. "Have ye?"

"Aye. I understand ye." He took a drink of tea, his eyes on the distant hills. "Yer whole life, ye've had tae fight fer every scrap of autonomy. Every choice. The thought of giving that up, even tae someone ye trust, feels risky."

"It daes."

"But needing someone daesnae mean losing yerself." He turned to look at her. "It just means ye're nae facing everything alone anymore."

The words settled over her, gentle and true. "When did ye become so wise?"

"I'm nae wise. Just observant." His smile turned wry. "And maybe a bit desperate tae convince ye that letting me stay isnae a mistake."

"I dinnae think it's a mistake."

"Nay?"

"Nay." She met his eyes, letting him see the truth of it. "I think it might be the best decision I've made in a long while."

His expression softened, something tender flickering across his features before he looked away, clearing his throat. "Careful, lass. Keep saying things such as that and me head will get too big fer me helm."

"I doubt that's possible. Yer ego is already insufferable."

"Och, there's the sharp tongue I kenned was hiding." He finished the bread and picked up his blade again, examining the edge. "Though I notice ye brought me breakfast anyway, despite finding me insufferable."

"The bread was getting stale. Someone had tae eat it."

"Liar."

She smiled, watching as he tested the blade's sharpness. The steel caught the morning light, gleaming cold and deadly. A weapon meant for killing, yet in his hands it looked almost graceful.

"How dae ye ken when it's sharp enough?" she asked.

"Feel mostly. And practice." He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, avoiding the edge. "A properly sharpened sword should slice through cloth without catching. But ye can tell before that if ye ken what tae look fer."

"Show me."

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "Ye want tae learn blade maintenance?"

"Why nae? I should ken how tae care fer a weapon properly." She gestured to the sword across his knees. "Besides, ye said yerself it's mostly feel. I'd like tae understand what that means."

Tavish studied her for a moment, then nodded. He shifted on the bench, angling the blade so she could see better. "Come closer. Ye willnae be able tae tell from over there."

Maighread moved nearer, closing the small gap between them until their shoulders nearly touched. She could smell the clean scent of soap on his skin, the faint metallic tang of steel and whetstone oil.

"First," he said, his voice dropping to something almost instructional, "ye test the edge without cutting yerself. Which means using the flat of yer thumb, nae the pad." He demonstrated, running his thumb perpendicular to the blade's edge. "Feel how it catches slightly? That tells ye the angle is right."

She watched the motion closely, noting how his thumb moved with confident sureness. "What if the angle is wrong?"

"Then it'll feel smooth instead of catching. Means ye need more work with the stone." He offered the sword to her, hilt first. "Try it."

Maighread took the weapon carefully, surprised by its heft. She'd held swords before but never paid attention to their balance the way she did now. The blade felt solid, well-made.

"Now," Tavish said, leaning closer, "place yer thumb here, flat against the steel."