Page 86 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"I will be. Ye as well."

He nodded, then returned his attention to the sword. Dismissed, but not unkindly. Just a man who knew she had duties waiting and didn't want to keep her from them.

Maighread turned and walked away across the courtyard stones, conscious of his presence behind her even when she could no longer see him. She felt the lingering warmth of his hand over hers, the memory of his breath against her ear as he'd guided her through testing the blade's edge.

Small things. Inconsequential moments that should not have meant anything.

But they meant everything.

She climbed the stairs to the main keep, a smile tugging at her lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The training yard rang with the clash of steel on steel, the familiar sound that usually brought Tavish a measure of peace. That day, though, his mind kept wandering. Back to the courtyard at dawn. Back to Maighread's fingers beneath his as he'd shown her how to test a blade's edge.

Focus, ye bloody fool.

He shifted his grip on the practice sword, circling his opponent. One of the MacEwan guards, a solid fighter named Connor who didn't pull his strikes. Good. Tavish needed the challenge, needed something to burn through the restless energy that had plagued him since the previous night's conversation in the solar.

Connor lunged. Tavish parried, the impact jarring up his arm. He countered with a quick thrust that forced the other man back, then pressed his advantage. Their blades met again and again, the rhythm building until sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cool afternoon air.

He was pushing harder than he should. Knew it. But he couldn't seem to stop.

Connor feinted left, then came in low on the right. Tavish twisted to block, his grip tightening on the hilt. The angle was wrong. He felt it the instant before the practice blade connected with his, the force of the blow traveling straight through his wrist.

Pain flared hot and sharp.

"Yield," Connor called, stepping back immediately.

Tavish lowered his sword, flexing his hand. The pain dulled to a steady throb, concentrated in the muscles between thumb and forefinger. Nothing serious. Just strained from gripping too tight, pushing too hard.

"Ye all right?" Connor asked, concern evident.

"Aye. " Tavish shook his hand out, trying to ease the ache. "Me fault. I was gripping too hard."

"Ye've been fighting fierce today. Something on yer mind?"

Everything. Naething. A woman with storm-grey eyes and a sharp tongue who's turned me world completely upside down.

"Just working through some things," Tavish said instead.

Connor nodded, unconvinced but too polite to press. "Maybe call it fer today. Give that hand a rest before ye dae real damage."

"Aye. Probably wise."

They clasped forearms briefly before Connor headed toward the barracks. Tavish remained in the yard, flexing his hand and watching the other warriors continue their drills. The throbbing had settled into a dull ache that was more annoying than painful.

He'd survived worse. Much worse.

"Tavish MacBain."

The voice came from behind him, sharp with exasperation. He turned to find Maighread striding across the yard, her expression caught between concern and irritation.

"Lass," he said. "What brings ye tae the training yard?"

"Watching ye injure yerself, apparently." She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips. "I saw that last strike. And I saw how ye've been favoring yer hand since."

"It's naething. Just a strain."