Page 107 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Have ye?"

"Nae yet. But give me time." He caught her hand again, lacing their fingers together. "I have plans fer spiriting ye away. I just need the right moment."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The kitchen fires blazed hot enough to make Maighread's skin prickle beneath her sleeves. She'd shed her formal gown hours before, trading silk for plain wool that wouldn't show flour stains or grease spatters. The repetitive work of baking settled her restless thoughts, give her hands something tae do besides shake with worry about Tavish, Keir, and everything spinning out of control.

The head cook, Moira, had given her one long look when she'd appeared in the doorway but had said nothing, merely nodded toward the bread table with understanding.

Maighread pressed her palms into the mass of flour and water, copying the other girls’ rhythm. The simple, repetitive motion was exactly what she needed—something concrete tae focus on instead of the endless spiral of fear and uncertainty.

Moira moved past, stirring a massive pot of stew. "MacBain eats like three men. We'll need more bread."

Heat crawled up Maighread's neck. "He's recovering from injury."

"Aye, and eatin' like a bear preparin' fer winter." The old woman's mouth twitched. "Cannae say I mind feedin' a man with that appetite."

The kitchen girls giggled. Maighread focused on her dough, punching it harder than necessary.

"He watches ye at meals," another girl added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Me braither serves in the hall. Says the MacBain laird looks at ye like he wants tae devour ye instead of his food."

"That's enough gossip," Maighread said, but her pulse kicked up a notch.

"Isnae gossip if it's true." Moira dumped chopped onions into the pot. "The man looks at ye like a starving wolf. And ye look right back."

Maighread's fingers stilled in the dough. "I dinnae..."

"Lass." Moira's tone gentled. "I've been cookin' in this kitchen since before ye were born. I ken what hunger looks like, and it isnae just fer food."

The younger girls exchanged glances, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Tell us," one breathed. "Is he as fierce in private as he looks in public?"

Maighread's mind flashed to the tavern room, Tavish's mouth hot on her throat, his hand sliding beneath her shift. The raw command in his voice when he'd told her to beg.

"That's none of yer concern."

"So he is." The girl grinned. "Saints, I'd let a man like that..."

"Ye'll let nay one dae anythin' until ye finish those turnips," Moira interrupted, whacking her wooden spoon against the table. "And ye, Lady Maighread, stop torturin' that poor bread. It's supposed tae rise, nae surrender."

Maighread glanced down. She'd pummeled the dough into submission.

"Sorry." She shaped it into a ball, setting it aside to proof.

Moira studied her. "Somethin' weighin' on ye?"

Everything. The Council's doubts. Keir's threats. Her father's fading health.

"Just tired," she lied.

"Mmm." Moira didn't sound convinced. "Marriage is a heavy thing, even when ye want it."

Especially when ye want it. The thought ambushed her, sharp and unwelcome.

"How did ye ken ye wanted tae marry yer husband?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Moira's weathered face softened. "He made me laugh. Even when everythin' felt impossible, he'd find a way tae make me smile." She paused, stirring the stew. "And when he touched me, I felt alive. Nae scared. Nae alone. Just… alive."