Page 120 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Then we'll be there tae pick up the pieces. Sinclair influence, Sinclair protection, Sinclair control. One way or another, those lands will be mine."

Malcolm was quiet for a moment. "What about the lass herself? If she hates ye fer this, if she refuses tae cooperate after…"

"She'll come around." Keir's voice was absolute. "Once she understands there's nay other option, once MacBain is dead or disgraced, once her clan needs what only I can provide, she'll accept reality. Women always dae."

"Aye, me laird."

"How long until yer men reach the borders?"

"If we ride through the night, we'll hit the first village by dawn. The others shortly after."

"Perfect. Make sure messengers report back regularly. I want tae ken exactly when MacBain receives word. I want tae ken the moment he makes his choice."

"It will be done."

Malcolm left. Keir remained at the window, watching the last of his men ride out into the darkness. Torches bobbed in the distance, slowly disappearing down the road toward MacEwan lands.

He poured himself a dram and drank slowly, savoring the burn.

Two days. Maighread thought she had two days to marry her precious MacBain and secure her future.

She was wrong.

By dawn the following day, her world would be burning. Her people would be crying out fer protection. And MacBain would have tae choose: ride out and defend them or stay and marry her while innocents died.

Either way, Keir won.

Either the wedding was delayed and chaos followed, or MacBain abandoned the people he'd sworn to protect and proved himself a coward. Either outcome served Keir's purposes.

He raised his cup.

"Make yer choice, MacBain," he murmured. "Prove ye're the hero she thinks ye are. Ride out tae save them."

The whisky was smooth and dark on his tongue.

"And when ye dae, I'll be waiting."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Maighread was in the Great Hall reviewing supply manifests with the steward when chaos erupted at the gates.

Shouts. Screams. The sound of horses arriving in desperate haste.

She dropped the parchment and ran to the courtyard, her heart already hammering. What she saw stopped her cold.

Refugees. Dozens of them. Fleeing villagers on foot and horseback, carrying children, clutching bundles of possessions. Behind them, visible even from this distance, a red glow lit the night sky.

Fire.

"The villages," the steward whispered beside her, his face gone grey. "Saints above, they're burning."

A man staggered forward, his clothes singed, his face streaked with soot. "Please, we need shelter. Sinclair forces attacked. They came at dusk with torches and steel. We barely escaped."

"How many villages?" Maighread demanded, her mind already shifting into crisis mode.

"At least three. Maybe more. We were in the market when they hit. People scattered in every direction."

"Where's Tavish?" Maighread asked urgently.