Page 17 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Ready as I'll ever be fer public lying." His voice stayed low, meant only for her. The intimacy of it made her skin prickle. "Yer faither's already inside. Looking grim as death itself."

His hand covered hers where it rested on his arm—a brief, steadying touch that shouldn't have affected her so strongly. But it did.

"That's just his face these days." But her chest tightened. Her father shouldn't have been there at all. He should have been resting, saving his strength. But he'd insisted. Said the public acknowledgment had to come from him directly or the Council would never accept it.

They entered the hall together. The High Table dominated the far end, raised on a dais. Her father sat in the laird's chair, looking impossibly frail. Malcolm stood behind him, watchful. Council members filled the benches below—men who'd known her since birth, who'd bounced her on their knees and taught her to ride and were now scheming to marry her off to Keir gods-cursed Sinclair.

Speaking of which.

Keir sat three places down from her father, dressed in fine wool and silver. He watched them approach with that cold smile, predator assessing prey.

Keir rose as they approached, bowing with courtesy. "Lady Maighread. MacBain."

Maighread inclined her head coolly. "Lord Sinclair. I trust yer men have been seen tae?"

"Aye, me lady. Yer steward has been most gracious."

"Good." She turned toward the where her father waited. Malcolm gestured them forward, indicating their seats with quiet efficiency.

Maighread took her place at her father's right hand. Tavish settled beside her without prompting, his presence solid and reassuring. Keir was seated further down the table—close enough to participate in conversation, far enough to make clear he was a guest, not family.

The arrangement had been deliberate, Maighread realized. Her father ensuring that she and Tavish presented a united front, while Keir remained at a proper distance.

Servants brought food—roasted venison, fresh bread, turnips cooked in butter, dried fruit from last autumn's harvest. Wine flowed freely. The hall filled with the sounds of eating, drinking, laughter from the lower tables.

Her father raised his cup. The hall quieted instantly.

"Friends. Kinsmen." His voice carried despite its weakness. "We gather taenight tae celebrate news that brings me great joy in these dark days. Me daughter Maighread has accepted a betrothal tae Tavish MacBain, son of Dàibhidh MacBain, an old friend who is nay longer with us. A match that honors both our clans and ensures MacEwan lands remain strong."

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Surprise, mostly. A few speculative glances.

"I ken this comes sudden," her father continued. "But the negotiations have been ongoing fer some time, conducted privately as such matters should be. I wish tae see me daughter properly settled before God calls me home. Tavish MacBain is a man of honor, courage, and good family. I give this union me full blessing and expect every member of this clan tae support it."

He drank deeply. The hall erupted in congratulations, cups raised, voices overlapping.

Maighread's hands shook. She clutched her own cup, forcing herself to smile, to nod, to accept the well-wishes washing over her.

Beside her, Tavish's thigh pressed against hers beneath the table. Grounding her. Reminding her she wasn't alone in this madness.

Keir's expression hadn't changed. Still smiling. Still watching.

"Congratulations," he said once the noise died down. "Truly. I'm delighted fer ye both."

"Thank ye," Maighread managed.

Keir attempted conversation several times throughout the meal, probing about wedding dates and arrangements. Each time, Angus deflected with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent decades navigating clan politics. Eventually, even Keir seemed to recognize he'd get nothing more that night.

The meal continued, course after course. Maighread found herself hyper-aware of Tavish beside her—the way he shifted slightly closer when Keir spoke, the protective angle of his body, the warmth radiating from him despite the space between them.

"Ye're daeing well," Tavish murmured during a lull in conversation, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

"I feel like I'm going tae be sick," she admitted quietly.

His hand found hers beneath the table, hidden by the draping cloth. The contact was brief—a quick squeeze of reassurance—but it steadied her racing heart.

"Breathe," he said softly. "We're almost through this."

She did breathe, drawing strength from his calm presence. When she glanced up, she found him watching her with those blue-green eyes, concern evident in his expression.