Page 22 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"And ye're all right with that? Playing the devoted betrothed fer however long this takes?"

Tavish's jaw tightened. "I gave me word tae Angus. I'll see it through."

"That's all it is then? Just honoring yer debt?" Greg studied him. "Because from where I stood, it looked like considerably more than obligation."

"It's what it needs tae be." The words came out rougher than intended. "Naething more."

"And what will ye say tae yer ‘betrothed’? 'By the way, lass, Keir will probably try tae kill me now that I'm standing between him and ye?' That would go over well. But I guess ‘twould be better than her finding out when yer corpse shows up at her gates."

Tavish's jaw clenched. "I'm nae planning on dying anytime soon."

"Plans dinnae mean much when some bastard puts a blade in yer ribs."

They rode in silence after that, the forest closing around them. The morning was cold but clear, frost still clinging to the shadowed places where sunlight hadn't yet reached.

Tavish's mind kept circling back to Maighread standing in the courtyard, that flicker of something in her grey eyes when he'd said farewell. Relief that he was leaving? Or something else?

"What will ye tell Fionnlagh?" Greg asked, breaking the quiet.

"The truth. That I've agreed tae help MacEwan's daughter avoid a forced match with Sinclair." Tavish shifted in his saddle. "He willnae be pleased."

"Nay, he willnae." Greg grinned. "Yer braither has strong opinions about ye getting involved in other clans' politics."

"Aye, well. This is different."

"Is it?"

Tavish didn't answer. Couldn't, because he wasn't entirely sure anymore what it was.

The road stretched ahead, winding through pine forest toward MacBain lands. Two days of hard riding, maybe three if the weather turned.

They'd just forded a shallow stream when movement exploded from the trees. Eight men, maybe ten, dressed in rough leathers and tattered cloaks. Bandits, by their appearance.

Except bandits didn't move in coordinated formations. Didn't strike in organized pairs. Didn't use Sinclair-trained tactics that Tavish recognized from watching Keir's men drill.

"Ambush!" Greg roared, his sword already singing free. "Circle formation!"

Tavish kicked his horse forward, meeting the first attacker head-on. Their blades clashed, sparks flying. The man was good. Too good for a common thief.

"These aren't bandits," Tavish snarled, parrying a vicious cut. "They're hired killers."

"Noticed that!" Greg drove his blade through another man's shoulder, yanked it free. "Any brilliant ideas?"

"Dinnae die!"

"Helpful!"

Tavish blocked another strike, countered with a slash that caught his opponent across the thigh. The man fell back, cursing. Two more rushed in to replace him.

By God's wounds, there were more than he'd counted. Twelve at least, possibly fifteen. His seven against their numbers.

Not ideal odds.

A blade caught him across the ribs, shallow but burning. Tavish twisted away, brought his sword up in time to block the follow-up strike. Blood soaked hot through his shirt.

"Tavish!" Greg fought toward him, cutting down another attacker. "How bad?"

"I'm fine!" He wasn't fine. The wound screamed agony with every movement. But acknowledging weakness now would get them both killed.