Page 23 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Another attacker lunged. Tavish sidestepped, drove his pommel into the man's face. Bone crunched. The man dropped.

But more kept coming. Endless. Relentless.

This wasn't a random attack. This was an execution.

"Fall back!" Tavish shouted. "Toward the stream!"

His men obeyed instantly, fighting retreats toward the water. The attackers pressed hard, sensing victory.

Then steel flashed from an unexpected angle. One of the attackers went down screaming, an arrow through his throat. Another fell with a shaft in his chest.

"Reinforcements!" someone yelled.

But no. Not reinforcements. Just two of his men who'd circled around, using bows instead of blades. Smart. Deadly.

The attackers broke. Scattered into the forest like rats fleeing torchlight. Within moments, the road stood empty except for bodies and blood.

Tavish's vision swam. He gripped his saddle, breathing hard. The wound in his side throbbed viciously, spreading fire through his ribs.

"Tavish." Greg was beside him instantly. "Show me."

"It's naething."

"Show me anyway, ye stubborn bastard."

Tavish lifted his shirt. Even he winced at what lay beneath. The cut ran from lowest rib to hip, deep enough that blood poured freely. Not fatal, probably. Greg's face went grey. "That needs stitching. Now."

"We'll make camp. Bind it properly." Tavish tried to straighten, nearly blacked out from the pain. "Then continue home."

"Ye're nae continuing anywhere." Greg caught him as he swayed. "We're turning back. MacEwan Castle. They've got proper healers there."

"I'm fine."

"Ye're bleeding like a stuck pig and can barely sit upright. We're turning back."

Tavish wanted to argue. Wanted to insist they continue south, away from MacEwan lands and the complications waiting there. Away from Maighread and the dangerous warmth that spread through his chest whenever she smiled.

But his body betrayed him. The world tilted sideways. His grip on the reins loosened.

"Back tae MacEwan," Greg ordered the others. "Support him. Keep him conscious. Move!"

The ride back blurred into pain and nausea. Tavish gripped his saddle with both hands, fighting to stay upright. His men surrounded him, hands ready to catch if he fell. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage Greg had tied, dripped onto his horse's flank.

"Talk tae me," Greg commanded. "Stay awake."

"I'm awake."

"Then prove it. Tell me something."

"Keir sent them." The words came thick, slurred. "Those were his men. Dressed like bandits. But trained too well. Moved too coordinated."

"Aye. I noticed." Greg's voice stayed carefully steady. "He's escalating."

Tavish's vision swam. "He was watching. Tae see if I'd leave. If the betrothal was real or just… just a lie tae keep him away."

Understanding flashed across Greg's face. "And when ye rode out…."

"He couldn’t be sure if I was just leaving or if this whole thing was real. He realized I was probably involving me braither, that I was in a hurry tae announce the formal betrothal. That our private claim was turning intae a political statement." Tavish's laugh turned into a groan. "So he tried tae make sure I wouldnae get there at all."