Page 25 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Strong arms lowered him onto the pallet. Tavish gritted his teeth against the jolt of pain.

The healer moved to his side immediately, her sharp eyes assessing. "Out. Everyone except Lady Maighread. I need space tae work."

Greg hesitated. "I should stay."

"Ye should leave." The healer fixed him with a look that brooked no argument. "Now."

They filed out reluctantly. The door closed. Suddenly it was just Tavish, Maighread, and the healer in the quiet room.

"Hold him steady," the healer instructed Maighread. "This shirt needs to come off."

Maighread moved to his side, her hands settling on his shoulders. "Sorry," she murmured. "This is going tae hurt."

"Dae what ye must."

Together, they worked the blood-soaked fabric away from the wound. Tavish hissed through his teeth as cloth pulled at dried blood, reopening parts that had started to clot.

Maighread's face paled as the full extent of the damage was revealed, but her hands stayed steady on his shoulders, keeping him grounded.

"How bad?" Maighread asked quietly.

"Bad enough." The healer gathered her supplies. "Hold him steady while I clean this. It's going to hurt."

Maighread moved to his side, her hands on his shoulders. "Ready?"

"Nay."

The healer poured something that burned like liquid fire into the wound. Tavish's back arched, every muscle going rigid. A sound escaped him that might have been a curse or might have been a scream.

Maighread's hands tightened on his shoulders, keeping him from thrashing. "I'm so sorry. Almost done. Just breathe."

He focused on her face through the haze of pain. The concern etched there. The fear she was trying to hide. The way her bottom lip trembled slightly before she caught it between her teeth.

She cares. The thought cut through the agony with unexpected clarity. This isnae just duty or obligation. She's genuinely frightened for me.

Something warm unfurled in his chest beneath the pain. Something dangerous that he didn't have the strength to examine right now.

"Keir's men," he forced out between gasps. "It was Keir's men. Dressed like bandits. But trained too well."

"I ken." Her eyes held his, storm-grey and fierce. "We'll talk about it later. Once ye're stable."

"Need tae talk now. Before⁠—"

"Before naething." Her voice firmed, that stubborn determination he was coming to know so well. "Ye're nae dying. I won't allow it."

Despite everything, warmth flooded through him. She wouldn't allow it. As if death itself would bow to Maighread MacEwan's will.

"Bossy lass," he managed.

"Aye." The ghost of a smile touched her lips, there and gone.

The healer worked in silence, cleaning, stitching, binding. Every touch brought fresh agony. But Maighread never let go. Never looked away. Her hands stayed firm on his shoulders, grounding him, her grey eyes locked on his face like she could keep him conscious through sheer force of will.

She's beautiful like this, he thought hazily. Fierce and protective and absolutely terrifying.

Finally, blessedly, it ended.

"There." The healer stepped back. "He'll live. Needs rest and clean bandages daily. Nay strenuous activity fer at least a fortnight. And someone should watch him taenight in case of fever."