Page 55 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Dinnae thank me fer keeping ye alive. That's basic sense, nae noble sacrifice." He settled beside her on the bench, close enough that their thighs pressed together. "That went better than I dared hope," she said.

His laugh rumbled low and warm. "Ye had doubts?"

"Always." She met his gaze. "But watching ye with that old woman, seeing ye with those young men… ye were good with them."

"Just daein’ what needs tae be done."

"Nay. It was more than that." She paused. "Ye made them feel seen. That matters."

They sat together watching the distribution continue, and Maighread marveled at how natural this felt. How right, despite every rational argument against it. A fortnight ago, she'd been desperate and alone, facing a future that looked like slow strangulation. Now she sat beside a man who made her feel seen instead of managed, protected instead of controlled.

Dangerous thoughts. The kind that led to broken hearts and shattered illusions.

"Maighread." His voice pulled her from spiraling introspection. "Stop thinking so loud. I can practically hear yer brain spinning from here."

"I'm nae⁠—"

"Ye are." He shifted, angling toward her on the bench. "What's wrong?"

Everything. Nothing. The terrifying realization that what had started as strategy was becoming something she couldn't control or contain. "Just tired."

"Liar." But he didn't press, just let the comfortable silence settle between them like a familiar blanket.

A commotion near the distribution wagons shattered the peace. Voices rose, sharp and contentious. Maighread straightened, instincts screaming warning.

Tavish was already moving, his hand finding hers and pulling her up with him. They crossed the square quickly, warriors parting to let them through.

At the wagon's edge, two men faced off over a single sack of grain. One gripped the burlap with white-knuckled intensity while the other tried to wrench it free, both shouting accusations that devolved into incomprehensible snarling.

"Enough!" Tavish's voice cracked across the square like a whip.

Both men froze.

He moved forward, positioning himself between the combatants with casual confidence that suggested he'd broken up hundreds of similar disputes. "What's the problem?"

"This bastard took me share!" The taller man jabbed a finger at his opponent. "I was next in line, and he shoved past like rules dinnae apply tae him!"

"Ye ken that's nae true!" The second man's face went purple. "I've been waiting longer than anyone here, and this fool thinks he can⁠—"

"I said enough." Tavish's tone dropped lower, more dangerous. "Ye'll both shut yer mouths and let Lady Maighread sort this."

He turned toward her, and the entire square seemed to hold its breath. Every eye fixed on them, watching to see who held authority in this partnership.

Tavish stepped back. Nae dramatically, just a single deliberate pace that put him half behind her shoulder. His voice carried clear and calm across the watching crowd. "This matter belongs tae her authority, nae mine."

The silence stretched taut as bowstring.

Maighread felt the weight of those stares, felt the test implicit in this moment. She could fumble this, could prove every doubt Dougal's faction harbored about her fitness to lead. Or she could handle it with the confidence her father had spent years cultivating.

She moved forward, spine straight and chin high. "Who was here first?"

The taller man opened his mouth, but several voices from the crowd spoke before he could.

"Donald was next." An old woman pointed at the second man. "Been waiting since midday while others came and went."

"Aye," another confirmed. "Callum only just arrived and tried tae skip the line."

Maighread turned to the taller man, the one called Callum. "Is this true?"