Page 58 of Under the Laird’s Promise

The tavern squatted at the village's edge, all rough timber and questionable stability. Inside, the common room buzzed with evening activity, voices rising in laughter and argument over ale that smelled faintly sour.

The innkeeper greeted them with a gap-toothed smile that faded as Malcolm explained their needs. The man scratched his balding head. "I've got one room. Just the one."

"One will suffice," Tavish said before Maighread could panic. "What's it got?"

"Bed. Washbasin. Working shutters." The innkeeper shrugged. "Nae much else. But it's clean and the roof daesnae leak except when it rains hard."

"Reassuring," Maighread muttered.

They followed the man up narrow stairs that creaked protest with every step. He stopped at a door near the corridor's end, producing a key that looked older than the building itself.

"Here ye are. There's water in the pitcher, fresh linens on the bed. Breakfast is served at dawn if ye want it." He handed over the key. "Anything else ye need?"

"We're fine," Tavish assured him.

The innkeeper departed, leaving them alone in the dim hallway.

Tavish unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a space barely large enough fer the bed, a small table, and a washstand. A single narrow window looked out over darkened fields. And the bed… sweet saints, the bed dominated the room, impossible to ignore.

"Well." Maighread stepped inside, acutely aware of how Tavish filled the doorway behind her. "This is cozy."

"That's one word fer it." He closed the door. "I'll take the floor."

"Ye're injured. Yer ribs⁠—"

"Are fine. And I've slept on worse than wooden planks." He moved to the window, checking the shutters. "Ye take the bed. Nay arguments."

She wanted to argue anyway, but exhaustion made her bones feel hollow. "Fine. But if yer back gives out, dinnae blame me."

"Wouldnae dream of it." He tested the door's lock, satisfied it would hold. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's another long day."

Maighread shed her cloak and boots, hyper-aware of every movement as Tavish spread his own cloak on the floor near the hearth. The fire burned low, casting dancing shadows across walls that felt far too close.

She climbed intae the bed fully clothed, pulling the blanket up tae her chin. The mattress smelled faintly of lavender and thyme.

Silence pressed thick between them, broken only by the fire's occasional crackle.

"Maighread?" Tavish's voice came rough in the darkness.

"Aye?"

"Can I tell ye something?"

Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Of course."

A long pause. Then, quietly: "Leadership terrifies me."

The admission landed like a stone in still water. "What?"

"Every decision feels like holding a blade over innocent lives. One wrong choice and people suffer." His voice carried strain she'd never heard before. "I ken how tae fight. How tae defend and protect. But leading? Actually being responsible fer people's survival?" A harsh exhale. "That scares me."

Maighread rolled onto her side, peering through the dimness at where he lay. "Ye hide it well."

"Aye. Years of practice." Bitter humor colored the words. "But it's there. Every time I make a choice that affects others, I feel that blade balanced on me palm and pray I dinnae drop it."

His raw honesty deserved equal vulnerability.

She drew a breath, preparing to offer platitudes about his capability and strength. Instead, truth spilled out. "Marriage has always felt like slow erasure tae me."