Page 92 of Under the Laird’s Promise

Malcolm raised his hands in a placating gesture. "We meant nay disrespect, Lady Maighread. We simply wanted tae ensure ye'd considered all angles before committing tae this path."

"I have considered them. Thoroughly." She met each man's gaze again, willing them to see her certainty. "Tavish stays. The betrothal stands. And I'll thank ye tae stop questioning me decisions on this matter."

Another exchange of glances. Then Dougal nodded slowly.

"It's clear ye willnae be swayed," he said. "We'll trouble ye nay further on the subject."

"Good." Maighread kept her voice level despite the fury still simmering beneath her skin. "Was there anything else?"

"Nay, m'lady." Malcolm inclined his head. "We'll leave ye tae yer afternoon."

The three men retreated down the corridor, their voices dropping to murmurs she couldn't quite catch. Maighread remained frozen in place, watching until they disappeared around the corner.

Only then did she let her shoulders sag.

A match based on affection rather than politics.

The words echoed in her mind. The Council had seen what she'd been trying not to acknowledge—her feelings. She thought of Tavish's hands over hers that morning, teaching her about blade edges. The warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. The certainty in his voice when he'd said he was staying.

She didn't want to be apart from him. Not for propriety, not for strategy, not for any reason the Council might devise. The thought of him leaving, of those steady hands and that quiet strength disappearing from her daily life, made her chest ache in ways that had nothing to do with politics.

The accounts room appeared ahead, its door standing open. Maighread straightened her spine and stepped inside, settling at the desk with practiced ease. The senior steward glanced up, noting her arrival.

"All well, m'lady?"

"Aye." The lie came smooth. "Just a brief delay. Shall we continue with the grain stores?"

The council men had meant it as criticism.

But sitting there reviewing numbers and making calculations, Maighread found herself hoping they were right. That the looks she and Tavish exchanged, the careful touches, the quiet admissions meant what she desperately wanted them to mean.

That this betrothal born of lies had somehow, impossibly, become the truest thing in her life.

The afternoon wore on. The work continued. And through it all, Maighread carried that hope tucked close to her heart, precious and terrifying and entirely beyond her control.

Which was perhaps the most frightening part of all.

She'd spent her entire life maintaining control. Over her emotions, her decisions, her future. But that… that feeling that had grown despite her best efforts to remain detached… it refused to be controlled or managed or strategized away.

It simply was.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Maighread found herself willing to let go. To trust that sometimes the heart knew things the head couldn't calculate.

That sometimes affection was a stronger foundation than politics.

That sometimes the best choice wasn't the most logical one, but the one that made you feel most alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Tavish was reviewing supply manifests with Greg when the commotion began. Shouting from the courtyard, the clatter of multiple horses arriving at speed. He exchanged a glance with his friend before both men moved toward the window.

A delegation had arrived. Sinclair colors, unmistakable even from this distance. And at the center, mounted on a black destrier, sat Keir Sinclair himself.

"Bloody hell," Greg muttered. "What's he daeing here?"

"Naething good." Tavish's hand moved to his sword hilt instinctively. "Stay close. This won't end well."

They descended to the courtyard together, arriving just as Keir dismounted. The man moved as though constantly aware of being watched, every gesture calculated for maximum impact.