Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
"Lady MacEwan's trying tae run," he called out. "Someone grab her before she hurts herself. Keir willnae be pleased if we return her with more bruises than necessary."
Before she hurts herself. Like she was a child. Like she was witless.
Rage flooded her veins, hot and clarifying.
Maighread didn't wait to hear more. She turned and ran.
Behind her, men shouted. Hooves thundered. But she knew those forests, had ridden them since childhood. She ducked under branches, leaped over roots, ignored the thorns tearing at her skirts.
"After her! Dinnae let her escape!"
Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But terror drove her forward, gave her strength she shouldn't possess.
A stream appeared ahead, the same one she'd crossed earlier. She splashed through it without slowing, soaking her already muddy skirts to the knee.
"Fan out! She can't have gone far!"
They were close. Too close. She could hear their cursing, their boots crashing through the undergrowth.
Maighread grabbed a low hanging branch and hauled herself up into a massive pine. Bark bit into her palms. Her arms shook from exertion. But she climbed higher, higher, until the branches grew thin and the ground spun sickeningly far below.
She pressed against the trunk, trying to quiet her ragged breathing. Through the needles she could see them searching below, spreading out in an organized pattern that spoke of military training.
"She's got to be here somewhere!"
"Check the stream again! Look fer tracks!
" Keir's voice cut through the search, sharp with frustration.
"Fan out wider. She cannae have gotten far on foot.
" He moved through the trees with controlled purpose, his gaze scanning the undergrowth.
"Search every bloody tree if ye have to. I want her found. Now."
One of them passed directly beneath her tree. She held her breath, pressed her cheek against rough bark, and prayed to every saint she could remember.
He moved on.
For a long moment, blessed silence. Then more cursing, farther away now.
"She couldnae have gotten far. Keep looking!"
Maighread waited until their voices faded to nothing. Waited until the forest settled back into rain drip quiet. Then she waited longer still, counting her heartbeats, making sure.
Finally, when her arms were quaking and her fingers had gone numb from gripping bark, she began to climb down.
Her boots hit solid earth. She stood there swaying, filthy and exhausted and more frightened than she'd ever been in her life.
She took one shaky step forward, then another. Her legs barely held her weight. The forest remained quiet around her. A twig snapped behind her. Before she could turn, hands seized her shoulders.
"Got ye now, ye stubborn bitch!"
Hands seized Maighread's shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh through the sodden wool. She twisted violently, bringing her elbow up into soft belly meat. The man grunted and his grip loosened enough for her to wrench free.
"Grab her, Callum! Dinnae let the quine slip away again!"
Another set of hands caught her from behind, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clean off her feet. Maighread kicked backward, her heel connecting with a shin. The man cursed but didn't release her.
He yanked her and she went down hard, face first into the mud. The breath punched from her lungs. Someone's knee ground into her spine, pressing her deeper into the muck. She couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, could only thrash uselessly while they pinned her.
"Hold her still!"
"I'm trying, ye great lummox! She fights like a wildcat!"
A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. Pain blazed across her scalp. Through the mud coating her face, she glimpsed the scarred man from earlier grinning down at her.
"Now then, me lady. Let's discuss being reasonable, aye? Ye can walk back tae the horses nice and calm, or we can drag ye. Yer choice."
"Go... to... Hell..." She spat mud and blood.
He laughed. "Oh, Keir's definitely going tae enjoy ye. Might even keep ye spirited fer a while—"
The words cut off abruptly as steel flashed through the air. The scarred man jerked backward with such force he flew from sight. The knee on her spine vanished. Someone screamed—high and panicked.
Maighread rolled onto her side, gasping, and looked up through mud-caked lashes.
A warrior on a massive grey stallion bore down on the second man, sword already swinging. The blade caught her attacker across the chest before he could raise his own weapon. He dropped like a felled tree. The rider wheeled his mount with perfect control, scanning for more threats.
More riders poured into the clearing behind him—seven, maybe eight—wearing blue and white. But Maighread couldn't tear her gaze from their leader.
Sun-gold hair, longer than fashion dictated, tied back loosely so strands escaped to frame a face that could've belonged to some ancient warrior king.
Blue-green eyes blazed with barely contained violence as he assessed the scene.
Broad shoulders, powerful arms that controlled both sword and horse with effortless grace.
Young—perhaps mid-twenties—but carrying himself with the absolute confidence of a man who'd seen battle and won.
Something in her chest lurched sideways.
Even through her terror and exhaustion, she couldn't look away. He was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful—wild and dangerous and utterly compelling. The kind of man bards wrote songs about. The kind of man women dreamed of in the dark hours of night.
Heat flooded through her despite the cold rain and mud coating her skin.
Her heart hammered for an entirely different reason now, and she hated herself for it.
She was filthy, terrified, half-dead from running—and yet some traitorous part of her noticed the way his wet shirt clung to his chest, the fierce protectiveness in his expression as he looked at the men who'd hurt her, the raw power in every movement.
Something in her chest lurched sideways.
The scarred Sinclair man moved to block her from view, reaching for his sword. "This doesn't concern ye, MacBain—"
MacBain. The name rang through her skull like a bell.
The golden warrior didn't let him finish. His blade flashed in a brutal arc that caught the scarred man across the forearm. The Sinclair soldier howled and staggered back, his sword clattering to the ground.
"Touch her again," the warrior said, voice deadly calm, "and I'll take the whole arm."
The second Sinclair man lunged from the side. MacBain's sword met his with a shriek of steel, then swept low in a move so fast Maighread barely tracked it. The man's legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard.
Two more Sinclair soldiers charged forward.
MacBain's men intercepted them, and suddenly the clearing erupted into controlled chaos.
But the golden warrior remained focused, positioning himself between Maighread and any threat.
He moved like violence made beautiful—every strike precise, every step purposeful.
His blade sang through the air, driving back anyone who came close.
Maighread couldn't look away. Even through her shock and pain, she watched him fight for her with a ferocity that stole her breath. It wasn't just skill. It was fury on her behalf, and something about that made her heart stutter in her chest.
Within moments, it was over. The Sinclair men who could still stand retreated into the forest, abandoning their wounded. MacBain turned immediately, sheathing his sword as he crossed to where Maighread still sprawled in the mud.
He crouched beside her, those startling blue-green eyes scanning her face with genuine concern. "Are ye hurt, lass? Can ye stand?"
His voice had gentled completely, lost all that deadly edge. Warmth instead of violence. She found herself staring at him, her mind still scrambling to catch up. This man had just fought off multiple attackers without breaking a sweat, and now he was looking at her like she was something precious.
"I…" Her voice came out rough, scraped raw. "I can manage."
"Let me help regardless." He slid an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up. His hands were careful, almost reverent. "Easy now. Take yer time."
She let him help her to her feet, hating how her legs shook, how she had to lean against his solid warmth to stay upright. He smelled of leather and horse and woodsmoke, clean male sweat beneath. Heat radiated from him despite the cold rain.
"Thank ye." She forced the words past her chattering teeth. "I… thank ye fer…"
"Nay need." He steadied her, his grip firm but gentle on her elbow. "Are ye truly unharmed? Did they hurt ye beyond..."
Horse hooves. Distant but approaching fast.
Maighread's stomach dropped to her boots. She knew that sound, the particular cadence of multiple riders moving in formation. Keir's men regrouping. Or worse, Keir himself coming to claim his prize.
Time collapsed into urgency.
She grabbed the golden warrior's arm, fingers digging into the muscle beneath his sleeve. "I'm Maighread MacEwan. Angus MacEwan's daughter. Please, I need..."
Recognition flared in his eyes. "I ken yer faither. Good man."
"Then in honor of that, in honor of him, I'm begging ye..." The hoofbeats were getting closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Follow me lead. Please. Just… please just trust me."
He frowned, confusion creasing his brow. "Follow yer lead? Lass, what are ye…"
The hoofbeats crested the ridge. Riders appeared through the trees, at least a dozen strong. And at their head, astride a black destrier that matched his soul, rode Keir Sinclair.
His gaze found her immediately and something flickered across his face. Relief? Satisfaction? It vanished too quickly to name.
Maighread's blood turned to slush.
"Lady MacEwan." He guided his horse closer, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "Thank God ye're safe. When me men reported ye went intae the forest, I feared the worst. These roads are treacherous fer a woman alone."
She felt the golden warrior stiffen beside her, sensed his confusion. No time to explain. No time for anything except the desperate gamble forming in her mind.
"I wasnae alone," she said clearly. Loudly enough for every man present to hear. "Me betrothed was with me."
Keir's expression froze. "Yer… what?"
Maighread turned to the golden warrior and smiled, praying he'd remember her plea. She stepped closer to him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
"Me betrothed." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading silently for him to play along. "We were tae meet and travel taegether tae me faither's lands when those bandits attacked."
The warrior's eyes widened slightly, but after a heartbeat's pause, he gave a slight nod. "Tavish MacBain," he said, his voice steady despite the shock she could see in his face.
"Master MacBain fought them off, of course," Maighread continued, emboldened by his cooperation. "He always protects me."
Tavish's entire body had gone rigid. She felt the shock rolling off him in waves. But he didn't step away, didn't contradict her.
"Betrothed," Keir repeated. His voice had gone flat. Dangerous. "I was unaware ye had accepted any marriage proposal, Lady MacEwan."
"Because it's recent." She moved fractionally closer to Tavish, willing him to play along. "Very recent. We've been... negotiating the arrangements privately."
"Indeed." Keir's gaze slid to Tavish, assessing. Cold calculation flickered behind those grey eyes. "MacBain. I didn't realize ye were courting Lady MacEwan."
Tavish's hand found the small of Maighread's back—a steady, possessive touch that surprised her. When he spoke, his voice came out steady and firm.
"Aye. We've been acquainted fer some time. The negotiations were conducted between our families initially, as is proper." He met Keir's gaze without flinching. "I'm escorting me betrothed home tae finalize the arrangements."
"How fascinating." Keir's smile could've frozen the loch solid. "And yet nay one in yer clan mentioned this when I dined at MacBain lands last month."
"Private family matters arenae typically discussed with guests," Tavish replied smoothly. His thumb moved in a small, reassuring circle against Maighread's back. "Surely ye understand the need fer discretion until contracts are signed."
Keir leaned forward in his saddle. "And now ye're traveling taegether tae MacEwan lands tae… what, exactly?"
"Tae marry," Tavish said before Maighread could speak. His tone left no room for doubt. "With her faither's blessing, which we already have."
Keir studied them both for a long, silent moment. The forest held its breath. Rain dripped from pine needles with terrible patience.
"Well then." He straightened in his saddle. "In that case, I insist on escorting ye both tae MacEwan lands. Tae ensure yer safety, of course. These roads are clearly dangerous, what with bandits and..." His smile sharpened. "Other threats."
Tavish's hand pressed more firmly against Maighread's back. "We have sufficient men—"
"I insist." Keir's tone left no room for argument. "I'm heading north meself. How convenient that we can travel taegether. Unless ye have reason tae refuse me protection?"
Refusing would raise suspicion. Accepting meant traveling under Keir's watchful eye.
Tavish's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. "Yer concern is noted. We'll travel taegether, then."
"Excellent." Keir turned his horse. "Shall we? I'm sure Laird MacEwan is anxious tae see his daughter. And his new son by marriage." The emphasis on those last words sent ice down Maighread's spine.
Tavish guided Maighread toward his horse with a firm hand, his movements deliberate and protective. As he helped her mount, he leaned close enough that only she could hear.
"We'll talk when we can," he murmured. "Fer now, follow me lead."
She nodded, and he swung up behind her, one arm settling around her waist to keep her steady as they began to ride.