Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The Great Hall blazed with torchlight, smoke curling toward the blackened rafters.
Maighread's stomach churned as she descended the stairs, Kathleen at her side.
Every eye in the hall would be on her that night.
Judging. Questioning. Calculating what the sudden betrothal meant for their own interests.
"Breathe," Kathleen murmured. "Ye look like ye're walking tae the gallows."
"I feel like I'm walking tae the gallows."
"Well, stop it. Ye're supposedly in love, remember? Nae one contemplating her own execution."
Maighread forced her shoulders back, her chin up. The blue gown rustled around her legs as they entered the hall. Conversations stuttered and died as heads turned.
Tavish stood near the high table, freshly washed and wearing clean clothes. The firelight caught gold in his hair and turned his eyes that impossible blue-green. He looked every inch the Highland warrior, broad and powerful and entirely too handsome for her peace of mind.
Their gazes met across the hall, and Maighread's breath caught.
Sweet Mary. Cleaned up and properly dressed, Tavish MacBain was devastating.
Someone had found him clothes that actually fit—a deep blue doublet that brought out those impossible eyes, dark trews that emphasized his height and the powerful line of his legs.
His sun-gold hair had been tied back, though a few strands had already escaped to frame his face.
Something flickered in his expression as he watched her approach—concern, maybe, or reassurance. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that managed to be both respectful and intimate.
She crossed to him, aware of every whisper following her path, aware of how her pulse had quickened the moment their eyes met.
"Me lady." He offered his arm formally, his voice pitched low and warm. "Ye look bonnie."
Heat flooded her cheeks. The compliment shouldn't affect her like it did—she'd been called beautiful before, had endured countless flattering words from men who wanted something from her. But from Tavish, spoken in that rough, genuine tone, it felt different. Real.
"Ye clean up acceptably yerself." She took his arm, her fingers closing around solid muscle beneath fine fabric.
The contact sent awareness sparking through her, sharp and undeniable.
This close, she could smell woodsmoke and leather, could see the faint scar along his jawline she hadn't noticed before.
Focus. She must focus.
"Are ye ready fer this?" she asked quietly.
"Ready as I'll ever be fer public lying." His voice stayed low, meant only for her. The intimacy of it made her skin prickle. "Yer faither's already inside. Looking grim as death itself."
His hand covered hers where it rested on his arm—a brief, steadying touch that shouldn't have affected her so strongly. But it did.
"That's just his face these days." But her chest tightened. Her father shouldn't have been there at all. He should have been resting, saving his strength. But he'd insisted. Said the public acknowledgment had to come from him directly or the Council would never accept it.
They entered the hall together. The High Table dominated the far end, raised on a dais.
Her father sat in the laird's chair, looking impossibly frail.
Malcolm stood behind him, watchful. Council members filled the benches below—men who'd known her since birth, who'd bounced her on their knees and taught her to ride and were now scheming to marry her off to Keir gods-cursed Sinclair.
Speaking of which.
Keir sat three places down from her father, dressed in fine wool and silver. He watched them approach with that cold smile, predator assessing prey.
Keir rose as they approached, bowing with courtesy. "Lady Maighread. MacBain."
Maighread inclined her head coolly. "Lord Sinclair. I trust yer men have been seen tae?"
"Aye, me lady. Yer steward has been most gracious."
"Good." She turned toward the where her father waited. Malcolm gestured them forward, indicating their seats with quiet efficiency.
Maighread took her place at her father's right hand. Tavish settled beside her without prompting, his presence solid and reassuring. Keir was seated further down the table—close enough to participate in conversation, far enough to make clear he was a guest, not family.
The arrangement had been deliberate, Maighread realized. Her father ensuring that she and Tavish presented a united front, while Keir remained at a proper distance.
Servants brought food—roasted venison, fresh bread, turnips cooked in butter, dried fruit from last autumn's harvest. Wine flowed freely. The hall filled with the sounds of eating, drinking, laughter from the lower tables.
Her father raised his cup. The hall quieted instantly.
"Friends. Kinsmen." His voice carried despite its weakness.
"We gather taenight tae celebrate news that brings me great joy in these dark days.
Me daughter Maighread has accepted a betrothal tae Tavish MacBain, son of Dàibhidh MacBain, an old friend who is nay longer with us.
A match that honors both our clans and ensures MacEwan lands remain strong. "
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Surprise, mostly. A few speculative glances.
"I ken this comes sudden," her father continued.
"But the negotiations have been ongoing fer some time, conducted privately as such matters should be.
I wish tae see me daughter properly settled before God calls me home.
Tavish MacBain is a man of honor, courage, and good family.
I give this union me full blessing and expect every member of this clan tae support it. "
He drank deeply. The hall erupted in congratulations, cups raised, voices overlapping.
Maighread's hands shook. She clutched her own cup, forcing herself to smile, to nod, to accept the well-wishes washing over her.
Beside her, Tavish's thigh pressed against hers beneath the table. Grounding her. Reminding her she wasn't alone in this madness.
Keir's expression hadn't changed. Still smiling. Still watching.
"Congratulations," he said once the noise died down. "Truly. I'm delighted fer ye both."
"Thank ye," Maighread managed.
Keir attempted conversation several times throughout the meal, probing about wedding dates and arrangements. Each time, Angus deflected with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent decades navigating clan politics. Eventually, even Keir seemed to recognize he'd get nothing more that night.
The meal continued, course after course. Maighread found herself hyper-aware of Tavish beside her—the way he shifted slightly closer when Keir spoke, the protective angle of his body, the warmth radiating from him despite the space between them.
"Ye're daeing well," Tavish murmured during a lull in conversation, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.
"I feel like I'm going tae be sick," she admitted quietly.
His hand found hers beneath the table, hidden by the draping cloth. The contact was brief—a quick squeeze of reassurance—but it steadied her racing heart.
"Breathe," he said softly. "We're almost through this."
She did breathe, drawing strength from his calm presence. When she glanced up, she found him watching her with those blue-green eyes, concern evident in his expression.
"Thank ye," she whispered.
"Always." The word was simple, but something in the way he said it made heat bloom in her chest.
Her father cleared his throat, drawing attention. "I must rest. Malcolm, assist me."
The steward moved quickly, supporting her father as he stood. The hall quieted, respect for their laird overriding curiosity. Angus paused beside Maighread's chair, placing a weathered hand on her shoulder.
"Ye've chosen well, daughter," he said clearly, loudly enough for those nearby to hear. Then, quieter, just for her: "Trust him."
She nodded, throat tight, as her father left the dais.
The meal dragged on interminably. Course after course, toast after toast. Men approached to congratulate them, to clasp Tavish's arm, to tell Maighread how fortunate she was.
She smiled until her face ached, agreed until her throat burned, and felt Tavish's solid presence beside her like an anchor in a storm.
Keir rose shortly after. "I should depart at first light. Return tae me own lands now that I've seen Lady Maighread safely delivered."
"That would be best," Maighread said firmly, her tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Thank ye fer yer… escort. Malcolm will see that ye and yer men are provisioned fer the journey home."
Keir's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he bowed. "Of course, me lady. MacBain." His gaze lingered on them both for a moment too long before he turned and left the hall, his men following. The tension eased fractionally with his departure.
Relief swept through her as the great doors closed behind Keir and his men. "He's gone. We did it."
"Thank Christ fer that," Kathleen muttered from further down the table. "I thought he'd never leave."
"He's nae leaving," Maighread added quietly. "Nae really. He'll be watching us constantly."
"Then we'll give him naething tae see except a betrothed couple preparing fer their wedding." Tavish's hand found hers beneath the table, squeezed once, released. "Come. Walk with me. We should be seen taegether, acting comfortable."
They excused themselves, slipping from the hall into the cooler air of the corridors. Torches flickered in their brackets, casting dancing shadows on stone walls.
Maighread waited until they were alone before speaking. "That was..."
"Terrifying?" Tavish supplied. "Excruciating? A disaster waiting tae happen?"
"All of those." She leaned against the wall, exhaustion crashing over her. "But we survived it. And Keir has agreed tae leave tomorrow."