Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two days of relative peace, and Tavish should have known better than to trust it.
He'd spent the time appearing at MacEwan's side during meals, walking the battlements with Maighread where everyone could see them, playing the devoted betrothed.
The act grew easier with repetition. Too easy, if he was honest. The way she fit against his side felt natural now.
The sound of her laugh made something warm unfurl in his chest.
Dangerous territory. This was supposed to be strategy, nothing more.
That's what he told himself as he and his men prepared to ride out. Greg had been unusually quiet during the preparations, shooting him looks that promised another interrogation the moment they were alone.
Maighread appeared in the courtyard as they mounted their horses. She wore a simple grey gown, her hair braided back. Morning light caught in the chestnut strands, turned them copper and gold.
"Safe travels home," she said formally. Too many ears listening. "I'm sure yer braither will be eager tae hear the news."
"Aye. Fionnlagh will have questions." He leaned down from the saddle.
"Be safe." Her voice stayed steady, but something flickered in those storm-grey eyes. Concern? Or just relief that he'd be gone?
He straightened, gathering his reins. The thought of two weeks away from her already felt too long, though he'd never admit it. "Take care, lass. If Keir returns—"
"I'll be careful," she interrupted. "Go. Yer men are waiting."
"Aye." But he hesitated one moment more, drinking in the sight of her standing there in the morning light. "Maighread—"
"Go," she said again, softer this time.
They clattered through the gates, seven men riding south toward MacBain lands. The morning was cold, frost clinging to dead grass. Winter would arrive early this year. Tavish could taste it in the air.
Greg urged his horse alongside. "So. That went well enough."
"Aye. Keir's gone. We pulled it off." Tavish kept his gaze on the road ahead, though relief didn't quite settle in his chest.
"Fer now." Greg's tone held caution. "Ye dinnae actually think he's given up, dae ye?"
"Nae. But he's left the castle at least. That's something." Tavish shifted in his saddle.
"And ye're all right with that? Playing the devoted betrothed fer however long this takes?"
Tavish's jaw tightened. "I gave me word tae Angus. I'll see it through."
"That's all it is then? Just honoring yer debt?" Greg studied him. "Because from where I stood, it looked like considerably more than obligation."
"It's what it needs tae be." The words came out rougher than intended. "Naething more."
"And what will ye say tae yer ‘betrothed’? 'By the way, lass, Keir will probably try tae kill me now that I'm standing between him and ye?' That would go over well. But I guess ‘twould be better than her finding out when yer corpse shows up at her gates."
Tavish's jaw clenched. "I'm nae planning on dying anytime soon."
"Plans dinnae mean much when some bastard puts a blade in yer ribs."
They rode in silence after that, the forest closing around them. The morning was cold but clear, frost still clinging to the shadowed places where sunlight hadn't yet reached.
Tavish's mind kept circling back to Maighread standing in the courtyard, that flicker of something in her grey eyes when he'd said farewell. Relief that he was leaving? Or something else?
"What will ye tell Fionnlagh?" Greg asked, breaking the quiet.
"The truth. That I've agreed tae help MacEwan's daughter avoid a forced match with Sinclair." Tavish shifted in his saddle. "He willnae be pleased."
"Nay, he willnae." Greg grinned. "Yer braither has strong opinions about ye getting involved in other clans' politics."
"Aye, well. This is different."
"Is it?"
Tavish didn't answer. Couldn't, because he wasn't entirely sure anymore what it was.
The road stretched ahead, winding through pine forest toward MacBain lands. Two days of hard riding, maybe three if the weather turned.
They'd just forded a shallow stream when movement exploded from the trees. Eight men, maybe ten, dressed in rough leathers and tattered cloaks. Bandits, by their appearance.
Except bandits didn't move in coordinated formations. Didn't strike in organized pairs. Didn't use Sinclair-trained tactics that Tavish recognized from watching Keir's men drill.
"Ambush!" Greg roared, his sword already singing free. "Circle formation!"
Tavish kicked his horse forward, meeting the first attacker head-on. Their blades clashed, sparks flying. The man was good. Too good for a common thief.
"These aren't bandits," Tavish snarled, parrying a vicious cut. "They're hired killers."
"Noticed that!" Greg drove his blade through another man's shoulder, yanked it free. "Any brilliant ideas?"
"Dinnae die!"
"Helpful!"
Tavish blocked another strike, countered with a slash that caught his opponent across the thigh. The man fell back, cursing. Two more rushed in to replace him.
By God's wounds, there were more than he'd counted. Twelve at least, possibly fifteen. His seven against their numbers.
Not ideal odds.
A blade caught him across the ribs, shallow but burning. Tavish twisted away, brought his sword up in time to block the follow-up strike. Blood soaked hot through his shirt.
"Tavish!" Greg fought toward him, cutting down another attacker. "How bad?"
"I'm fine!" He wasn't fine. The wound screamed agony with every movement. But acknowledging weakness now would get them both killed.
Another attacker lunged. Tavish sidestepped, drove his pommel into the man's face. Bone crunched. The man dropped.
But more kept coming. Endless. Relentless.
This wasn't a random attack. This was an execution.
"Fall back!" Tavish shouted. "Toward the stream!"
His men obeyed instantly, fighting retreats toward the water. The attackers pressed hard, sensing victory.
Then steel flashed from an unexpected angle. One of the attackers went down screaming, an arrow through his throat. Another fell with a shaft in his chest.
"Reinforcements!" someone yelled.
But no. Not reinforcements. Just two of his men who'd circled around, using bows instead of blades. Smart. Deadly.
The attackers broke. Scattered into the forest like rats fleeing torchlight. Within moments, the road stood empty except for bodies and blood.
Tavish's vision swam. He gripped his saddle, breathing hard. The wound in his side throbbed viciously, spreading fire through his ribs.
"Tavish." Greg was beside him instantly. "Show me."
"It's naething."
"Show me anyway, ye stubborn bastard."
Tavish lifted his shirt. Even he winced at what lay beneath. The cut ran from lowest rib to hip, deep enough that blood poured freely. Not fatal, probably. Greg's face went grey. "That needs stitching. Now."
"We'll make camp. Bind it properly." Tavish tried to straighten, nearly blacked out from the pain. "Then continue home."
"Ye're nae continuing anywhere." Greg caught him as he swayed. "We're turning back. MacEwan Castle. They've got proper healers there."
"I'm fine."
"Ye're bleeding like a stuck pig and can barely sit upright. We're turning back."
Tavish wanted to argue. Wanted to insist they continue south, away from MacEwan lands and the complications waiting there. Away from Maighread and the dangerous warmth that spread through his chest whenever she smiled.
But his body betrayed him. The world tilted sideways. His grip on the reins loosened.
"Back tae MacEwan," Greg ordered the others. "Support him. Keep him conscious. Move!"
The ride back blurred into pain and nausea. Tavish gripped his saddle with both hands, fighting to stay upright. His men surrounded him, hands ready to catch if he fell. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage Greg had tied, dripped onto his horse's flank.
"Talk tae me," Greg commanded. "Stay awake."
"I'm awake."
"Then prove it. Tell me something."
"Keir sent them." The words came thick, slurred. "Those were his men. Dressed like bandits. But trained too well. Moved too coordinated."
"Aye. I noticed." Greg's voice stayed carefully steady. "He's escalating."
Tavish's vision swam. "He was watching. Tae see if I'd leave. If the betrothal was real or just… just a lie tae keep him away."
Understanding flashed across Greg's face. "And when ye rode out…."
"He couldn’t be sure if I was just leaving or if this whole thing was real.
He realized I was probably involving me braither, that I was in a hurry tae announce the formal betrothal.
That our private claim was turning intae a political statement.
" Tavish's laugh turned into a groan. "So he tried tae make sure I wouldnae get there at all. "
"Bastard."
"Clever bastard." Darkness edged his vision. "If he kills me, the betrothal ends. Maighread's vulnerable again. He can swoop in, play the concerned suitor…." His chest tightened with more than just pain. "I cannae let that happen. Cannae leave her unprotected."
"Then stay conscious," Greg gripped his arm harder. "We're almost there."
The castle gates appeared through the trees. MacEwan Castle, not MacBain. Tavish's muddled mind tried to make sense of that. They'd turned back. Course they had. No way he'd make it home.
Home. When had he started thinking of this place as something close to that?
Because she was there, his traitorous thoughts supplied. Because Maighread is behind those walls and the thought of never seeing her again made something in his chest crack open.
"Guard ho!" one of his men shouted. "We need help! MacBain's wounded!"
The gates swung open. Faces appeared, shocked and alarmed. Voices overlapped, calling orders.
"Get the healer!"
"Clear the courtyard!"
"Someone fetch Lady Maighread!"
Tavish tried to dismount. His legs buckled. The world tilted sideways and he would've hit the cobblestones face-first if Greg and another man hadn't caught him.
"Easy. We've got ye."
"I can walk." The lie was pathetic even to his own ears.