Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The messenger arrived just after sunset, when the gathering had thinned to clusters of men drinking by dying fires and women collecting plates from abandoned tables. Tavish spotted him before anyone else did and imagined he worked for Sinclair even if he was not wearing his colors.
"Company," he murmured to Maighread, nodding toward the gates where a lone rider was being stopped by guards.
She followed his gaze, her fingers tightening on the cup she held. "Sinclair?"
"Aye. I believe so." He touched her elbow briefly. "Stay here. I'll handle it."
"Tavish—"
"Please." The word came rougher than intended. "Just… stay put."
He crossed the courtyard before she could argue, each step measured despite the urge to run toward the threat or away from it—he couldn't decide which.
The guards had already relieved the messenger of any visible weapons, though the man's posture suggested he considered himself untouchable regardless.
"Message fer Tavish MacBain," the rider announced, extending a sealed parchment.
"’Tis me. From whom?" Tavish asked.
“I am nae tae say, it is a private matter. Ye shall see.”
Tavish took it without comment, breaking the anonymous wax seal with his thumb. The script was precise, each letter formed with the kind of care that made his skin crawl.
MacBain—
Yer hasty departure from MacEwan lands after the betrothal put yer life in danger. As daes yer equally swift return after facing unnamed dangers on the road.
I remain in the village, observing. Should this match prove less than genuine, consequences will follow fer all involved.
And the same will happen if it daes prove genuine, fer I willnae give up what is mine by right.
I suggest ye consider carefully whether yer presence at MacEwan Castle serves anyone's interests.
And that perhaps ye should leave and return tae yer castle, unharmed this time.
Yer continued good health depends on choices yet unmade.
A friend
Ice flooded his veins. The bastard was threatening him openly now. No pretense of civility, no careful dancing around intent. Just pure threat wrapped in polite language.
"Have a response?" the messenger asked.
"Nay." Tavish refolded the parchment, his movements controlled despite the fury building beneath his ribs. "Tell yer master his message was received."
The rider inclined his head and turned his horse, cantering back through the gates without another word. Smart man. Tavish's control was hanging by threads so thin a strong wind might snap them.
He stood there as darkness gathered, the parchment burning against his palm through layers of paper and rage.
Around him, the gathering continued its slow dissolution—children being herded toward home, men stumbling toward beds or bottles, women wrapping leftover food in cloths fer the journey back to their cottages.
Normal. Peaceful. Everything this message threatened to destroy.
Maighread appeared at his side, her presence a warmth he hadn't realized he'd been seeking. "What did it say?"
"Naething important." The lie tasted foul.
"Tavish."
"Leave it, lass." He folded the message again, creasing it with more force than necessary. "It's handled."
"Ye're lying tae me." Nay accusation in her voice, just fact stated plainly. "After everything we've said about honesty between us, ye're standing here lying tae me face."
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "Some things are better left alone."
"That's nae yer decision tae make." She moved closer, lowering her voice though the nearest person was ten paces away. "We agreed nay secrets. Nay hiding things that could affect our safety."
"This daesnae affect ye."
"Everything about Keir affects me. Ye ken that." Her hand found his arm, gripping tight. "What did he say?"
The weight of her touch, the trust implicit in her demand fer truth, nearly broke him. He could show her the message. Could let her read Keir's veiled threats and thinly disguised accusations. Could share the burden of knowing their charade was being scrutinized from every angle.
Or he could protect her from it. Keep this particular poison to himself.
"He's questioning the betrothal," Tavish said finally, choosing his words with care. "Wondering if it's genuine or just strategy tae keep him at bay."
"That's all?"
No. That wasn't all. But the rest—the implications about his departure, the suggestion that his presence endangered him, the barely concealed promise of violence—those parts he'd carry alone.
"That's enough, isn't it?" He met her gaze, willing her to let it drop. "He's watching. Waiting fer us tae slip up."
Understanding flickered across her features. "Ye're nae telling me everything."
"I'm telling ye what matters."
"Tavish—"
"Please." The word escaped before he could stop it, rough and raw. "Just… trust me on this. Some things I need tae handle meself."
She studied him for a long moment, grey eyes searching his face for cracks in the armor he'd hastily assembled. Finally, she nodded once, though her expression suggested the conversation wasn't over, merely postponed.
"Fine. But we will discuss this later, when there aren't fifty people watching us pretend everything's normal."
"Agreed."
She released his arm and stepped back, the loss of contact immediate and visceral.
"I'll be along shortly." He needed air. Space. Time to think through options that all seemed equally terrible.
Maighread hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, then turned and walked toward the tables where her cousin was directing servants. Tavish watched her go, the message burning a hole through his palm.
He waited until she'd disappeared into the crowd before moving, his feet carrying him away from the gathering and toward the quieter passages of the castle.
The corridors were dim, lit only by torches spaced too far apart, and he welcomed the shadows.
Let them hide the fury twisting his features, the fear he refused to acknowledge clawing at his throat.
In a small alcove that smelled of old stone and older secrets, he stopped. Pulled out the message again. Read it once more by flickering torchlight, each word etching itself deeper into memory.
The implications were as clear as spring water and twice as cold.
Keir blamed Tavish's presence for ruining his plans.
That by staying, by continuing the charade, he was painting a mark on his back.
He had already stopped him from returning home to formalize their union.
Now he had to remove him in order to reach is goal.
Tavish leaned against cold stone, letting his head fall back until it connected with unforgiving rock. The pain helped. Grounded him when his thoughts threatened to spiral.
He had to find a solution, to see if he could avoid the threat while also leaving Maighread unharmed.
He could leave. That night, tomorrow, whenever.
Ride back to MacBain lands and send word that the betrothal was dissolved, that he'd changed his mind, that Maighread deserved better than a man with more enemies than sense.
It would hurt her pride, certainly. Cause political complications, absolutely.
But it would also remove him as Keir's primary obstacle.
Without Tavish in the way, Sinclair would leave Maighread alone.
By marrying her…
The thought settled heavy in his chest, not as strategy but as loss.
Pure, gutting loss that had nothing to do with obligation or debt and everything to do with grey eyes that saw too much, with a laugh that made his ribs ache, with the way she fit against him like she'd been crafted specifically for his arms.
When had that happened? When had Maighread MacEwan stopped being a favor for her father and started being… important. Essential. The only thing that made sense in a world gone mad with politics and violence.
"Bloody hell," he muttered to the empty corridor.
Leaving would protect her them both from Keir's immediate attention.
But it would also destroy her completely.
Without a husband, Maighread couldn't inherit or rule.
She would lose everything she'd been fighting for—autonomy, respect, the chance to lead her clan on her own terms. A dissolved betrothal would strip away what little authority she still held, leaving her with no choice but to accept whatever husband was selected for her.
And the Council would choose Keir—the man with the strongest claim, the most resources, and the willingness to do whatever it took to possess MacEwan lands.
No. He couldn't leave. Wouldn't leave, despite Keir's threats and implications. Because running away now would accomplish nothing except handing victory to a man who deserved to choke on defeat.
Tavish pulled out flint and struck a flame, holding the message over it until fire caught paper. He watched it burn, the words dissolving into ash and smoke, taking Keir's threats with them.
Staying meant danger. Meant Sinclair would keep pushing, keep testing, keep looking for weaknesses to exploit. But leaving meant abandonment, and Tavish had spent too many years trying to atone for past failures to add another to the pile.
So he'd stay. He'd play this role until either Keir gave up or circumstances forced different choices. And if that meant walking around with a target painted on his spine, well. He'd faced worse odds and survived.
The message reduced to ashes, Tavish ground the remains beneath his boot and headed back toward the gathering. Maighread would have questions later—she always did—and he'd answer what he could without adding to her burdens.
But for now, he'd paste on a smile and pretend the world wasn't actively conspiring to destroy everything they'd built.
When he emerged from the passage, Maighread was waiting near the entrance, arms crossed and expression knowing. "Feel better?"
"Marginally."