Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The training yard rang with the clash of steel on steel, the familiar sound that usually brought Tavish a measure of peace. That day, though, his mind kept wandering. Back to the courtyard at dawn. Back to Maighread's fingers beneath his as he'd shown her how to test a blade's edge.
Focus, ye bloody fool.
He shifted his grip on the practice sword, circling his opponent.
One of the MacEwan guards, a solid fighter named Connor who didn't pull his strikes.
Good. Tavish needed the challenge, needed something to burn through the restless energy that had plagued him since the previous night's conversation in the solar.
Connor lunged. Tavish parried, the impact jarring up his arm. He countered with a quick thrust that forced the other man back, then pressed his advantage. Their blades met again and again, the rhythm building until sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cool afternoon air.
He was pushing harder than he should. Knew it. But he couldn't seem to stop.
Connor feinted left, then came in low on the right. Tavish twisted to block, his grip tightening on the hilt. The angle was wrong. He felt it the instant before the practice blade connected with his, the force of the blow traveling straight through his wrist.
Pain flared hot and sharp.
"Yield," Connor called, stepping back immediately.
Tavish lowered his sword, flexing his hand. The pain dulled to a steady throb, concentrated in the muscles between thumb and forefinger. Nothing serious. Just strained from gripping too tight, pushing too hard.
"Ye all right?" Connor asked, concern evident.
"Aye. " Tavish shook his hand out, trying to ease the ache. "Me fault. I was gripping too hard."
"Ye've been fighting fierce today. Something on yer mind?"
Everything. Naething. A woman with storm-grey eyes and a sharp tongue who's turned me world completely upside down.
"Just working through some things," Tavish said instead.
Connor nodded, unconvinced but too polite to press. "Maybe call it fer today. Give that hand a rest before ye dae real damage."
"Aye. Probably wise."
They clasped forearms briefly before Connor headed toward the barracks. Tavish remained in the yard, flexing his hand and watching the other warriors continue their drills. The throbbing had settled into a dull ache that was more annoying than painful.
He'd survived worse. Much worse.
"Tavish MacBain."
The voice came from behind him, sharp with exasperation. He turned to find Maighread striding across the yard, her expression caught between concern and irritation.
"Lass," he said. "What brings ye tae the training yard?"
"Watching ye injure yerself, apparently." She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips. "I saw that last strike. And I saw how ye've been favoring yer hand since."
"It's naething. Just a strain."
"Let me see."
"Maighread—"
"Let. Me. See." She reached for his hand before he could protest further, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Dinnae be stubborn about this."
Tavish sighed but offered his hand. She turned it over, her touch gentle despite her stern tone. Her fingers probed the swollen area carefully, testing for breaks or serious damage.
"Daes this hurt?" She pressed lightly on the muscle.
"A bit."
"And this?"
"Aye."
She made a disapproving sound. "Ye've strained it badly. What were ye thinking, gripping so hard?"
"I wasnae thinking. That's the problem."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Clearly. Come. I'm going tae wrap this before it swells worse."
"Ye dinnae need tae—"
"I ken I dinnae need tae. I'm choosing tae She tugged on his wrist, pulling him toward the castle. "Now stop arguing and come with me."
Tavish followed, aware of the curious looks from the other warriors. Greg caught his eye from across the yard, smirking openly. Tavish ignored him.
Maighread led him through the keep to a small chamber off the main hall. Clearly a healing room of sorts, judging by the shelves lined with bandages and ointments. She gestured to a stool near the window.
"Sit."
He sat.
She moved around the room with practiced efficiency, gathering supplies. Clean linen for bandaging. A pot of salve that smelled faintly of mint. A basin of water.
"This is becoming a habit," Tavish observed. "Ye tending me injuries."
"Then perhaps ye should stop getting injured." She pulled a second stool close, settling in front of him. "Give me yer hand."
He extended his arm. She cradled his hand in both of hers, examining the swelling again with careful attention. Her fingers were warm against his skin, gentle but sure.
"Ye pushed too hard during training," she said, dipping a cloth in the water. "Why?"
"Needed tae work through some restlessness."
"By straining yer sword hand?" She pressed the damp cloth against the swollen muscle, her touch soothing. "That's nae restlessness. That's recklessness."
"Is there a difference?"
"Aye. One is understandable. The other is foolish." She set the cloth aside and reached for the salve. "And ye're too clever tae be foolish, which means something is bothering ye."
Tavish watched as she scooped out a generous amount of ointment, warming it between her palms. The motion was almost hypnotic. Soothing in a way that had nothing to do with the salve itself.
"Maybe I'm nae as clever as ye think," he said.
"Dinnae deflect." She began working the ointment into his hand, her fingers firm but careful. "Tell me what's bothering ye."
How could he explain? That sitting beside her in the solar the night before had felt more intimate than any physical touch?
That teaching her how to test a blade's edge this morning had made him want things he had no right to want yet?
That every moment spent near her without being able to truly touch her was slowly driving him to madness?
"Naething worth discussing," he said instead.
"Liar." But her tone carried no heat. Just quiet certainty. "Ye're thinking too much. About what happened yesterday. About Keir. About all of it."
She wasn't wrong. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
"Aye," he admitted. "Among other things."
"What other things?"
You. Always you.
"Just… the future. What comes after we deal with Keir." He watched her hands move across his skin, strong and sure. "Whether I'm truly prepared tae stay here permanently."
"Are ye having second thoughts?"
"Nay. But that daesnae mean I'm nae questioning whether I'm the right choice fer this clan. Fer ye."
Maighread's hands stilled. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "Ye are the right choice. I wouldnae have claimed ye otherwise."
"Ye claimed me out of desperation."
"I claimed ye because I trusted ye." She returned her attention to his hand, her touch resuming its methodical work. "Even then, even in that moment of panic, some part of me kenned ye were someone I could rely on. And I was right."
The admission settled over him, warm and unexpected. "Ye shouldnae trust me so completely, lass. I'm still the same man who made catastrophic mistakes years ago."
"Nay. Ye're nae." Her fingers pressed into the swollen muscle, working the salve deeper. "Ye're the man who learned from those mistakes. Who carries the memory of them so he willnae repeat them. That makes ye wiser, nae weaker."
"Ye have more faith in me than I deserve."
"I have exactly the amount of faith ye've earned." She reached for the linen bandaging. "Now hold still while I wrap this."
Tavish watched as she wound the cloth around his hand, her movements slow and precise. Each pass of the linen felt deliberate, careful. She took her time, making certain the binding was secure but not too tight.
"Ye ken," he said quietly, "I'm starting tae think injuring meself might be worth it if it means ye will put yer hands on me this way."
Her fingers paused mid-wrap. She didn't look away from his hand, but he saw the flush creep up her neck.
"That's a dangerous line of thinking," she murmured.
"Is it?"
"Aye. Because if ye start hurting yerself deliberately, I'll have tae stop tending ye. And then where will we be?"
"With me injured and too stubborn tae seek help from anyone else?"
"Exactly." She finished the bandaging, tying it off with a neat knot. But her hands remained on his, cradling his wrapped palm between hers. "So perhaps dinnae go looking fer injuries just tae get me attention."
"What if I want yer attention?"
"Then ask fer it. Properly." She met his eyes finally, her expression open. Honest. "Ye dinnae need tae bleed fer me tae notice ye, Tavish."
The words hit him harder than any training blow. He turned his hand over in hers, his fingers brushing her wrist. "I'll remember that."
"See that ye dae." But she didn't pull away. Didn't break the contact between them.
They sat there for a long moment, hands touching, eyes locked. The healing room felt smaller suddenly. More intimate. As though the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only her fingers against his wrist, his thumb stroking the delicate bones of her hand.
"Maighread," he said softly. "I need ye tae ken something."
"What?"
"I listen tae ye more than anyone else. More than me braither, more than me closest friends. When ye speak, I hear ye. When ye advise me, I follow. That's… that's never happened before."
Her breath caught. "Tavish—"
"I'm nae finished." He shifted his grip, his fingers lacing with hers.
"Ye asked me if I had second thoughts about staying.
The truth is, I cannae imagine leaving now.
Cannae imagine a future where I'm nae beside ye, listening tae yer sharp observations and following yer lead on things I dinnae fully understand. "
"That sounds suspiciously close tae a declaration."
"Maybe it is."
Maighread's eyes searched his face, looking for something. Certainty, perhaps. Or truth.
Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her, because she squeezed his hand once before releasing it and standing.