Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, turning the corridor into stripes of gold and shadow. Maighread had just left the accounts room, her mind full of grain stores and winter preparations, when three figures materialized from a side passage.
Council members. Malcolm, Dougal, and Ewan. All men who'd served her father for decades, their loyalty to the clan unquestionable. Their loyalty to her, however, remained conditional.
She stopped, straightening her spine. "Gentlemen. Was there something ye needed?"
Malcolm stepped forward, his weathered face carefully neutral. "A word, if ye would, Lady Maighread. Privately."
The corridor was already private, empty of servants or guards. But she understood the request. They wanted no interruptions, no witnesses to whatever conversation they'd planned. So they moved to a chamber nearby.
"Of course." She folded her hands in front of her, projecting calm she didn't entirely feel. "Speak freely."
The three men exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them before Dougal cleared his throat.
"We've been discussing the situation with young MacBain," he began. "His continued presence here. The betrothal ye've claimed."
"What about it?"
"We have concerns," Ewan said bluntly. "About the wisdom of binding yerself tae a man ye barely ken. About the influence he's gaining within the household. About whether this match truly serves the clan's interests."
Maighread felt heat prickle along her spine.
"Tavish MacBain has proven himself repeatedly since arriving at MacEwan lands.
He's protected me from Keir's schemes, helped secure the loyalty of border villages, and fought alongside our men when we were attacked.
What more proof of his value dae ye require? "
"We dinnae question his usefulness in the immediate crisis," Malcolm said carefully. "But binding yerself tae him permanently is another matter entirely. There are other matches we could pursue. Alliances that would bring more significant military support or political advantage."
"Ye mean matches with men who'd expect to absorb MacEwan lands intae their own holdings." Maighread's voice turned sharp. "Men who'd see me as a convenient path tae expansion rather than a partner."
"Nae all potential matches would require such sacrifice," Dougal countered. "There are honorable men who'd respect yer position as heir."
"Name one."
Silence.
"Exactly." Maighread crossed her arms. "Every name ye've suggested in the past year has been someone looking to expand their territory or influence. Men who'd see marrying me as acquiring property, nae gaining a wife."
"And MacBain is different?" Ewan's tone carried skepticism. "What makes ye so certain his motives are pure?"
"His actions." The answer came swift and certain.
"He's had multiple opportunities to exploit this situation for personal gain.
He could've demanded political concessions in exchange fer his protection.
Could've leveraged the betrothal tae secure advantages fer his own clan. He's done none of those things."
"Aye," Malcolm said quietly. "He's done none of those things yet. But once the marriage is legitimate, once ye're bound by law and church, what prevents him from changing course?"
"His honor. His character." Maighread met each man's eyes in turn. "I've seen him fight. Watched how he treats those beneath his station. Observed how he speaks tae me, with respect. That tells me far more about his intentions than any political calculation could."
"Respect is admirable," Dougal said. "But it daesnae guarantee he'll put MacEwan interests above his own clan's needs when conflicts arise."
"He already has. When he chose to stay after the first attack instead of returning to MacBain lands.
When he wrote to his brother requesting support without demanding anything in return.
" Maighread's hands tightened on her arms. "Tavish MacBain has proven his loyalty to me and to this clan repeatedly.
I willnae entertain suggestions that he's somehow unworthy or untrustworthy simply because he daesnae bring a massive dowry or political alliance. "
The three men exchanged another round of meaningful looks. Malcolm's expression had shifted from neutral to something almost resigned.
"We're nae questioning MacBain's competence," he said finally.
"Nor his actions thus far. But Lady Maighread, ye must understand our position.
Yer faither is failing. The clan needs certainty about succession, about leadership.
A marriage based on… sudden attachment rather than careful political consideration gives us pause. "
"Sudden attachment?" Maighread's eyebrows rose. "Is that what ye think this is?"
"Isnae it?" Ewan's tone gentled slightly.
"Lass, we've kenned ye since ye were a bairn.
We've watched ye grow intae a sharp, pragmatic leader.
Ye've never been one tae act on impulse or emotion.
Yet here ye are, defending a match ye claimed in desperation on a roadside, insisting it's the right choice despite all political logic suggesting otherwise. "
"Political logic would see me married tae Keir Sinclair or someone equally intent on erasing MacEwan independence," Maighread shot back. "Fergive me if I prefer a man who actually values what I bring beyond me lands."
"We understand that," Malcolm said. "We dae. But from where we stand, this looks less similar tae political strategy and more similar tae… He trailed off, seeming to search for the right word.
"Affection," Dougal finished. "It appears tae be a match based on affection rather than politics. And while that's… positive… in normal circumstances, these are nae normal times. We need cold calculation, nae warm feelings."
Maighread felt heat flood her cheeks, anger and embarrassment warring in her chest.
"Me feelings or lack thereof are irrelevant," she said, her voice tight. "What matters is that Tavish MacBain is the best choice fer this clan's future. He's proven himself capable, loyal, and trustworthy. If ye cannae see that, perhaps the failing lies with yer judgment, nae mine."
Malcolm raised his hands in a placating gesture. "We meant nay disrespect, Lady Maighread. We simply wanted tae ensure ye'd considered all angles before committing tae this path."
"I have considered them. Thoroughly." She met each man's gaze again, willing them to see her certainty. "Tavish stays. The betrothal stands. And I'll thank ye tae stop questioning me decisions on this matter."
Another exchange of glances. Then Dougal nodded slowly.
"It's clear ye willnae be swayed," he said. "We'll trouble ye nay further on the subject."
"Good." Maighread kept her voice level despite the fury still simmering beneath her skin. "Was there anything else?"
"Nay, m'lady." Malcolm inclined his head. "We'll leave ye tae yer afternoon."
The three men retreated down the corridor, their voices dropping to murmurs she couldn't quite catch. Maighread remained frozen in place, watching until they disappeared around the corner.
Only then did she let her shoulders sag.
A match based on affection rather than politics.
The words echoed in her mind. The Council had seen what she'd been trying not to acknowledge—her feelings. She thought of Tavish's hands over hers that morning, teaching her about blade edges. The warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. The certainty in his voice when he'd said he was staying.
She didn't want to be apart from him. Not for propriety, not for strategy, not for any reason the Council might devise. The thought of him leaving, of those steady hands and that quiet strength disappearing from her daily life, made her chest ache in ways that had nothing to do with politics.
The accounts room appeared ahead, its door standing open. Maighread straightened her spine and stepped inside, settling at the desk with practiced ease. The senior steward glanced up, noting her arrival.
"All well, m'lady?"
"Aye." The lie came smooth. "Just a brief delay. Shall we continue with the grain stores?"
The council men had meant it as criticism.
But sitting there reviewing numbers and making calculations, Maighread found herself hoping they were right. That the looks she and Tavish exchanged, the careful touches, the quiet admissions meant what she desperately wanted them to mean.
That this betrothal born of lies had somehow, impossibly, become the truest thing in her life.
The afternoon wore on. The work continued. And through it all, Maighread carried that hope tucked close to her heart, precious and terrifying and entirely beyond her control.
Which was perhaps the most frightening part of all.
She'd spent her entire life maintaining control. Over her emotions, her decisions, her future. But that… that feeling that had grown despite her best efforts to remain detached… it refused to be controlled or managed or strategized away.
It simply was.
And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Maighread found herself willing to let go. To trust that sometimes the heart knew things the head couldn't calculate.
That sometimes affection was a stronger foundation than politics.
That sometimes the best choice wasn't the most logical one, but the one that made you feel most alive.