Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The dust cloud appeared on the horizon just past midday, and Tavish felt something loosen in his chest. His men. Finally.
He stood in the courtyard beside Maighread, watching the riders approach. Her hand brushed his arm once, steadying, before she stepped back into proper distance. The touch left heat behind.
"How many did ye send fer?" she asked quietly.
"Fifty. Maybe more if Greg brought extra."
"That's a considerable force."
Tavish glanced at her. "Keir willnae stop unless we make him."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. They'd spoken of this already, in the dark hours before dawn when neither could sleep. The threat hung over them like a blade suspended by fraying rope.
The riders crested the hill, and relief flooded through Tavish. His oldest friend was back after going to fetch men from his land. The man who'd stood beside him through every stupid decision and reckless fight. The man who knew exactly how badly Tavish had fucked up years ago, and stayed anyway.
Greg dismounted before his horse fully stopped, striding forward with that familiar grin splitting his scarred face. "Christ, ye look like shite."
Tavish clasped his forearm hard. "Missed ye too, ye bastard."
"Heard ye got yersel' intae trouble again." Greg's grip tightened. "When dae ye ever learn?"
"Never. Keeps life interesting."
Greg laughed, then his gaze slid past Tavish to Maighread and smiled.
"How was the ride?" Maighread asked.
"Long. But we made good time." Greg glanced back at the assembled men. "Brought sixty instead of fifty. Figured ye might need the extra swords."
"We dae," Tavish said before Maighread could respond. He moved half a step closer to her. "Sinclair's been escalating. Ambushes on the road, hired mercenaries, threats."
Greg's expression darkened. "That bad?"
"Worse."
Maighread cleared her throat softly. "We're grateful fer yer arrival. All of ye." She raised her voice slightly, addressing the assembled soldiers. "MacEwan Castle welcomes ye. There's food and drink waiting, and quarters have been prepared. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow we plan."
The men murmured appreciation. Tavish felt a flicker of pride at how easily she commanded their attention, how naturally authority settled on her shoulders.
"Get them settled," Tavish told Greg. "We'll gather in the hall tonight. Formal welcome."
Greg nodded, but his gaze stayed on Tavish for a beat too long. Reading him. Always reading him.
The soldiers filed into the courtyard, dismounting and leading horses toward the stables.
Tavish issued brief instructions about quarters and meal times, his voice falling into the familiar cadence of command.
It felt strange, giving orders in someone else's keep.
Like wearing a cloak that didn't quite fit.
Maighread stood beside him throughout, silent but present. When he finished, she added her own words about castle rules and respect for her people. The men listened, nodding.
As the group dispersed, Greg lingered. He watched Tavish watch Maighread walk away across the stones, her braid swinging against her spine.
When she disappeared through the doors, Greg turned back with that knowing smirk Tavish had seen a thousand times.
"So," Greg said. “From where I've been standing, it looks like things have become considerably more personal since I left."
Tavish opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.
"That's what I thought." Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Show me tae me room.”
The Great Hall filled quickly that evening. Torches blazed along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the assembled crowd. MacBain soldiers mingled with MacEwan clan members, the initial wariness giving way to cautious conversation as ale flowed.
Tavish sat at the High Table beside Maighread, hyperaware of every inch of space between them. She'd changed into a deep green gown that made her eyes look like storm clouds, and her hair fell loose over one shoulder. He wanted to bury his hands in it.
Instead, he reached for his cup and drank.
Greg sat across from them, relaxed and grinning. He'd cleaned up, trading road-stained leather for a fresh tunic.
"Tell me, me lady," Greg said, leaning forward with easy charm. "Ye agreed tae marry this fool. Bold choice."
"Someone has tae keep him from getting himself killed."
"A full-time occupation, that."
Tavish scowled. "I'm sitting right here."
"We ken," Greg said, not looking at him. His attention stayed fixed on Maighread. "So tell me, what exactly won ye over? The charm? The wit?"
"Och, definitely the charm," Maighread said, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He's absolutely overflowing with it."
Greg barked a laugh. "I like her."
"Wonderful," Tavish muttered.
A servant appeared with platters of roasted meat and bread. Greg reached for a piece, still watching Maighread with open curiosity.
"Ye've a good head on yer shoulders, me lady. That's clear enough." He bit into the bread. "But I have tae ask—what made ye certain? About him, I mean."
Maighread glanced at Tavish, something soft flickering in her expression before she looked back at Greg. "He's honorable. And brave. Those qualities are rarer than ye'd think."
"That they are." Greg's voice turned serious. "He's also loyal tae a fault. Once he commits, he daesnae waver."
"I've noticed."
Tavish's hand found the back of Maighread's chair, fingers curling around the carved wood. Greg's eyes tracked the movement, his smirk returning.
"And ye, me lady?" Greg continued. "What should Tavish ken about ye that he might nae have discovered yet?"
"That I dinnae suffer fools," Maighread said smoothly. "And I protect what's mine."
The words landed between them, quiet but absolute. Tavish felt heat crawl up his neck.
Greg raised his cup slightly. "A perfect match, then."
Before anyone could respond, a young servant approached the table, bowing quickly. "Me lady, forgive the interruption. The steward needs tae speak with ye about tomorrow's supplies."
Maighread sighed. "Of course he daes." She rose gracefully. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I'll return shortly."
Tavish started to stand, but she placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down. "Stay. Finish yer meal."
He watched her leave, tracking her movement through the crowd until she disappeared through a side door. When he turned back, Greg was studying him with unsettling focus.
"What?" Tavish demanded.
Greg said nothing for a long moment. Then he leaned back, crossing his arms. "Ye're going tae marry her."
"Aye. That's the plan."
"Nay, I mean ye're really going tae marry her. This isnae just politics or protection anymore, is it?"
Tavish's jaw tightened. "She's tae be me wife."
"That's nae what I asked."
The hall buzzed with conversation around them, but their corner felt suddenly isolated. Tavish met Greg's gaze and saw understanding there. Too much understanding.
"I willnae let Sinclair have her," Tavish said quietly. "I willnae let anyone hurt her. She's mine tae protect, and I'll die before I fail her."
Greg's expression shifted. The teasing fell away completely, replaced by something gentler. "Ye love her."
It wasn't a question.
Tavish said nothing. His throat had gone tight, words sticking there like burrs.
Greg's mouth curved into a small, genuine smile. He reached for his cup and raised it slightly. "I'm glad."
"What?"
"I'm glad ye've found someone. Glad it's her." Greg drank, then set the cup down carefully. "Ye deserve this, friend. Ye deserve tae be happy."
"I dinnae—"
"Aye, ye dae. I ken ye dinnae believe it, but ye dae.
" Greg's voice went rough. "I've watched ye carry guilt that would break most men, ever since that border incident years back.
And now I'm watching ye with her, and fer the first time since I've kenned ye, ye look…
like ye believe ye might deserve happiness. "
Tavish stared at his hands. "I still havenae said the actual words tae her."
Silence stretched between them. Then Greg leaned forward, his tone shifting into something more urgent.
"Then tell her."
"I cannae—"
"Why the hell nae?"
"Because..." Tavish exhaled harshly. "Because once I say it, it's real. And if it's real, I can lose it. I can ruin it the way I ruin everything I—"
"Stop." Greg's voice cut through the spiral. "Dinnae waste time being afraid. Life's too short, and that bastard Sinclair's too close. If ye love her, tell her. Make sure she kens before something happens and ye never get the chance."
Tavish's chest ached. "What if she daesnae—"
"She daes."
"Ye cannae be sure."
"I've watched ye both. Trust me. She daes." Greg's expression softened. "But she needs tae hear it from ye. Dinnae wait. Dinnae assume she kens. Tell her."
Tavish nodded slowly, the tightness in his throat easing slightly. "Aye. I will."
Greg studied him for another moment, then nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now drink yer ale before it gets warm and try nae tae look like someone punched ye in the gut when she comes back."
Tavish reached for his cup, Greg's words settling into his bones.