Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tavish stood on the battlements, inspecting the defenses with methodical care. The morning sun warmed his back as he and Greg moved along the stone walls, checking sight lines and structural integrity. There was no immediate threat, but a good laird maintained his fortifications regardless.
"The eastern wall looks solid," Greg observed, running his hand along the coping stones.
"Aye." Tavish pointed toward the approach below. "The terrain there is defensible if we ever needed it. Narrow passage, high ground on both sides."
"Good strategic advantage."
"It is." Tavish continued walking, his gaze sweeping across MacEwan lands stretching toward the horizon. Green hills, forests, the distant shimmer of a loch. Beautiful country. His wife's. The thought still sent something warm through his chest.
They moved along the battlements without urgency, stopping occasionally to assess maintenance work or discuss minor improvements. Tavish had learned long before that attention to detail kept a castle secure. Small cracks could become large problems if left unattended.
"How daes it feel?" Greg asked as they reached the northern tower. "Being married?"
"Right." Tavish leaned against the wall, considering the question seriously.
"She's good fer ye."
"She's everything."
They descended the stairs and continued their inspection at ground level, checking the gates and storage facilities.
Nothing urgent demanded attention, everything was in good order.
The castle ran smoothly, the people worked efficiently.
It was a solid holding, and Maighread had maintained it well during her father's illness.
When they finally finished their rounds, the sun had climbed higher. Tavish felt satisfied with what he'd seen. All was well.
As they rounded the northern tower, Tavish's gaze drifted down to the gardens below. Movement caught his attention. Maighread stood among the hedges, wrapped in a dark cloak, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was looking up at the walls, searching.
Their eyes met across the distance.
Everything else fell away. The preparations, the coming battle, Greg's presence beside him.
For one perfect moment, there was only her.
Standing in the garden looking up at him, the morning light catching in her hair, his wife, his future, his entire world contained in one fierce, stubborn, beautiful woman.
She smiled. Small and private, just for him.
Tavish felt it like a physical touch.
"Go," Greg said quietly.
"What?"
"Go tae her. I can finish here."
"We need tae coordinate the—"
"And we will. In an hour. Right now, yer wife is standing in the garden waiting fer ye, and ye look like a man being tortured." Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Go. Spend time with her before everything goes tae hell. That's an order from yer oldest friend."
Tavish didn't need to be told twice. He clasped Greg's arm briefly in thanks, then headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The descent from the battlements to the courtyard felt impossibly long. When he finally reached ground level, he strode toward the gardens with single-minded focus.
Maighread waited near the entrance, her expression shifting from patient to delighted as he approached.
"Finished already?" she asked.
"Nay Taking a break." He caught her hand, threading their fingers together. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Somewhere quiet. Away from all this chaos."
He led her deeper into the gardens, away from the bustle of preparations visible through the hedges.
The paths wound between carefully tended beds, now mostly dormant in the late season.
Stone benches sat at intervals, moss-covered and ancient.
Tavish had explored those gardens during his time at the castle, searching for places where he could think without interruption.
Now he had a different purpose.
They walked in silence for several minutes, just holding hands, both aware they were stealing moments that might be their last peaceful ones for days.
Tavish stopped beneath an arbor covered in dormant vines. In spring, this would be lush and green. Now it was skeletal but still beautiful, the twisted wood forming intricate patterns against the sky.
He turned to face Maighread, taking both her hands in his.
"There's something I need tae give ye," he said.
Her eyebrows rose. "What?"
Tavish released one of her hands and reached into the leather satchel slung across his shoulder. His fingers found the small, wrapped package he'd been carrying since Greg arrived. He'd asked his friend to bring it, knowing he'd need it.
He pulled it out and held it toward her. "This."
Maighread took the package carefully, her expression curious. "What is it?"
"Open it and see."
She unwrapped the cloth slowly, revealing a pendant on a delicate silver chain. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the silver worked into intricate Celtic knots that caught the light. At the center sat a small green stone, the exact color of spring grass.
Maighread's eyes widened. "Tavish, this is beautiful."
"It was me maither's." He watched her face, cataloging every shift in expression. "She wore it every day until she died. Me faither gave it tae her on their wedding day."
"I cannae accept this."
"Ye can. Ye will." He took it from her gently, lifting it from her palm. "
"But yer sister and braither—"
"Have their own pieces." He moved behind her, gathering her hair and draping it over one shoulder. "May I?"
She nodded, speechless.
Tavish fastened the chain around her neck, his fingers brushing the soft skin at her nape. The pendant settled perfectly against her collarbone, the green stone bright against the dark fabric of her cloak. He stepped back around to face her, studying the effect.
"Perfect," he murmured. "It suits ye."
Maighread touched the pendant, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced the intricate metalwork. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Second most beautiful. Ye're wearing it."
She laughed, the sound catching. "Flatterer."
"Truth-teller." He covered her hand with his, both touching the pendant together. "I wanted ye tae have something of me family. Something that connects ye tae them, tae our history. Yer nae just Maighread MacEwan anymore. Ye're Maighread MacBain, and this is part of what that means."
Tears shimmered in her eyes. "I dinnae ken what tae say."
"Say ye'll wear it. Say ye'll remember that ye're mine and I'm yers, nay matter what happens in the coming days."
"I'll wear it always." She rose on her toes and kissed him softly. "Thank ye. Fer loving me."
"Easiest thing I've ever done."
She smiled against his mouth. "Liar. I'm difficult and stubborn and willful."
"Aye. And I wouldnae change a single thing about ye."
They kissed again, deeper this time, both aware of how precious these moments were. Tavish pulled her closer, one hand cupping the back of her head while the other splayed across her lower back. She melted against him, fitting perfectly like she was made for exactly this position.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Maighread rested her forehead against his chest.
"How much longer dae we have?" she whispered.
"Before Sinclair arrives? Probably less than a day."
"I meant before ye have tae go back tae the preparations."
"Oh." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "A few more minutes. Greg's handling things."
"Good. I want a few more minutes of just this. Just us."
"Ye have them. Take all the time ye need."
They stood together beneath the arbor, holding each other, the pendant cool between them where it pressed against both their chests. Birds called from the trees. Wind rustled through dead leaves. The world continued around them, indifferent to their stolen moment of peace.
Tavish breathed in the scent of her hair, committing it to memory. Heather and something uniquely Maighread, sweet and grounding. His wife. His partner. The woman he'd fight and kill and die for without hesitation.
"I love ye," he said quietly. "Whatever happens, ken that. I love ye more than I thought it was possible tae love anyone."
"I feel the same." Her arms tightened around him. "We're going tae survive this. Both of us. Taegether."
"Aye. We will."
"Promise me."
"I promise." He meant it with every fiber of his being. Failure wasn't an option. Losing her wasn't an option. They would win because any other outcome was unthinkable.
Maighread lifted her head, opening her mouth to say something. Then her expression changed. Her eyes focused on something past his shoulder, widening with alarm.
"Tavish—"
He spun, instincts screaming danger even before his conscious mind processed what was wrong. Movement in the hedges.