Page 100 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The library fire had burned down to embers by the time Moyra found him.

Euan sat hunched over the oak table, maps spread across every available surface, shadows carving harsh lines into his scarred face. Three candles guttered in their holders, wax pooling onto the wood. His shoulders carried the weight of six hundred approaching warriors, and from the rigid set of his spine, he’d been sitting there for hours.

Moyra paused in the doorway, studying him. Dark hair falling across his forehead. Jaw clenched tight enough to ache. One scarred hand braced against the table while the other traced invasion routes with precision. He looked exhausted. Magnificent. Utterly incapable of stopping long enough to breathe.

Her husband, the brooding hedgehog.

“Ye’re going tae go blind staring at those maps in candlelight,” she said quietly.

His head snapped up, grey eyes finding hers in the dimness. “Moyra. What are ye—it’s past midnight. Ye should be sleeping.”

“So should ye.” She crossed to him, the worn book she’d discovered in the castle’s depths tucked under her arm. “But apparently neither of us follows sensible advice.”

“I’m working.” He gestured at the scattered papers. “The western approach needs reinforcement, and if Keith splits his forces here and here⁠—”

“Keith can wait until morning.” She settled into the chair beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Right now, ye’re going tae stop strategizing and listen tae me read.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Read?”

“Aye. Read.” She opened the book, its leather binding soft with age. “I found this in the archives earlier. Highland legends—the old tales about clever heroines and impossible quests. The kind of stories yer maither probably read tae ye when ye were a lad.”

“Moyra, I appreciate the thought, but I really need tae⁠—”

“Hush.” She found her place, ignoring his protest. “Ye’ve been staring at invasion routes fer hours. Yer eyes are bloodshot, yer shoulders are tense enough tae shatter, and if I’m nae mistaken, ye’ve forgotten tae eat again.” She leveled him with a look. “So ye’re going tae sit there, rest yer brain fer ten minutes, and let me read tae ye. Understood?”

For a moment, she thought he might argue. His jaw worked, that stubborn pride warring against obvious exhaustion. Then slowly—reluctantly—he leaned back in his chair.

“Ten minutes,” he conceded. “Then I need tae finish⁠—”

“Aye, aye. Ten minutes.” Though she had absolutely no intention of stopping after ten.

She began reading, her voice soft in the library’s quiet. The tale was familiar—a Highland lass who outwitted a selkie king, claiming her freedom through cleverness rather than force. Moyra had always loved those stories as a child, back when her mother still lived and the world seemed full of possibility rather than threat.

Beside her, Euan remained rigid for perhaps two pages. Then gradually his shoulders began to relax. The tension drained from his jaw. His breathing deepened, evening out into something that almost resembled peace.

“The selkie king sounds like an idiot,” he observed when she paused to turn the page. “Any man who makes a bargain without reading the terms deserves whatever he gets.”

“He was arrogant.” Moyra smiled. “Assumed a mortal woman couldnae possibly outwit him.”

“Fatal mistake.” Euan shifted, angling himself to see the book better. “What happens next?”

“Patience.” She continued reading, watching him from the corner of her eye.

His expression had softened—the harsh lines smoothing. When she reached the part where the heroine tricked the selkie into releasing her sisters, Euan actually smiled. Not the grim curve she’d grown accustomed to, but the genuine and warm smile that made her chest ache.

“Clever,” he murmured. “Using his own pride against him.”

“The best heroines always are.” She turned another page. “Strength isnae always about swords and battles. Sometimes it’s about knowing when tae fight and when tae think.”

“Is that why ye married me? Clever strategy rather than affection?”

Moyra’s hands stilled on the book. She looked at him properly—really looked—and saw vulnerability beneath the casual tone. He genuinely wanted to know. Genuinely worried that everything between them was just tactical maneuvering.

“I married ye because I wanted tae,” she said simply. “The strategy was convenient, aye. But if I hadnae wanted ye—if I hadnae felt something real between us—I’d have found another way.” She touched his face tenderly. “Ye’re nae just a strategic alliance, Euan MacLeod. Ye’re me husband. There’s a difference.”

His hand covered hers, pressing it against his face. “Good. Because I’m fairly certain I’m in love with ye, and it would be damn inconvenient if the feeling wasnae mutual.”