Page 108 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

Then, from somewhere in the MacKenzie ranks, a warrior dropped his sword. The clatter of steel on stone seemed to break the spell. Another weapon fell. Then another. Within moments, the entire MacKenzie force was throwing down arms, their fight draining away with their laird’s last breath.

“It’s over,” Calum said quietly. “The battle’s over.”

Euan swayed, his sword suddenly too heavy to hold. It slipped from his fingers, clattering to the stones beside Keith’s corpse. He took one step toward Moyra, then another, his movements unsteady.

“Euan?” Her voice seemed to come from very far away.

He tried to answer, tried to tell her he was fine, that the wound in his side was nothing, that he just needed a moment to catch his breath. But his legs wouldn’t support him anymore. The courtyard tilted sideways, stone rushing up to meet him.

Strong hands caught him before he hit the ground. Moyra’s face appeared above his, her eyes wide with terror, her hands pressing against his side where blood poured far too quickly.

“Nay, nay, nay—” Her voice cracked. “Euan, stay with me! Dinnae ye dare⁠—”

“I’m fine,” he managed, though speaking took more effort than it should. “Just tired. So bloody tired.”

“Brighde!” Moyra’s scream echoed off stone walls. “Someone get Brighde! Now!”

Footsteps pounded. Voices rose in urgent discussion. But Euan couldn’t focus on any of it. His vision had narrowed to Moyra’s face—copper hair falling around her like a curtain, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands so warm against his skin despite the cold creeping through his limbs.

“I killed him,” he said, or tried to say. The words came out slurred. “Yer faither. I killed yer faither fer ye.”

“I ken.” She pressed harder against his side, trying to stem bleeding that wouldn’t stop. “I ken ye did. Now stay with me. Please, Euan. I just found ye. I cannae lose ye now.”

He wanted to promise. Wanted to tell her he wasn’t going anywhere, that they’d survived the invasion and would survive this too. But exhaustion crashed over him like a wave, pulling him under despite his best efforts to stay afloat.

“Love ye,” he managed. “Should’ve said it more. Should’ve⁠—”

Darkness claimed him.

Moyra’s hands were covered in blood—Euan’s blood, her father’s blood, so much blood she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Move!” Brighde appeared with her healer’s bag, her weathered face grim. “Let me see him!”

Moyra didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want to stop pressing against that terrible wound in his side, as if her hands alone could keep him alive through sheer determination. But Brighde’s firm grip pried her away, and then the healer was working—tearing fabric, pouring something that made Euan’s unconscious body jerk, packing the wound with clean linen that immediately soaked through with red.

“How bad?” Calum asked quietly from behind Moyra. His eyes tracked every movement of Brighde’s hands.

“Bad enough.” The healer didn’t look up from her work. “The blade missed vital organs, but he’s lost a lot of blood. And that shoulder wound from years ago—it’s torn open again. He’s going tae be in agony when he wakes.”

“When he wakes,” Moyra repeated, latching onto those words. “Ye said when, nae if.”

“Aye.” Brighde finally looked at her, and Moyra saw both concern and determination in her eyes. “He’s strong. Stubborn as Highland granite. He’ll wake. But he needs rest, proper care, and time tae heal. Can ye give him that?”

“Anything.” Moyra’s voice came out fierce. “Whatever he needs. Whatever it takes.”

“Then help me get him tae bed.” Brighde gestured to Archibald. “Carefully now. We dinnae want tae start the bleeding again.”

The massive warrior lifted Euan as if he weighed nothing, cradling him with surprising gentleness as they navigated through the courtyard. Around them, MacLeod warriors were securing surrendered MacKenzie forces, tending to their own wounded, beginning the grim work of clearing bodies from the stones.

But Moyra saw none of it. Her entire focus had narrowed to Euan’s pale face, to the shallow rise and fall of his chest that said he was still breathing, still fighting, still refusing to give up even while unconscious.

They laid him in their bed—the same bed where they’d made love that morning, where he’d held her while she read fairy tales, where they’d built something real and precious between stolen moments and whispered promises. Now it was stained with his blood, and Moyra’s hands shook as she helped Brighde strip away ruined armor and clothing.

The wound in his side looked even worse exposed—a ragged tear that had cut deep, that would scar badly if he survived. And his shoulder—saints, his shoulder looked like someone had taken a knife to the old injury, reopening wounds that had barely healed after twenty years.

“Will he be all right?” Moyra asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“Eventually.” Brighde’s hands worked, cleaning and stitching, packing and bandaging. “But he’ll be weak fer weeks. And that shoulder—he may never regain full mobility. The damage goes too deep.”