Page 2 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

Heavy footsteps pounded behind her as she scrambled over the uneven ground. Her lungs burned, and the stays of her traveling gown constrained her breathing, but she pushed harder. If she could reach the cluster of standing stones ahead, perhaps she could lose them in the maze of ancient granite.

“Stop running, you Highland witch!”

A crossbow bolt whistled past her ear, so close she felt the fletching brush her auburn hair. She stumbled, catching herself against a moss-covered boulder, but kept moving.

Almost there. Just a few more yards to the stones⁠—

The flat of a sword blade cracked against her shoulder blades, sending fire racing down her spine. She hit the rocky ground hard, sharp stones tearing at her palms as she tried to catch herself.

“Got her!”

Rough hands seized her arms, hauling her upright despite her struggles. Her captors were professional soldiers—their mail was well-maintained, their movements disciplined. Not bandits or raiders, but men following orders.

“Let me go!” She twisted in their grip, managing to rake her nails across one man’s face before he backhanded her hard enough to make her ears ring.

“Hold still, or you’ll get worse than that,” he snarled, blood trickling down his cheek.

They bound her wrists with rough rope that bit into her skin, then one of them tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The indignity of it made her fury burn hotter than her fear.

“Take me back tae the carriage this instant! Me faither will hear of this—he’ll have yer heads fer touching a MacKenzie!”

The soldier carrying her only laughed.

They carried her back toward the path where the sounds of fighting had finally ceased. Her heart clenched as she saw the still forms of her father’s guards scattered across the ground, their blood dark against the stones. Good men, loyal to Clan MacKenzie, dead because of her.

But as they passed the priory gates, she caught a glimpse of a small figure disappearing safely inside the ancient walls. Kirstin had made it. At least one life had been saved that night.

A tall figure separated himself from the shadows near the overturned carriage—a man whose bearing spoke of command and whose dark cloak marked him as their leader. Even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the calculating coldness in his blue eyes as they fixed on her.

“Sir Geoffrey Arundel,” the soldier announced, dropping Moyra unceremoniously to her feet though keeping a firm grip on her bound arms. “The MacKenzie girl, as ordered.”

Sir Geoffrey stepped closer, and Moyra lifted her chin defiantly despite her precarious position. She would not cower before English dogs, no matter what they intended.

“Lady Moyra MacKenzie.” His voice carried the cultured tones of English nobility, but there was steel beneath the silk. “You’ve led us quite a chase.”

“Me faither will come fer me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, clinging to the hope that he’d sent her away for protection, not abandonment. “He’ll pay whatever ransom ye demand.”

Something that might have been sympathy flickered across the commander’s features before disappearing behind professional indifference.

The blindfold they forced over her eyes made every sensation sharper—the smell of leather and steel, the rough texture of the horse’s mane beneath her bound hands, the cold night air cutting through her torn cloak.

They’d rode for what felt like hours, moving steadily inland from the coast.

“Where are we going?” Moyra demanded, her voice cutting through the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.

“Somewhere you’ll cause no more trouble,” came Sir Geoffrey’s familiar response from somewhere to her left.

“That tells me naething, ye English dog. At least have the courtesy tae inform a lady of her destination before ye drag her off tae whatever dungeon ye have planned.”

His low chuckle held no warmth. “Patience, my lady. All will be revealed soon enough.”