Page 27 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The garden offered everything Norham’s dungeon had stolen—sunshine warming her shoulders, clean air filling her lungs, the simple pleasure of earth beneath her fingers instead of cold stone. Moyra sat on a low bench beside Catriona, weaving stems of white clover into chains while the maid chattered about castle gossip.

“And then Cook said tae him, ‘If ye think I’m serving that tae the laird, ye’ve lost yer wits’—”

“Me lady?” A guard’s voice interrupted Catriona’s story. Moyra looked up to find one of Euan’s men approaching, his weathered face neutral. “The laird requests yer presence in his office.”

Her pulse stuttered. “Now?”

“Aye, me lady. If ye’d follow me?”

Moyra stood, brushing flower petals from her skirts. Beside her, Catriona’s expression had gone worried. “Should I come with ye?”

“Nay.” Though part of her wanted it. “I’ll be fine.”

The walk through Dunvegan’s corridors felt endless. With each step, her mind raced through possibilities. Word from her father? A decision about her fate? Or perhaps just more questions about her imprisonment, her knowledge of Keith MacKenzie’s plans?

The guard stopped outside Euan’s office door, knocking twice before pushing it open. “Lady Moyra, me laird.”

Euan stood behind his desk, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the window. He didn’t turn when she entered, and something about the rigid set of his spine made unease coil through her stomach.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

The guard obeyed, leaving them alone in heavy silence.

Moyra moved closer, studying what she could see of Euan’s profile. The scar that traced his face seemed more pronounced today, and tension radiated from him in waves that raised every instinct she had for self-preservation.

“Ye wanted tae see me?”

“Sit.” He gestured toward the chair across from his desk without looking at her.

The coldness in his voice—so different from the man who’d shared whisky and oatcakes under the stars—made her throat tight. But she sat, folding her hands in her lap to hide how they trembled.

Finally, Euan turned. Those eyes that had looked at her with such warmth just a few nights before were shuttered, empty of everything except grim determination. He moved around the desk but didn’t sit, instead leaning against it with arms crossed over his massive chest.

“We received word from yer faither.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Moyra’s breath caught, hope and dread warring in her chest. “And?”

“He’s refused our offer.” Euan’s voice remained carefully neutral. “He has nay interest in negotiating fer yer return.”

The room tilted. Moyra gripped the chair’s arms, trying to process what she’d just heard. “That’s nae possible. He wouldnae⁠—”

“I’m sorry, lass.”

“Ye’re lying.” She stood abruptly, her voice rising. “Me faither sent me away fer protection. He told me the priory would keep me safe. He wouldnae just abandon⁠—”

“Moyra—”

“Nay!” The word came out sharp as broken glass. “I dinnae believe ye. This is some trick, some strategy tae make me compliant⁠—”

“It’s nay trick.” Euan straightened, and the movement reminded her just how large he was, how easily he could overpower her if he chose. But his eyes held only weary sadness. “I wish it were.”

“Then ye’re mistaken. Ye misread his letter, or⁠—”

“I read it perfectly clearly.” His jaw clenched. “Keith MacKenzie has made his position abundantly clear. He considers ye a complication he’s better off without.”

“Liar!” She advanced on him, fury burning through the shock. “Me faither loves me. He sent me away tae protect me from his enemies, from men like ye who would use me as leverage⁠—”