Page 30 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TWELVE

The second letter arrived with the dawn, and Euan knew it would be trouble before he’d even broken the seal.

He stood at his desk, grey morning light spilling through the window, and stared at the MacKenzie crest pressed into red wax. Behind him, Niall shifted his weight—his friend had also already guessed this wouldn’t be good news.

“Well?” Niall’s voice cut through the silence. “What fresh hell has Keith MacKenzie delivered this time?”

Euan broke the seal and read, his jaw tightening with each carefully crafted word. When he finished, he handed the parchment to Niall without comment.

His friend’s face darkened as he scanned the contents. “The bastard’s threatening to involve the king.”

“Aye.” Euan moved to the window, needing air that didn’t feel thick with political machinations. “He’s reiterating his claim tae our lands through Ishbel. And he’s making it abundantly clear that if word reaches the king about how we’re ‘holding his daughter as a bargaining chip’—his words, nae mine—there will be consequences.”

“Consequences.” Niall’s laugh held no humor. “The same man who abandoned her in an English dungeon is now claiming we’re the ones mistreating her?”

“He daesnae care about truth. He cares about leverage.” Euan’s hands clenched on the window frame. “And he’s making sure every other clan kens that we have a MacKenzie woman under our roof against her faither’s wishes.”

“Even though her faither more or less told us tae dae whatever we wanted with her.”

“Aye. But that letter was private. This one?” Euan gestured to the parchment. “This one’s designed tae be shared. Tae paint us as the aggressors while he plays the concerned faither.”

Niall was quiet for a moment, then: “So what dae we dae?”

“I need tae think.” Euan turned from the window, feeling caged by stone walls and impossible choices. “And I need tae move. Clear me head.”

“The training grounds?”

“Aye.” He grabbed his sword belt from where it hung by the door. “We’ve got new recruits who need proper instruction anyway. Might as well make use of this fury before it eats me alive.”

The training yard was already populated when Euan arrived, but one glance told him the morning session hadn’t truly begun yet. A dozen young men—boys, really, none of them past twenty—clustered near the weapons rack with the uncertain posture of cattle awaiting slaughter.

New recruits. Fergus must have pulled them from outlying villages, trying to bolster their forces in case Keith’s threats became action.

Euan moved closer, assessing them with a warrior’s eye. Lean frames that spoke of hard farm work but no combat training. Hands that knew plow handles better than sword grips. Eyes that darted nervously between the older soldiers warming up nearby and the rack of weapons they’d been told to arm themselves with.

“Right then.” Euan’s voice carried across the yard, making several recruits jump. “Who can tell me the first rule of combat?”

Silence. The boys exchanged glances, clearly uncertain whether answering would make things better or worse.

“Nay one?” Euan selected a practice sword from the rack, testing its weight. “The first rule is simple: stay alive. Everything else—honor, glory, defeating yer enemy—all of it means nothing if ye’re dead.”

He moved to the center of the training ground, his presence commanding attention from every man present. Around him, the regular soldiers had stopped their warm-ups to watch. They knew their laird well enough to recognize when he needed to work something out through steel and sweat.

“Ye.” Euan pointed to the nearest recruit, a lanky youth with terrified eyes. “What’s yer name?”

“T-Tavish, me laird.”

“Well, Tavish, come at me with that practice sword ye’re holding.”

The boy’s face went white. “But me laird, I dinnae⁠—”

“Now.”

Tavish approached with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows. His grip on the practice sword was so tight his knuckles showed white, and his stance was all wrong—weight too far forward, shoulders hunched, blade held at an angle that would get him killed in seconds against a real opponent.

“Stop.” Euan moved behind him, adjusting Tavish’s posture with firm hands. “Feet wider. Weight balanced. The sword’s an extension of yer arm, nae a club ye’re trying tae bludgeon someone with.” He demonstrated the proper grip. “Like this. Feel the difference?”

“Aye, me laird.” Some of the terror had left Tavish’s expression, replaced by concentration.