Page 43 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The door had barely closed behind Euan when the bells erupted.

Not the gentle chime that marked the changing of the guard or the call to meals, but the harsh, clanging alarm that meant only one thing: the castle was under threat.

Moyra’s blood turned to ice. Through her window, she could see movement in the courtyard—guards rushing to their posts, weapons being drawn, organized chaos that spoke of years of training snapping into place.

“Stay here.” Euan’s voice cut through her shock, already moving toward the door with that predator’s grace that made his limp disappear. “Lock the door behind me. Dinnae leave this chamber until I return.”

“What’s happening?” But she already knew. Could see it in the grim set of his jaw, the way his hand had gone instinctively to where his sword would hang.

“MacKenzie colors were spotted on our grounds. Chances are they’re approaching the walls.” His grey eyes held hers for one heartbeat. “Yer faither’s men. Stay here, Moyra. I mean it.”

Then he was gone, his heavy footfalls echoing down the corridor as he took the stairs three at a time.

Moyra moved to the window, her heart hammering against her ribs. Below, the courtyard had transformed into controlled chaos. Archers lined the battlements. Men-at-arms formed defensive positions at key points. And through it all, she caught glimpses of Euan’s dark head as he moved between groups, issuing orders with the absolute authority of someone who’d trained for that his entire life.

Her father’s men. Here.

The thought made her stomach clench. Had Keith finally decided she was worth retrieving? Or was this something else—another scheme, another manipulation in the endless game he seemed determined to play?

The bells choked to silence, leaving only the hammer of her pulse in her ears. Moyra gripped the window frame, her breath fogging the glass as she tracked the guards’ movements along the battlements. No clash of steel. No screams. Just the terrible quiet of men waiting for violence that hadn’t yet arrived.

Whatever threat had triggered the alarm, it had been contained.

She should stay there. Should follow Euan’s orders and wait in her chamber like a good, obedient prisoner.

But the thought of remaining locked away while men prepared for violence because of her—because her very presence had made Dunvegan a target—made something fierce and restless coil in her chest.

To hell with it.

Moyra grabbed her shawl and headed for the door.

The great hall was a hive of controlled activity when Euan burst through the doors, his pulse still hammering from the sprint down from the east tower.

“Report.” The single word cut through the murmured conversations, and every head turned toward him.

Niall stepped forward, his weathered face grim. “MacKenzie scouts. Three of them, trying tae get close enough tae assess our defenses. They scattered when our patrol spotted them, but nae before one got within fifty yards of the south wall.”

“Fifty yards.” Euan’s jaw clenched. Too close. Far too close for comfort. “Did we capture any?”

“Nay. They studied the terrain too well—vanished intae the hills before we could give proper chase.” Niall moved to the table where a hastily drawn map lay spread. “But they left tracks heading northeast.”

Euan studied the map, his mind racing through possibilities. Scouts meant Keith was planning something. Assessing their defenses, counting their numbers, looking for weaknesses to exploit.

Or looking for proof that his daughter was truly there.

“Double the patrols,” he ordered, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. “I want men on the walls every hour, rotating in shifts so nay one gets tired enough tae miss movement. And send word tae our outlying villages—if MacKenzie men are spotted, I want tae ken about it immediately.”

“Done.” Fergus, his master-at-arms, nodded from across the hall. “But me laird, we need tae discuss the possibility that this wasnae just reconnaissance.”

“What dae ye mean?”

“I mean Keith MacKenzie might be testing our response. Seeing how quickly we mobilize, how many men we have available, whether we’re prepared fer a larger incursion.” Fergus’s blunt assessment made several councilors shift uncomfortably. “This could be the precursor tae something bigger.”

The words settled over the hall like a shroud. Around him, Euan saw his men processing the implications—more patrols meant fewer workers in the fields, heightened alert meant exhausted guards, preparation for war meant resources diverted from everything else that kept a clan functioning.

And at the center of it all: one red-haired woman whose father seemed determined to make her existence everyone’s problem.