Page 45 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

Leaving them alone in the cavernous space.

“Ye shouldnae be here,” Euan said, but the heat had left his voice, replaced by bone-deep weariness. “It’s nae safe with yer faither’s men prowling our borders.”

“Is all of this me fault?” The question burst out before she could stop it, raw and desperate. “The scouts, the threats, the danger tae yer clan—is it because of me?”

He crossed the distance between them in three strides, his hands coming up as if to grip her shoulders before he caught himself. “Nay. This is because yer faither is an ambitious bastard who’d sacrifice anything and anyone tae get what he wants. Ye’re as much a victim of his schemes as the rest of us.”

“But if I weren’t here⁠—”

“Then Keith would find another excuse tae make trouble. He wants our lands, Moyra. Has wanted them since the moment he married Ishbel fer her weak claim that gave him some legal standing.” His jaw clenched. “Ye’re nae the cause of this. Ye’re just the tool he chose tae use.”

The words should have been reassuring. Instead, they made her feel like exactly what she’d been trying not to be—a piece on someone else’s chess board, moved around according to strategies she couldn’t control.

“I heard what yer councilor said,” she admitted quietly. “About marriage solving everything. About how I’m the solution if only ye’d⁠—”

“Dinnae.” The word came out harsh. “I’ll nae have ye feeling like ye owe me that. Like it’s yer responsibility tae fix what yer faither broke.”

“But it would help, wouldn’t it?” She met his gaze steadily despite how her heart hammered. “If we married, he’d have nay grounds tae attack. Any assault on Dunvegan would be an assault on his own daughter.”

“Aye, it would help.” His hands had found her shoulders now, warm and solid and anchoring. “But I’ll nae have ye bound tae me out of guilt or duty or some misguided sense that ye owe me protection in exchange fer keeping ye safe.”

The intensity in his grey eyes made her breath catch.

“Then what would ye have from me?” The question came out softer than she’d intended, almost intimate in the empty hall.

His thumb traced her collarbone through the fabric of her gown—a touch so light she might have imagined it if not for the way it sent fire racing along her nerves. “I’d have ye safe. Free tae choose yer own path without anyone—including me—making those choices fer ye.”

“And if me path led back tae ye?” Her pulse thundered in her ears. “What then?”

Something flickered in his expression—hope mixed with fear and want and a dozen other emotions she couldn’t name. His hand moved from her shoulder to cup her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.

“Then I’d count meself the luckiest bastard in all the Highlands,” he said roughly. “But only if ye came tae me freely. Only if⁠—”

A sharp knock at the door made them both jump.

“Me laird.” Niall’s voice carried urgency even through the heavy oak. “We’ve got movement on the western ridge. Ye need to see this.”

Euan’s hands dropped from her face, and Moyra felt the loss. He turned toward the door, then back to her, conflict written across his scarred features.

“I have to⁠—”

“Go,” she said, trying to ignore how her voice shook. “I understand.”

“Stay in the castle. Please, Moyra. I cannae focus on securing our defenses if I’m worried about ye wandering intae danger.”

Then he was striding toward the door, that commander’s authority settling over him like a cloak. But before he disappeared into the corridor, he paused, glancing back with an expression that made her chest tight.

“We’ll finish this conversation,” he promised. “Soon.”

Then he was gone, and Moyra stood alone in the great hall, her shoulder still warm from his touch, her heart still racing from words that had almost been spoken.

Outside, she heard the sounds of the castle mobilizing again—more shouts, more running feet, the organized chaos of men preparing for potential violence.

Because of her father. Because she existed. Because loving her—if that’s what Euan was beginning to feel—came with a price measured in blood and steel.

She moved to the window, watching guards stream toward the western wall where Niall had reported movement. Somewhere out there in the gathering dusk, her father’s men watched and waited, planning whatever scheme Keith MacKenzie had devised next.

And there she stood, caught between two forces neither of which truly wanted her but both of which seemed determined to use her anyway.

The only difference was that one of those forces made her pulse race and her breath catch and her carefully constructed walls crumble with every gentle touch.

The other had left her in an English dungeon to rot.

The choice should be simple.

So why did it terrify her more than any threat on the horizon?

Moyra pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching Euan’s tall form directing men with confident gestures, and tried to ignore the voice in her head that whispered she was already far more involved than was wise.

That perhaps the real danger wasn’t the MacKenzie scouts prowling outside the walls.

Perhaps the real danger was the MacLeod laird who’d somehow gotten past every defense she’d built around her battered heart.

And unlike her father’s threats, that danger couldn’t be solved with swords and strategy and doubled patrols.

That danger required something far more terrifying: trust.

The question was whether she was brave enough—or foolish enough—to take that risk.