Page 46 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The storm hit just after midnight, wind howling through Dunvegan’s corridors like the souls of ancient warriors seeking vengeance.

Euan barely noticed.

He stood on the battlements despite the rain lashing his face, watching the woods where his men had spent the morning securing the perimeter. Three separate patrols. Double guards at every approach. And still, two of Keith MacKenzie’s scouts had managed to get within a hundred yards of the outer wall before his archers had driven them back into the darkness.

Too close. Far too bloody close.

“Me laird.” Niall appeared at his elbow, water streaming from his hair. “Ye need tae come inside. Ye’ve been out here fer hours.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ye’re soaked through and half-frozen. And standing out here in a storm willnae stop Keith’s men from trying again.”

Euan knew his friend was right. The patrols were set, the guards doubled, every precaution taken. But leaving the walls felt like abandoning his post, like admitting he couldn’t protect what was his.

Like admitting Moyra MacKenzie had gotten under his skin in ways that made rational thought impossible.

“Five more minutes,” he said, his gaze fixed on the trees barely visible through sheets of rain.

Niall sighed but didn’t argue, settling against the battlements beside him in easy silence. They stood together watching the storm rage, two men who’d survived through much worse than bad weather.

Finally, when Euan’s fingers had gone numb and his shirt clung like ice to his back, he turned toward the stairs. “All right. Ye’ve made yer point.”

“About bloody time.” Niall followed him down, their boots splashing through puddles that had formed on the stone steps.

The castle was quiet at that hour, most of its inhabitants asleep despite the storm’s fury. Euan made his way through familiar corridors, his mind already cataloging the tasks of the following day. More patrols. Increased vigilance. Perhaps sending word to his Covenant brothers about Keith’s escalating boldness.

He was passing the library when he noticed the door standing ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the darkened hallway.

Euan stopped mid-step.

No one used the library anymore. Not since his mother had died. She was the only person who’d truly appreciated the many volumes she’d collected over a lifetime. The space had become a shrine of sorts, preserved exactly as she’d left it—books carefully shelved, her favorite chair by the window, the reading lamp she’d insisted on keeping lit even during the day because she claimed it made the words dance better.

But someone was in there now.

He moved closer, silent despite his size, and what he saw through the gap made his breath catch.

Moyra stood balanced precariously on a wooden stool, one hand braced against the highest shelf while she reached for a leather-bound volume just beyond her fingertips. She’d changed from her day dress into a simple nightshift covered by a thick robe, her copper hair loose and tumbling past her shoulders in waves that caught the lamplight and turned it to flame.

She was magnificent. And about to break her neck.

The stool wobbled as she stretched higher, and Euan watched in horror as one of its legs shifted on the uneven floor. She was going to fall. Any second now.

He moved.

“What exactly are ye daeing?”

Moyra’s startled yelp echoed through the library as the stool betrayed her completely.

One moment she’d been reaching for Historia Naturalis, convinced the ancient text might contain information about Highland healing herbs. The next, the world tilted sideways and she was falling, arms windmilling uselessly as gravity took hold.

Strong arms caught her mid-plummet, sweeping her up against a solid chest with such casual strength it stole what little breath she’d managed to gasp. Her fingers clutched at wet fabric—why was it wet?—and she found herself cradled against Euan MacLeod’s broad form like some damsel from a ballad.

Again.

“Saints preserve me,” she breathed, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. “Dae ye make a habit of appearing out of nowhere tae give women heart failure?”