Page 47 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“Only when they’re trying tae kill themselves on unstable furniture.” His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her side in ways that made her entirely too aware of every point where their bodies touched. “What were ye thinking? That stool’s been wobbly since before I was born.”

“I was thinking I wanted tae read that book.” Her words came out faster than intended, tumbling over each other in her haste to fill the charged silence. “I’ve been in here fer hours—have ye seen this collection? It’s remarkable, truly remarkable. There are volumes here I’ve only heard about in references and I got so caught up I didnae realize how late it had gotten and then I saw that one up there and I thought just one more, I’ll just read one more before I return tae me chamber but I couldnae reach it and the stool was right there so I thought⁠—”

“Moyra.” His arms tightened fractionally, and she felt the rumble of her name in his chest before she heard it. “Breathe.”

She did, pulling in air that tasted of leather and pine and rain, and only then realized how close his face was to hers. Close enough to see water droplets caught in his dark hair. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him despite his soaked clothing.

Close enough to notice the way his grey eyes had darkened as they traced her face, lingering on her mouth before snapping back up with visible effort.

“Ye’re wet,” she managed, her voice gone breathless and strange.

“Aye. I was on the battlements.” His jaw clenched, and she watched a muscle jump beneath the scar on his cheek. “Checking the patrols.”

“In the storm?”

“In the storm.” He still hadn’t put her down, still held her against his chest with arms that should have tired by now but showed no sign of strain. “Someone has tae make sure yer faither’s men dinnae get any closer than they already have.”

The reminder of why he’d been standing in the rain—because of her, because her very presence here had made his clan a target—made guilt twist through her stomach. “Ye should put me down. Ye’re soaked through and probably freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ye’re shivering.” She could feel the fine tremor running through his frame, so subtle she’d have missed it if not pressed against him. “And I’m getting wet—I mean from ye. From yer clothes being wet. Because of the rain. I should⁠—”

“Moyra.” There was amusement in his voice now, warm and rough. “Stop talking.”

She did, biting her lip hard enough to hurt. Being held in Euan MacLeod’s arms was doing terrible things to her ability to form coherent thoughts. The solid warmth of him. The careful strength in hands that could break but chose to cradle. The way he looked at her like she was precious rather than problematic.

Like he wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted to be kissed.

Saints help her.

“I should go,” she said, the words coming out in a rush as panic and attraction warred in her chest. “It’s late and ye need tae change and I’ve already kept ye from yer rest and honestly I dinnae even need that book, I was just curious but it can wait until tomorrow or never really, I dinnae need tae read it at all, there are plenty of other books down here and I should really return tae me chamber now before anyone sees us like this and gets the wrong idea or maybe the right idea but either way it’s very improper and⁠—”

Euan’s mouth curved in what might have been a smile if not for the heat blazing in his eyes. “Are ye finished?”

“Aye. Nay. I dinnae ken.” She squirmed slightly, trying to indicate he should put her down without actually saying the words because some traitorous part of her didn’t want him to let go. Ever. “I’m going now.”

“Are ye?”

“Aye. Definitely. Right now. If ye’d just⁠—”

He set her on her feet with the same careful strength he’d used to catch her, his hands lingering on her waist for one heartbeat longer than strictly necessary before dropping away. The loss of contact felt like cold water after sun.

Moyra took a step back, then another, putting what she hoped was proper distance between them. “Thank ye. Fer catching me. Again. I really need tae stop requiring rescue from ye.”

“I dinnae mind.” His voice had gone rough, and she watched his hands clench at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her again.

“Next time I’ll try tae arrange me near-death experiences more privately.” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against whatever this was that crackled between them like lightning before a storm.

His mouth quirked. “I’d appreciate it.”

They stared at each other across three feet of charged air, and Moyra’s pulse hammered so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. This was dangerous. Everything about him was dangerous—the way he made her feel safe and seen, the casual displays of strength that should terrify but instead made heat pool low in her belly, the absolute certainty in his grey eyes that said he wanted her despite every reason they should remain apart.

She had to leave. Immediately. Before she did something monumentally stupid like closing that distance and finding out if his mouth was as warm as it looked.

“I’m going tae me chamber now,” she announced, pleased when her voice came out steady. “Ye should change intae dry clothes afore ye catch yer death.”

Her eyes traced over his soaked shirt again, clinging to the broad planes of his chest, water still dripping from his dark hair. The storm outside had clearly been merciless, and he’d stood in it for hours checking patrols instead of seeking shelter. Because of her father’s threats. Because of the danger her presence had brought to his walls.