Page 53 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TWENTY

The door to the private chamber slammed shut behind Moyra, and she finally allowed herself to collapse against the stone wall.

Her legs trembled. Her hands shook so violently she had to clutch them together to stop the tremors. The adrenaline that had carried her through the forest, through the attack, through Euan’s fury-filled rescue, drained away all at once, leaving her hollow and shaking.

“The laird will be along shortly,” Catriona had said after she followed her. Her eyes were soft with concern. “He wanted ye settled first, away from the courtyard gossip. Rest, me lady. Ye’ve had a terrible fright.”

Now Moyra stood alone, staring at her scraped palms. Blood had dried in the creases, mixed with dirt and bits of bark from when she’d caught herself against that tree. The wounds weren’t deep, but they burned like fire.

She moved to the basin of water Catriona had left by the hearth, wincing as she tried to clean the worst of the dirt away. Her torn dress hung loose at the shoulder where one of the scouts had grabbed her. Her hair had come completely free of its braid, tangling wild around her face.

She looked like exactly what she was—a woman who’d barely escaped capture by her father’s men.

The door opened without warning.

Euan filled the frame, his massive shoulders nearly brushing the stone archway. He’d cleaned the blood from his sword, but his shirt still bore spatters of it—dark stains against dark fabric that spoke of violence used in her defense. His eyes swept over her with laser focus, cataloging every visible injury, every tear in her clothing, every sign of the attack.

“Ye’re hurt.” Not a question. He crossed the chamber in three strides, his hands already reaching for her before conscious thought seemed to catch up. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine.” The protest came automatic, even as her body betrayed her with fresh trembling.

“Ye’re nae fine.” His jaw clenched, that muscle jumping beneath his scar. “Sit. Please, Moyra. Let me help ye.”

The gentleness in his voice—so at odds with the fury still blazing in his eyes—made her throat tight. She sank onto the bench near the hearth, too exhausted to argue further.

Euan knelt before her, and the sight of that massive Highland warrior on his knees at her feet made something twist painfully in her chest. He gathered fresh supplies from the cabinet with controlled efficiency—clean water, linen strips, a jar of something that smelled sharp and medicinal.

“Let me see yer hands.” His voice had gone rough, barely controlled.

Moyra extended her scraped palms, trying not to flinch as he examined them with careful precision. His scarred fingers traced the edges of each wound, so gentle despite their size, despite the violence those same hands had just dealt to her attackers.

“This will sting,” he warned, dampening a cloth with the sharp-smelling liquid.

It did more than sting—it blazed through her raw skin like molten iron. Moyra bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, refusing to cry out despite how tears burned behind her eyes.

Euan’s jaw tightened further. “Breathe through it, lass. Just a moment more.”

She focused on his face instead of the pain—the concentration furrowing his brow, the way his scarred hands worked with such surprising gentleness, the absolute care in every movement as he cleaned dirt from her wounds.

“There.” He set aside the cloth, reaching for clean linen to bind the worst of the scrapes. “The rest should heal clean if ye keep them dry.”

“Thank ye.” Her voice came out hoarse. “Fer everything. Fer following me, fer⁠—”

“Dinnae.” The word came sharp. His grey eyes lifted to hers, blazing with emotion he wasn’t quite managing to contain. “Dinnae thank me fer daeing what I should have prevented in the first place.”

“Ye’re nae responsible fer me foolish choices.” She shifted on the bench, and the movement made him wince—subtle, quickly hidden, but unmistakable. “Euan, yer shoulder.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s nae fine. I saw it when ye came through those trees.” Worry replaced exhaustion, sharp and sudden. “Did they—did one of them manage tae⁠—”

“Nae from them.” He stood abruptly, moving toward the window with that slight favor to his left side that confirmed her suspicion. “Just an old injury acting up. The cold, the rain, the⁠—”

“Let me see.”

“Moyra—”

“Ye just spent the last quarter hour tending me wounds.” She stood despite her shaking legs, crossing to where he’d retreated. “The least ye can dae is let me return the favor.”