Page 56 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The scream tore through Dunvegan’s sleeping corridors like a blade through silk.

Moyra jerked upright in bed, her throat raw from the sound she hadn’t realized was hers, chest heaving as the nightmare’s claws slowly released their grip. The dungeon. Always the dungeon—cold stone pressing in, darkness absolute, the scratch of rats in corners she couldn’t see, the certainty that no one was coming, that she’d die there forgotten and alone.

Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face, trying to slow her racing heart. Just a dream. She was safe. She was in Dunvegan, not Norham. In a soft bed with clean linens, not filthy straw crawling with vermin.

But her body didn’t believe it. Her lungs refused to fill properly, as if the dungeon’s stale air still pressed against them.

The door burst open.

“Me lady!” Catriona rushed in, her eyes wide with alarm, hair escaping from beneath her sleeping cap. “I heard—are ye hurt? What’s happened?”

“Naething.” The lie came automatic even as another tremor wracked through her. “I’m fine. Just a⁠—”

“I’ll fetch the laird.” Catriona was already turning, ignoring Moyra’s protest.

“Nay, dinnae⁠—”

But the maid was gone, her footsteps echoing down the corridor at a run.

Moyra’s stomach clenched. Saints, it was mortifying. Waking the entire castle with her screams like some frightened child. And now Euan would come, would see her like that—shaking and sweating and utterly pathetic.

She barely had time to pull herself together before heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. The door flew open again, and there stood Euan MacLeod, his dark hair disheveled from sleep, wearing only loose breeches and a shirt he’d clearly thrown on in haste. His eyes swept over her with intense focus, cataloging every detail in that way she was beginning to recognize—looking for threats, for injuries, for anything that might need his immediate attention.

“Moyra!” He crossed the room in three strides, his limp barely noticeable in his urgency. “What’s wrong? Why are ye screaming?”

“I wasn’t—” She stopped, realizing how foolish the denial sounded when they’d both heard her wake half the castle. “I just had a nightmare. It’s naething.”

“Naething.” His jaw clenched, that muscle jumping beneath his scar. He moved closer to the bed. “Ye screamed loud enough tae wake the dead, and ye’re still shaking. That’s nae naething, lass.”

“I just tumbled in me sleep.” The lie tasted bitter. “Startled meself awake. I’m fine now.”

“Ye’re lying.” He knelt beside the bed, bringing his eyes level with hers. Up close, she could see genuine concern etched into his scarred features, could see the way his hands flexed as if fighting the urge to reach for her. “And ye’re a terrible liar, by the way. What really happened?”

Moyra looked away, heat crawling up her neck. “It daesnae matter. Go back tae bed. I’m sorry I woke ye.”

“I’m nae leaving until ye tell me what’s wrong.” His voice gentled, losing the sharp edge of command. “Please, Moyra. Let me help.”

The kindness in his tone almost undid her completely. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the tremors that kept threatening to shake her apart. “It’s stupid.”

“If it makes ye scream like that, it’s nae stupid.” He shifted closer, and she felt the warmth radiating from his large frame despite the cool night air. “Talk tae me.”

She closed her eyes, shame burning hot in her chest. But something about the darkness behind her eyelids brought the nightmare surging back—stone walls closing in, air growing thick and stale, the certainty of being forgotten.

Her eyes snapped open.

“The dungeon,” she whispered. “I dream about the dungeon. About being back there, trapped in that cell with nay light, nay air, nay hope of rescue.” Her voice cracked despite her best efforts. “Three months I spent in that place, and I thought—I was so certain⁠—”

“That nay one was coming,” Euan finished quietly.

“Aye.” The admission came out broken. “And in me dreams, ye dinnae come either. I’m still there, still waiting, and I’ll die there alone because me faither daesnae care and nobody else even kens where I am.”

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating as the nightmare itself. Moyra couldn’t bring herself to look at him, couldn’t bear to see pity or disgust or worse—that careful neutral expression people wore when they didn’t know how to respond to someone else’s weakness.

Then Euan’s hand found hers, his scarred fingers wrapping around her trembling ones with gentle strength.

“Ye’re nae in that dungeon anymore,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “Ye’re here, in Dunvegan, where stone walls keep ye safe instead of imprisoned. Where there’s light and air and people who care whether ye live or die.”