Page 7 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“I need a mount fer the lass,” he called to the nearest soldier, who was checking their horses’ tack. “One of the English geldings should dae

“Ye’re bringing her with us?” The soldier’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “The MacKenzie lass?”

“Aye.”

“Me laird⁠—”

“I said, nae now.” He kept his gaze on Moyra, who was watching the exchange with wary calculation. “Fetch the horse.”

When the soldier returned leading a sturdy grey gelding, Euan approached Moyra with the animal. “Can ye ride?”

Her chin lifted. “I’m a Highlander. Of course I can ride.”

“Good.” He gestured toward the horse. “Then mount up. We’ve a long journey ahead.”

She moved toward the gelding, then froze as she realized what he hadn’t said. “Ye’re nae letting me ride free.”

“Nay, lass, I’m nae.” He pulled a length of rope from his belt, hating the necessity even as he recognized it. “Ye’ve already tried tae run once. I’ll nae give ye another chance.”

“So I’m tae be a prisoner again.” Bitterness laced her words. “How is this any different from Norham’s dungeon?”

“Ye’ll nae be beaten or starved. Ye’ll have a warm bed and decent food.” He met her gaze steadily. “But aye, until I decide what’s tae be done with ye, ye’ll nae be free tae leave.”

For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then, with visible effort, she squared her shoulders and moved to the horse’s side. “Very well. Help me up then, since ye insist on playing the captor.”

The barb found its mark, but Euan refused to rise to it. Instead, he moved behind her, placing his hands at her waist. The curve of her body beneath his palms sent an unwelcome jolt of awareness through him—she was all delicate strength and feminine softness.

He lifted her onto the saddle with more care than he’d shown anyone in years, then bound her wrists to the pommel. The rope was secure but not tight, leaving enough slack that she wouldn’t lose circulation. Still, as he worked, he couldn’t help noticing how slender her wrists were, how the torn sleeves of her gown revealed bruises already darkening her pale skin.

“Too tight?” he asked gruffly.

“As if ye’d care.”

“It matters if the rope cuts off yer circulation,” he said gruffly. “I need ye alive and able tae travel, nae crippled.”

She looked down at him, surprise flickering across her features before she masked it. “How practical of ye.”

“Aye, practical.” He took the gelding’s reins in hand, then moved to his own mount—a massive black destrier that had carried him through more battles than he cared to count. “Ye’re worth naething tae me damaged. That’s more than yer faither can say, apparently.”

His barb landed that time—he saw it in the way her jaw tightened. But she said nothing, and they rode from Norham’s smoking ruins in heavy silence.

The journey to Skye took four days of hard riding through rough terrain, stopping only briefly to rest the horses and snatch a few hours of sleep. Moyra endured it all in stubborn silence, refusing to complain even when exhaustion made her sway in the saddle.

Euan MacLeod rode beside her the entire way, those grey eyes constantly checking on her welfare even as he maintained iron control over her reins. His warriors gave them both curious looks but asked no questions, and Moyra found herself grudgingly grateful for their laird’s commanding presence. At least he kept the others at a respectful distance.

She tried not to notice the way he moved in the saddle—all controlled power and unconscious grace despite his size. Tried not to watch the play of firelight across his features during their night camps, or the way his hands gentled on the reins whenever her horse stumbled. Tried not to feel the strange flutter in her chest when he insisted on sharing his own cloak with her when the Highland nights turned bitter cold.

He was her captor. Her enemy, by all rights. A man using her for purposes she didn’t yet understand.

She absolutely would not be attracted to him.

But saints help her, when he’d called her “mine” in that forest clearing, something primal had responded deep in her core.

By the fourth evening, as Dunvegan Castle’s imposing towers came into view against the darkening sky, Moyra’s entire body ached with bone-deep weariness. The rope had chafed her wrists despite Euan’s care, and bruises from her captivity painted her skin in shades of purple and yellow.

When they finally clattered through the castle gates, she barely registered the curious stares of MacLeod servants and guards. All she could focus on was staying upright in the saddle a few moments longer.

Euan dismounted first, then moved to her side. “Easy now, lass.” His hands found her waist again as he carefully untied the rope binding her wrists, his fingers working with surprising dexterity. “I’ve got ye.”