Page 82 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

The raw honesty made her chest ache. She thought of his scars—the ones she’d seen that night, the map of violence carved into his skin.

“After Loch Eilein, I spent years believing I was less than a man. That me scars made me weak, unworthy of leading. When I had tae take up me faither’s title at sixteen—Christ, Moyra, I was still only a lad, limping around trying tae pretend I could fill a dead man’s shoes. I convinced meself that every problem the clan faced was because of me. Because I was broken.”

Her hands found his chest. “Ye’re nae broken.”

“I ken that now. Or at least, I’m learning tae believe it.” His eyes held hers. “But it took years before I understood something important—the burdens forced upon us dinnae define us. What defines us is what we dae with them. How we choose tae move forward despite the weight.” His other hand came up to frame her face. “Ye’re nae yer faither’s weapon. Ye’re nae his legacy. Ye’re yer own person, and every choice ye’ve made since I found ye has been brave and selfless.”

“I dinnae feel brave. I feel terrified.”

“Good. Fear means ye understand the stakes. It means ye care.” His forehead dropped to rest against hers. “But dinnae let that fear convince ye that ye’re the villain in this story, lass. Keith MacKenzie is the one who chose cruelty. Nae ye.”

She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms, the warmth of his breath ghosting across her lips.

“We’ll be afraid taegether.” His lips brushed her forehead. “Because I’m terrified too. Every moment ye’re in danger tears me apart. The thought of losing ye—it scares me more than any battle I’ve ever faced.”

She pulled back to look at him. “Euan...”

“I need ye tae understand something.” His hands slid to her shoulders, his grip firm but trembling. “What ye make me feel isnae something I ever expected tae have or thought I deserved. But now that I’ve found ye, I’ll fight fer it.”

“Show me,” she breathed, her hands fisting in his shirt. “Show me we’re more than the burdens we carry.”

His control shattered. His mouth claimed hers, hard and demanding, his kiss a physical declaration of intent. Heat roared through her as his hands tightened on her shoulders. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t gentle. It was a man claiming what was his, a warrior staking his claim.

Moyra met him halfway, arching against him, her body seeking more contact. More him. His tongue stroked hers, claiming her mouth in the most primitive way, and all she could think was yes. Yes, more. Yes, forever.

“Saints, Moyra.” He broke the kiss long enough to gasp the words against her throat. “Dae ye ken what ye dae tae me?”

“Show me.” Her hands found his waist, pulling his hips tight against hers, feeling his arousal hot and hard between them. The knowledge that she did this, that she could affect him that way⁠—

It made her bold. Brazen.

She kissed him, nipping his lower lip.

He groaned into her mouth, a low rumbling sound that resonated straight to her core. One hand slid down her spine, palming her bottom, pulling her hard against his arousal.

“Like this?” he asked against her mouth.

“More,” she breathed. “I want more now. I want it all.”

“Christ.” He spun her, pressing her back against the bookcase. Ancient tomes dug into her spine, but she didn’t care. Not with Euan MacLeod’s mouth devouring hers, not with his powerful body pinning her, his thigh between her legs. She arched against him, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seeking everything.

His hand slid up her ribcage, thumb teasing the underside of her breast, and the world spun. The feel of his calloused fingers⁠—

“Yes,” she moaned. “Saints, yes.”

He cupped her, his palm rough, his mouth moving down her throat. Pleasure spiked, bright and desperate, and she didn’t think about consequences. Didn’t think about the risk. She gave herself over to the moment, to Euan and the way he was touching her, to the sensations that were quickly threatening to overwhelm her.

She grabbed a handful of her dress and pulled it up. “I want ye, Euan.”

His hand stilled, and she saw the conflict in his face—desire warring with caution, restraint with desire.

“Are ye certain?” he asked roughly. “Once we cross this line⁠—”

“I’m certain.” Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her nerves despite her determination. “I trust ye.”

His eyes met hers, and she saw the moment he surrendered. “I want that too, Moyra. Christ, I want it more than anything. But⁠—”

“But naething,” she said fiercely. “I want this. I want ye.”