Page 88 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

The thought settled over her shoulders like a warm cloak.

“Come in.”

The door opened to reveal a tiny woman carrying what appeared to be half a fabric shop. Grey hair escaped from beneath her cap, and bright eyes assessed Moyra with professional efficiency.

“Lady Moyra? I’m Laoghaire, the seamstress. The laird sent fer me.” She bustled in without waiting for invitation, spreading fabrics across the bed with practiced hands. “Says ye’re tae be married tomorrow and need a proper gown.”

Moyra’s throat tightened. “He actually sent ye.”

“Aye, and in quite a state about it too.” Laoghaire’s mouth curved. “Tracked me down personally, demanded I drop everything and see tae ye immediately.”

“I dinnae need anything elaborate,” she managed. “Just something simple⁠—”

“Nonsense.” Laoghaire waved away the protest. “Ye’re marrying the Laird of Clan MacLeod. Simple willnae dae, even if it is rushed.” She pulled out a length of cream silk that caught the firelight. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with. Stand up, lass. Let me get a proper look at ye.”

Moyra rose, letting the seamstress circle her with assessing eyes. Laoghaire’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she took measurements, her commentary a steady stream that somehow soothed Moyra’s jangled nerves.

“Good bones,” Laoghaire muttered. “Lovely coloring—that auburn hair will look beautiful against cream. Bit thin, though. Have ye been eating properly?”

“There was a dungeon involved,” Moyra said dryly. “It rather killed me appetite.”

Laoghaire’s hands stilled. “So the voices were true.” Her expression softened. “The whole castle’s been talking about ye. How the laird brought ye back, how ye’ve been helping with the refugees.”

“I’ve just been daeing what needs daeing.”

“Aye, well, that’s more than most would manage after three months in a cell.” Laoghaire resumed her measuring, her voice gentle. “The laird chose well, if ye dinnae mind me saying. Ye’ve got spine. He needs that.”

The casual approval made Moyra’s eyes sting. “I’m nae certain I’m what he needs.”

“Then ye’re a fool.” Laoghaire’s bluntness rivaled Niall’s. “I’ve known that lad since he was a bairn. I’ve watched him grow intae the finest laird this clan’s ever had.”

Laoghaire stepped back, surveying her work with satisfaction. “Now, about this gown. I’m thinking fitted bodice, flowing skirts—something that moves well but still shows yer figure. And we’ll dae cream silk with perhaps some embroidery at the hem...”

She continued talking, sketching designs in the air with her hands.

“The neckline’s important,” Laoghaire was saying. “We want elegant, nae revealing. Ye’re marrying in a chapel, after all. Now, shoes.”

They spent the next hour discussing details—fabrics and fit, the best way to style her hair, whether she wanted flowers or simple elegance. Laoghaire’s competence was soothing, her matter-of-fact approach to the wedding making it feel real rather than some fever dream born of desperation.

When the seamstress finally packed up her materials, promising to return before dawn with the finished gown, Moyra felt something settle in her chest.

The following day, she’d marry Euan MacLeod.

And she was ready.