Page 90 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Dawn broke blood-red over Dunvegan’s chapel.

Moyra stood outside the doors, her hands fisted in cream silk that Laoghaire had somehow transformed into a wedding gown overnight. A fit that emphasized curves months of captivity had nearly stolen, flowing skirts, delicate embroidery at the hem catching early light. She should have felt beautiful.

Instead, she felt terrified.

“Ye look lovely, me lady.” Catriona’s voice came softly beside her, eyes bright with emotion.

“I look like I’m about tae faint.”

“That too.” Catriona smiled. “But the laird willnae be able tae take his eyes off ye.”

In moments, she’d walk down that aisle and bind herself to Euan before God and witnesses. No going back.

Except it wouldn’t be a cage. Because Euan, for all his brooding intensity and scarred shoulders, had never once made her feel trapped. Even when offering marriage, he’d given her choices.

And she’d chosen to stay.

“Ready?” Catriona asked gently.

“Nay. But I dinnae think that matters anymore.”

The chapel doors opened.

Candlelight spilled out, golden against the cold dawn. Inside, the space was intimate—barely large enough for the handful of witnesses in rough-hewn pews. No finery. No celebration. Just stone walls that had witnessed centuries of MacLeod vows, and low murmurs of prayer rising from ancient foundations.

Moyra’s breath caught as her gaze found Euan.

He was magnificent. Clan colors draped over battle-worn leather and steel armor. His sword hung at his side, its grip worn smooth from use. His dark hair pulled back from his face, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that tracked her every step.

A groom and warrior in one. Ready to marry her and defend her in the same breath.

Her pulse hammered.

The Covenant brothers stood to one side. MacLeod council members bore witness with varying approval. And there, the refugees she’d helped—women who’d lost everything but had come to watch her gain something.

Moyra forced her feet to move. Catriona followed at her back. But it was Euan who held her attention—the way his eyes never left her face, the subtle tension suggesting he was fighting the urge to go towards her rather than wait.

When she reached the altar, he extended his hand.

She took it, his scarred fingers closing around hers.

“Ye came,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

“Did ye think I wouldnae?”

“I thought ye might come tae yer senses and run.” His mouth quirked. “Still time, if ye want. I willnae stop ye.”

Even now, he was giving her a choice.

“Too late fer that. Ye’re stuck with me now.”

“Good.”

Father Dougal cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

Euan barely heard the priest’s words.